FICLET: Lemon Tarts and Earl Grey Tea ~ Harry Potter ~ Teen

[batsutousai]

Title: Lemon Tarts and Earl Grey Tea
Fandom: Harry Potter
Author: Batsutousai
Rating: Teen
Pairing: Harry Potter & Voldemort
Warnings: AU, Voldemort wins
Summary: After Voldemort won the war, Harry made a life for himself at a coffee shop down Diagon. If only he could get Voldemort to leave him alone.

A/N: Every winter season, I send out cards to anyone willing to give me their address, and I decided three winters ago to start adding fic to the cards. This year's prompt was coffeeshop.

Can be read as pre-slash. No, I don't intend to write any more, but if this spawns a fic for any of you, by all means.

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Harry couldn't say why Voldemort had let him live when he came to him during the Final Battle.

Perhaps, he considered in the privacy of his own mind when left to his thoughts for too long, Voldemort discovered I'm one of his horcruxes, nearly the last one, and certain to live longer than a snake, barring any killing curses. Which, honestly, if Voldemort had chosen to lock him up in a prison somewhere, Harry would absolutely buy that; the dark lord had already proven a particular habit for hiding his horcruxes away where he believed they might be safe.

Except Voldemort hadn't locked Harry away. He had, instead, marched him back to Hogwarts and, before hundreds of witnesses, made him swear to lay down his wand for peace.

And Harry, who had already seen too many people die in the hopes of killing a man whose life was literally tied to his own and been the only one willing or able to understand Voldemort's promises of safety for his friends, had done so.

Hermione and Ron had forgiven him, eventually, after he'd finally told them the truth, that he was a horcrux, too. (There had been a lot of crying, of Hermione hugging him and sobbing out apologies into the damp fabric of his robes while Ron stared on in horror, the stiffness of his shoulders falling away with the righteous fury he'd wrapped around himself like a cloak while they stood back and watched the fall out of Harry's choices.) Ginny and Neville hadn't, had turned to each other to find solace in their matching anger, heading a rebellion that Harry knew had no future.

And Luna... Well, who could say how Luna felt, really? She had somehow mastered the art of standing quietly at Harry's side, while also staying friends with Ginny and Neville and counting herself among the founding members of their group.

The one price – or, well, one of the prices – Harry and his (former) friends had been forced to pay for their survival, was not being allowed into any political or media jobs. Which, for most of them, hadn't been a struggle. Not being able to join the aurors – too close to politics, especially with Harry's background – had hurt for both Harry and Ron, at least at the start, but Hermione had been near inconsolable as every single one of her options closed doors in her face.

George had taken all three of them under his wing at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, needing the extra help after Fred's death. Hermione had left first, finding a position at Gringott's that was deemed acceptable by the dark lord's government, and Harry had eventually found an opening down the alley at a small tea and coffee shop, which was far more in his comfort zone than the joke shop was.

Or, well, it had been in his comfort zone.

"I think," Voldemort said with a sort of casual indifference that Harry really wished he could pull off half as well, "I should like to try the lemon tarts today." He cut a sharp, knowing glance at Harry, a mean sort of smile twisting his lips. "And a suitable tea."

Harry had to bite his tongue to keep from making any responses that might be construed as rude – the shop's owner had made it very clear that he would maintain a civil tongue while he was working, no matter who might step through the door. And he'd managed that just fine for various Death Eaters and those handful of sneering purebloods who had made no secret of their enjoyment, seeing him trapped in a dead-end job at the far end of the alley, where no one in their right mind went looking for a quick bite to eat.

(Joke was on them; Harry loved his job, and them coming to mock him all the time meant the little shop was making plenty of money.)

Harry could make a couple of guesses how Voldemort had discovered where he'd settled down, and plenty more as to why the dark lord had decided to make a habit of coming by every afternoon and forcing his presence on him. None of those guesses where favourable, but, then, neither was the dark lord.

(Small mercies; he hadn't once drawn his wand or threatened to curse anyone in the week he'd been visiting.)

"Sit with me, Harry," Voldemort ordered as Harry brought over the dark lord's slice of lemon tart and a freshly brewed pot of earl grey tea.

Harry clenched his jaw and glanced back towards the counter, where the owner was twisting a napkin between his fingers in a tense, vaguely terrified way that told Harry he'd be no help. "I'm working," he told Voldemort as he gently set the tray down in front of him, hoping his voice didn't come out too acidic.

Voldemort reached out a long-fingered hand, very nearly clasping it around Harry's wrist, before stopping, red eyes flicking up, past his eyes to the scar marring Harry's forehead. "Sit," he ordered in a tone that allowed for no arguments, even as he withdrew his hand without touching.

The dull throb of the headache Voldemort's presence always gave him made him very tempted to argue anyway, but he didn't particularly want to kick up a fuss – he truly enjoyed his job too much to chance losing it, invasive world leaders aside – and he supposed he could reward Voldemort's restraint; it was hardly a secret that physical contact turned his mild headaches into blinding migraines, and the dark lord had never seemed the sort to act with any thought towards the pain he might cause others.

So Harry settled into the chair on the other side of the small table, turned to both lessen the chance of knocking knees or feet under the cover of the table and so he might quickly rise and assist if he was needed back at the counter.

Voldemort took his time about pouring himself a cup of tea, mixing in just a dash of milk, his movements a little too elegant for someone who looked as terrifying as he did. (Then again, Harry knew what he'd used to look like, and that face would have been well-suited to such elegance; he tried not to think about that too often, if only for the sake of his own shaky sanity.)

"Tart?" Voldemort offered, holding out his fork, which had the tip of the slice of tart on it.

Harry blinked, thrown, and shook his head.

Voldemort's mouth curled with a hint of a smile, though it wasn't a nice one. "No? Should I be concerned about poison?"

Harry couldn't stop a snort. "Please. I think we both know that wouldn't do any good."

Voldemort's smile split wide enough to give any sane person nightmares.

"Anyway," Harry couldn't stop himself from saying, "I wouldn't put poison in the pastries, it would ruin them; far better to add it to the tea and let it steep a little too long to mask any taste."

Harry strongly suspected that the thrum of emotion that transmitted through the horcrux trapped against his forehead was delight, and he wished he felt more horrified than he actually did; leave it to Voldemort to enjoy listening to Harry plot out how he might murder someone via their afternoon tea.

"Yes," Voldemort murmured after swallowing a bite of the tart, "we shouldn't wish to ruin the pastries."

Harry clenched his hands into fists in his lap, uncertain if he was more likely to scoff or flush at the implied praise.

Voldemort seemed almost to take a moment to enjoy the bite of tart, then picked up his teacup and took a sip. "I have been informed," he commented in a voice that leant rather more towards business-like than Harry was used to hearing from him, "that you are serving as the baker."

"Yes," Harry agreed with what he believed was a more than sensible heaping of caution. Not that he'd been in charge of the pastries for very long, mind: The owner had lost his baker to one of the more upscale restaurants along the alley about two weeks after he'd hired Harry. In an attempt to keep from losing half his income, he and Harry had split the duty of making the pastries each morning. Harry had discovered that baking was something he enjoyed, and the owner had left him to it, as his own attempts hadn't turned out particularly well. It wasn't really a secret, but Harry had requested that the owner not advertise the fact, mostly because he didn't really want to know what new comments the various Death Eater visitors would come up with.

Voldemort nodded. "I should very much like your recipe–"

"No," Harry said, not even letting him finish. "You've taken enough from my family," he added, because he'd found the recipe book when he went back to Godric's Hollow to distract himself from the fact that none of his friends were talking to him after the Final Battle. The book had been a little singed around the edges and stank of mould and almost two decades of exposure to the elements, but it had been salvageable with magic, and had since become one of the most precious items he had of his parents'.

Something about Voldemort's expression tightened, and Harry's scar flared a painful warning.

"If you want my pastries," Harry said through the pain, because he'd never been one to abide by warnings, "you'll have to deal with me. Every. Time."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed, and Harry honestly expected he was about to get cursed.

But, then, Voldemort smiled one of his not-nice smiles and collected another bit of lemon tart on his fork. "Is that so," he murmured, then waved Harry away.

Harry made his escape while he could, and the owner didn't try to stop him when he went to hide in the kitchen until the dark lord left.

Harry wasn't even a little surprised when Voldemort came back the next day.

.