Harry Potter: Circumstances

"Whe-ere are you going, Malfoy? Stop right there!" Harry caught Lucius, who had muttered something and rushed toward the fireplace halfway through. "What is it with father and son always acting on emotion at the most crucial times? Where do you think you're going now?"

"I told you, I need to reassure Narcissa and Draco," the blond nearly pleaded, recalling that challenging Voldemort—assuming this was indeed Voldemort—was a very bad idea.

"Does he think I'm going to eat him alive right here or what?" Harry thought.

"For someone supposedly intelligent, sometimes you do the dumbest shit," Potter sighed. "Imagine this: you show up at home and run into Aurors who'll be searching your manor first thing. Or maybe you'll run into someone who won't hesitate to report you. We need those problems? No. So just send Kreacher with strict orders not to show himself to anyone except your wife, and have him tell her that you're waiting at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place," Harry instructed, sprawling on the sofa, tossing his right arm over the backrest and his feet onto the coffee table, and pulling out a bottle of wine. Next to him, Bella plopped down and immediately snagged the bottle from which Harry had only managed a single sip. His brain didn't even register this as annoying—he didn't perceive her as an irritant right now. "And no improvising. How long were you in there? A week? Two? Suck it up for another half-hour. Also, have her bring the newspapers from the past week. I need to understand what's happening in this country and why I ended up in prison sharing a cell with this nutcase on an empty floor. And I need to see who these people are pretending to be my parents, and most importantly—who's pretending to be me."

"You were in the same cell with her for several days?" Lucius picked out the single most important detail for himself.

"Yes, and we even fu—"

"For fuck's sake, Lucius, is that really the most crucial point you got from my entire monologue?" Harry rolled his eyes. "Now I understand why you're rushing home so desperately—sperm buildup at forty is definitely a problem. But maybe you could at least let me know that the rest of my points have also sunk into your thick head?"

"Yes, I understand everything, Mister Potter," the blond replied meekly. "The newspapers can be brought by the house-elf at any time."

"Good, that suits me. Hm, once you've finally settled things with your wife, you and I are going to have a private and rather tough conversation. Believe me, it'll be interesting and beneficial… Bella, give me back the bottle… We have a lot to do and the first steps to discu—" Harry finally realized that he was sitting there with one arm around the drunken witch who had nestled up against him and kept snatching the bottle whenever his attention wavered.

"What're you staring at?" Seeing the Boy Who Lived fix her with a heavy gaze, the woman asked. "I've gotten used to you. Consider yourself honored, half-blood. Plus, I feel more comfortable this way."

Seeing Bellatrix Black—his lover—looking embarrassed, Harry decided it wasn't his business. For the sake of his own sanity, he'd let it go. If she wanted to sit next to him, fine. He didn't mind. Warmth was nice. If she wanted to cuddle, let her. After all, the phrase "whatever keeps the child entertained" was almost like a mantra stuck in Harry's head now.

While Malfoy gave instructions to the house-elf, the pair of alcoholics just silently took turns reducing the world's supply of the harmful substance. Very minuscule compared to the global stock, of course, but slowly and surely.

The former Lestrange, now slightly tipsy again, gently placed one hand on Harry's leg and gave a sly squint when she caught his eye.

"Well, maybe this isn't so bad," Harry admitted inwardly, feeling a stir of arousal and understanding Bella's hint. But her simple caresses were suddenly cut short. She jumped up, stretching like a panther.

"I'm going for a proper bath," she said, winking at Potter before heading upstairs toward the bathroom. The boy had to give her credit—even with all her craziness, the sacred "turn him on and don't follow through" trick still applied.

Apparently, she also understood well how slow or indifferent her lover could be, because from upstairs she called down:

"Half-blood, why don't you come help a proper lady scrub her back?" and with that, she was gone.

Rubbing his eyes with two fingers, Harry did a quick self-check to confirm that he indeed wanted to join her. And yes, he did.

"Well, who am I to refuse such 'hints,' right? Don't get into any shit, Lucius."

Left alone, Malfoy watched Potter with a slightly envious look. It so happened that long ago he'd been more attracted to the fiery Bellatrix than to the always-cold-in-life-and-in-bed Narcissa. Of course, over time he was glad that his parents chose the younger Black sister as his wife—life in a constant "battle" wasn't for him. Still, sometimes he felt regret.

From upstairs, moans began to filter down to the blond's ears.

Sighing heavily, he picked up the bottle of wine the pair had left behind.

"I wonder if there's anything here to snack on?"

***

Narcissa Malfoy was sitting by the fireplace, steadily getting drunk. Now it was Draco's turn to run around the Ministry in a desperate attempt to get his father out of Azkaban. It was a cultural shock that almost every official capable of helping made a big show of refusing bribes. There was no need to guess: this was clearly the Weasleys' doing. With their "victory," they'd grown their influence and wealth.

At least they hadn't raided the manor yet with one of those "searches" that were basically just extorting huge sums of money. Someone upstairs was apparently restricting their actions. Still, most aristocrats had suffered huge financial losses, some even going bankrupt. Though that was better than rotting in Azkaban.

The Malfoys and many others were being marinated—delayed and pressured—until they gave in and paid a monstrous price. Narcissa knew this was all about making them desperate enough to sell off a great deal of their assets.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sharp crack of an elf's apparition. Instead of the kitchen elves she expected, it was an old and vaguely familiar one.

"Kreacher?" she asked uncertainly, recognizing the old family elf.

"Yes, former mistress. Kreacher has come to deliver a message from the honorable wizard—your husband. The honorable wizard is currently at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. He asked me to inform you that he awaits your presence there. The sooner, the better."

"Th-thank you, Kreacher. You may go," the mistress of the house was so surprised she even thanked the elf.

"The Noble Miss has praised unworthy Kreacher. Kreacher…"

"Silence," the blond witch said sharply. The elf obeyed instantly, standing at attention with his mouth closed. "Can you take me there? You may speak."

"No, forgive unworthy Kreacher, but master only granted you travel by the Floo. Unworthy Kreacher cannot take the noble witch with him."

"Who is your master?" Narcissa decided to clarify.

"Kreacher cannot say. Kreacher is a bad elf, Kreacher will punish himself…"

"Punish yourself at Grimmauld Place, not here. Get lost," Mrs. Malfoy regained her composure.

When the house-elf vanished with a crack, babbling apologies and promises to punish himself, Narcissa decided not to rush and took a seat to think.

Who could possibly own Kreacher? Most likely Potter. Which meant she was now expected to negotiate about her husband. The woman was actually a bit scared. Everything was happening too privately. Maybe it was the wine talking, but her mind started conjuring strange ideas.

Changing into official, fully covered attire (just in case), hiding a spare wand in her sleeve and the main wand in a sheath at her waist, she approached the fireplace with enormous anxiety.

"Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place!"

A flash of flames and she was in the old townhouse's sitting room—the house where she grew up. The first thing she noticed was layers of dust absolutely everywhere. The second was the absence of anyone to greet her, which pissed her off. Such bad manners! And then, after these observations, she heard moans coming from upstairs.

Maybe it was the wine, or the insult of not being greeted, but Narcissa immediately assumed infidelity. She marched straight toward the sound, determined to find out what the hell was going on.

The moans and slaps grew clearer as she reached the second floor. But to her surprise, instead of a bedroom, it was another door. Drawing her wand and ready to curse her husband, she burst into the bathroom.

For one second, Mrs. Malfoy saw a naked woman strongly resembling her supposedly dead sister Bellatrix, leaning her rear against a dusty sink, and a young man kissing the woman's neck, pulling her head back by the hair and simultaneously moving his hips in unmistakable motions.

In the next moment, she saw only a wave of magic and then darkness.

***

"…How was I supposed to know it was Narcissa?" the male voice sounded defensive—that was the first thing the witch heard as she came to.

"Potter, you yourself said you restricted entry to anyone except her…" teased a very familiar female voice.

Opening her eyes and seeing who was arguing, Narcissa thought she hadn't fully recovered from her faint. The Leader of the Light—Harry Potter—and the supposedly dead Bellatrix Lestrange were standing there, arguing about something!

"Shut up, I didn't ask you, Bella!"

"Aren't you taking too much on yourself, you fucking half-blood? You think that just because you're fucking me you can be rude? I'll—"

"I think I can be rude to you regardless. The sex is just a pleasant bonus."

"You've got some nerve, you bas—"

"My dear, you're awake?" Lucius's voice cut Bella off. Narcissa hadn't even noticed him before, being so shocked by the argument in front of her.

At the sight of her husband, Narcissa lost control of her emotions and threw herself into his arms, hugging him tightly. For so many years of marriage, she'd grown used to maintaining the Malfoy family order—aloofness and total coldness.

The stunned man froze, unable to comprehend his wife's show of emotion. After a brief moment, the woman pushed him away and sat on the couch, adopting a posture of maximum independence and pride. Unfortunately, her flushed cheeks ruined the effect.

Potter just shrugged at the pantomime. The old problem of this couple was none of his business, at least not right now when he needed Lucius fully functional.

It just so happened that Malfoy had kept a stone-faced demeanor at school, creating the impression that all blond aristocrats were the same. Narcissa, in love with him, tried to meet all his expectations and trained herself into near-total unemotionality. Both wanted warmth, but both only made themselves suffer because of their own stupidity. And Merlin only knew what was going on in their child's head. Harry feared to even guess.

"Forgive me, Narcissa—it was just a reflex," Harry said, clearing his throat for attention. "But I'm curious, Lucius: where were you when I explicitly told you to stay in the sitting room and not wander off?"

"I just stepped away to get something to eat," Malfoy protested.

"See, if you'd eaten back in prison, Narcissa wouldn't have gotten cursed by this psycho. One problem after another from your arrogance, Luci," Bella remarked happily, once again managing to jab at two people in one go.

"I'm the psycho?!" Potter retorted instantly. "You nutjob, are you mixing up roles here? It's you who's been batshit insane for Merlin knows how long. You—"

"Will someone explain what's going on here?!" Mrs. Malfoy finally spoke.

"Do you people have a family tradition of interrupting arguments?!" Harry was still on edge. So much so that some back part of his mind whispered about using the Cruciatus. Spitting out those dirty thoughts, he just exhaled loudly and snatched his bottle of wine back from Lucius's hands—Malfoy, out of habit, hadn't let go of it even when he heard his wife's scream.

"What's there to explain? I'm alive and well, and even in a normal state… don't laugh, half-blood! And this guy here got the two of us out of prison," the witch quickly clarified.

"What do we owe you for that, Mister Potter?" Mrs. Malfoy asked, forcing herself to tear her eyes off her living sister and swallowing hard. For rescuing both her sister and her husband, she was willing to give a lot. Bella eased the tension a bit by smiling at her sister with an almost normal grin. Almost.

"Well, first let's clarify a few things, okay?" the wizard decided to get straight to the point. "See that idiot in the newspaper? Now look at me. Similar? The correct answer is no. I woke up with Bella in an Azkaban cell. Lucius will fill you in on the rest, I'm not in the mood. I want a proper bath, a meal, and some sleep. So I'll expect you in half an hour…"

"An hour," Bella interjected.

"…in an hour, by which time Kreacher should have made something after he finishes banging his head against the wall for Merlin knows what," Harry agreed, briefly glancing at his lover. "I'll wait for you in the kitchen. Yes, the kitchen—too lazy to sit in the dining room."

"Thank you, of course, Mister Potter, but we…" Narcissa tried to refuse politely, but her husband interrupted her.

"Alright, Mister Potter."

"Good, that's just fine," Harry said, standing up.

Moving away from the Malfoys, the Boy Who Lived asked the former Lestrange quietly:

"Hey, are you sure you want to finish what we started rather than talk with your sister right now?"

"I can talk to her anytime, but I can't always fuck," the woman answered, pulling Harry into a kiss.

"Her twisted logic sometimes reminds me of the Lovegoods," Harry thought. Given that he equated "Lovegood" with "complete chaos," it was not a favorable comparison for Bellatrix.