Harry Potter: Circumstances

"And so…"

"I need political refugee status," Potter startled the minister right off the bat.

They were sitting in the living room; fortunately, the spacious French manor had enough space for everyone. Monsieur Delacour sat in a separate armchair, Apolline and Fleur sat together on a small two-seater sofa, Malfoy got another available seat, and Bella and Harry took seats on the largest couch.

"Why?" Monsieur Delacour was a bit at a loss. "What's going on here? Not that I'm unhappy to see you, but your company is somewhat… unsettling. Could you explain?"

It was clear the man was speaking politely, likely out of respect for the Boy Who Lived. Had they not been acquainted, this conversation would've been entirely different—if it even took place at all.

"Bloody hell. Do I have to start over again?" the wizard thought in horror. "Screw that. I've just explained it all to their daughter, let her recount it now."

"Fleur, could you please tell the interesting story? I think your father will believe you more than me. I'll correct details along the way if needed," Tom decided. "Sorry, but I've just spent half an hour explaining everything to your daughter. I just can't do it all over again… Also, you don't mind if I have a drink?"

"Alright," said Delacour, still somewhat perplexed, "Fleur it is… yes, you can have a drink. I'll just sum—"

The French minister didn't even finish before Potter produced a bottle in his hands and took a swig.

"By the way, speaking of alcohol, I took this little pitcher from Fleur's house, and I can say for sure it has some kind of potion in it, most likely Amortentia," the Lord pulled the vessel from his pocket. "You can have it tested somewhere. I'm not… I don't know. You decide. But from experience, I can say the Weasleys don't hesitate to use dirty tricks. That's all, Fleur, I won't interrupt. Go ahead, honey, we're all listening."

While the Veela blushed just a tiny bit at the young man's casual "honey," she began retelling Harry's story. Meanwhile, the wizard repeatedly got elbowed by Black for "flirting" with another girl, at least in her presence, and for not sharing the alcohol.

"Hey, half-blood, I didn't kill Sirius. Let me have a drink," the former Lestrange whispered, leaning to the boy's ear.

"Listen, you lunatic, you've already drained a good portion of my stash," Tom whispered back, getting a bit aroused by the closeness, the alcohol, and her warm, almost languid breath at his side. "Everything has its price."

"Are you out of your mind?" the witch hissed through clenched teeth. "This is my family's stash from my home. And what do you want, money?! You already have access to all the Black family funds!"

"Hmm, your first argument didn't work last time. Why would it now?" Potter asked logically. "And who said anything about money? I meant a more… pleasant form of payment," he added, smirking lewdly and overtly eyeing the woman's body.

Why not? His body was nineteen now, hormones in full swing. Besides, it was a form of flirting… a rather peculiar one.

"Pervert," it dawned on Bellatrix. "So you think I'd pay for your measly alcohol with my body?" Despite her words, she was smiling—not her usual insane grin, but a rather warm, even sexy smile.

"Apparently, circumstances are making her more reasonable," the wizard thought frantically, realizing how much he liked this version of Black. "Then again, who stays sane after escaping the highest security prison and ending up in the clutches of a madman who uses Cruciatus like punctuation marks?"

"I think you'd agree to that deal just for me," Harry tried to smile normally too.

"Ahaha," the woman laughed softly and, most importantly, genuinely—not her usual crazy cackle. "Don't smile like that again. It looks scarier than when you grin like a maniac."

"When did the metamorphoses occur? Just this morning she was almost the same nutcase as always… or did I just not pay attention?" the boy still wondered about his lover's rational behavior.

"For you, anything, Bella," the Dark Lord quickly changed his grin to his usual smile, not offended at all. He knew the score.

"Oh, now I'm 'Bella.' Not 'lunatic,' not 'crazy,' not even 'crazy bitch,'" the witch feigned surprise.

Neither noticed that they'd been sitting very close for about ten minutes, whispering, laughing, touching, and sipping booze—practically sacred. The others were more absorbed in Fleur's story than in the amorous antics happening right next to them.

"If you keep acting so sane, I might just fall in love," Potter joked, but then considered it seriously. Every joke has a bit of truth. He really could get carried away in this madness. Slowly, gradually—and suddenly he'd wake up after their firstborn's birth. He hadn't experienced that personally, but he'd seen it happen many times, even with someone like Abraxas.

"Make sure to let me know when your pink sappiness blossoms, so I can Avada myself," the former Lestrange scoffed, blushing slightly. After all, people rarely said such words to her in life.

"Don't worry, you'll be the first and last to know, my dear," Harry promised, placing his hand on her knee and somehow forgetting they weren't in Black's house but as guests. With his other arm, he wrapped around her waist, and they were almost ready to get down to business when a very insistent cough from Lucius interrupted them.

All eyes turned to the pair, wide in astonishment.

"I'm restraining her so she doesn't attack anyone," the wizard replied calmly, releasing the witch and adopting a deliberately relaxed pose, brushing off his knees as if to say "What are you staring at? Nothing happened." The Death Eater also recovered, putting on the most Black-like face and posture, and began examining everyone else with disdain.

"So, where were we?" The Boy Who Lived tried to bring the focus back to the more important issue.

"…I finished telling your story," Fleur answered, sounding somewhat displeased.

"And I asked: 'Why didn't you kill them, Mister Potter?'" Monsieur Delacour clarified.

"Who? Those five near Shell Cottage? What kind of question is that, anyway? Did I miss some bloody part of French mentality? I'm Harry, for Merlin's sake, Potter. Why would I kill anyone? And actually… I want to reclaim my name without staining it along the way. Otherwise, the trial would be great: 'Yes, you're Harry Potter. But since you killed the Minister of Magic, the Head Auror, and a few British citizens, please enjoy a few years in prison.' Why the hell would I want that?" Tom quickly got to the point. "I'll destroy them politically or economically," he added.

"That's… quite a balanced decision under your circumstances. I think I understand why you need the status… but would you like to smoke?" The minister gave a peaceful smile and assumed a relaxed posture, but his eyes showed that agreeing was important now.

"I think yes," the young man didn't hesitate, especially since he actually wanted to smoke. "Let's go smoke. Lucius, are you joining us?" the Lord asked, giving him a look that said "Don't even think of refusing."

"Yes, of course. Let the ladies stay here… uhh," Malfoy hesitated, realizing it was not ideal to leave Bellatrix with the Delacours.

Potter seemed to think the same, as he gave his lover a careful look. The witch, pretending innocence, studied her nails with an outstretched hand.

"And the ladies will sit here and chat," and to Black's questioning look that seemed to say "You sure about this?" he responded with a forced grin and quietly handed her the bottle. "Right, Bella?"

"Of co-ourse," she stretched out a smile.

"Excellent, let's go, gentlemen, for a smoke," the wizard said overly cheerfully, turning to the men.

Two uncertain looks answered him.

"Come on, come on," the Boy Who Lived insisted, gently placing a hand on their backs, guiding them to the exit.

"Well, ladies, do tell…" he heard behind him as he closed the door.

He might have just made a terrible mistake.

***

"Harry, can I call you that? The story is certainly good," began Dominique, lighting a cigar. "But here's the question: where do these two… excuse me, Lucius… escaped Death Eaters fit in with you?"

The blond nodded grandly, signaling no offense taken.

"They're all in the same place," Potter replied without a hint of hesitation, looking at the beautiful manor views from the balcony. "They locked Bellatrix up with me in a solitary cell, mind you. Though at least in theory she might have had reasons. Although I'd dispute that in a fair trial. As for Mister Malfoy, at least during the second war he and his family were on our side. Literally, if not for them, I'd have died and never killed Voldemort. So it turned out: I couldn't leave the first one in prison; besides, let's be honest, she served her time anyway, and I couldn't help but save the innocent Lucius. The Weasleys have a personal grudge against all Malfoys, so there'd be no chance of a fair trial. Meanwhile, instead of me, who should have defended them, there's some idiot sitting there grinning like Gilderoy and acting similarly. Spoiling the whole modest image, the bastard."

An awkward silence fell on the balcony, broken only by some sounds from below.

"Let's assume," said the minister after some time, having processed it all. "Now tell me what you're planning. Am I right in understanding that you need refugee status to file a request with M.A.C.U.S.? And after that? Will it work?"

"It will. I'm Harry Potter. I took a blood test at St. Mungo's. You know that procedure, right? Proving I defeated Voldemort is trivial. There are many methods. The international court can't be bribed, so I'm not worried about that. After that… after that it's pure politics. Harry Potter—a half-blood backed by aristocrats. At first, many might get the wrong idea, but over time, seeing our political program, they'll have no alternatives. I think it'll take no more than two years before either I or Lucius becomes Minister for Magic of England."

"Huh, I've heard somewhere about a half-blood leading the aristocracy," Delacour muttered quietly, "but aren't you overconfident?"

"No. You probably don't fully understand the 'inner workings' of England. There are no real alternatives there, and even a sip of sanity will cause widespread popular activity. But okay, that's for the future. Indeed, coming from a twenty-year-old fugitive, it sounds too arrogant. Let's go back to the status. Can you grant it? Just to me. In England, I'll restore the rights of Malfoy and Black. So, what do you say?"