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Harry refuses to pace. Refuses.
Instead, he starts fidgeting.
What the hell had he been thinking?
The letter he'd sent had simply said to show up at this location on this date, at this time, wearing Muggle clothing. He’d been banking on Voldemort’s curiosity, but in retrospect maybe he hadn’t completely thought this through. What’s stopping the Dark Lord from showing up with all of his Death Eaters and laying waste to the whole county? Nothing, that’s what.
His internal Ron and Hermione are taking turns lecturing him. This is why he’s not in charge of planning – he’s more of a spontaneous thinker. Though, if this is the sort of situation that leads to, maybe he shouldn’t be quite so proud of that quality.
A distant popping sound puts Harry on his guard, and soon he sees what must be Voldemort walking towards him from an alley on the edge of the town square. It must be – Harry has yet to meet anyone else who carries that aura of passive menace around them like a burial shroud – but the man strolling towards him is dressed like a Muggle, and has hair. And a nose.
Harry squints. Bloody hell, he’s found a way to make himself look like a middle-aged Tom Riddle. That’s just not fair.
(Harry is bouncing between incredulity that Voldemort actually wore Muggle clothing at Harry’s request and absolutely not looking at the sprinkling of silver hair at the man’s temples and dotted throughout the rest.)
“You came.”
“As always, Harry Potter, your powers of observation astound,” the Dark Lord carps. “Care to explain why we’re both here?”
And there’s the million-dollar question. He hesitates for a moment, sticking his hands in his pockets to keep from fidgeting more. “You can feel it, yeah? Everything’s coming to a head.”
After staring for a few beats, Voldemort gives a terse nod.
Harry nods a couple times awkwardly in return, licking his dry lips. “So. We’re expected to fight, and at least one of us is meant to die.”
Voldemort tenses at his side. “If you intend to ask for mercy–”
“No, no,” Harry says, anxiously dragging a hand through his wild hair and leaving it even more of a mess. “I know there’s no middle ground, for either of us.”
His words catch in his throat, stuck in the anger and frustration and exhaustion of years of fighting and losing people with no real gain.
“But,” Voldemort prompts.
“But,” Harry agrees. “Have you ever ridden a Ferris wheel?”
Voldemort blinks and frowns at the apparent non-sequitur. He says, “I beg your pardon?” but the meaning is clearly, ‘Are you mad?’
“Because I haven’t. My relatives,” and his voice breaks on the word because it’s only accurate in the most technical of senses. “Used to go to the local funfair every year. My cousin would always come back with candy apples and caramel corn and some gigantic plush animal he’d say he’d won.”
He smiles, but he can feel how ragged it is. “Fat chance, that. Guaranteed my uncle bought it for him.”
“Potter, what in Merlin’s name are you on about?” He’s apparently worn through Voldemort’s limited patience and the wizard is looking vaguely murderous.
“Right, sorry. Point is, I’ve never been, and I’m guessing you’ve never been to a funfair either. I doubt it was a priority at Wool’s.”
Voldemort’s wand appears in his hand and ‘vaguely’ has shifted quickly into ‘distinctly murderous.’
“Y’know, It’s funny what you fixate on when contemplating your mortality and what you’ll regret not having done when you die,” Harry continues quickly, trying to defuse the situation. “There are lots of things I haven’t done, and so many things I’ll miss. But I keep getting caught up on riding a bloody Ferris wheel, of all things.”
He’d considered asking his friends – he had. But it wouldn’t be new for Hermione, who’d had a pretty normal childhood, magic aside, and Ron wouldn’t get why it was important even once he’d wrapped his mind around the idea of a Ferris wheel. Ron had grown up with flying broomsticks, after all.
“I thought about who else might understand why it meant something, and, well,” Harry huffs, shuffling his feet self-consciously. “Here you are.”
He refuses to look at Voldemort’s face – who knows what expression he’s wearing, but it’s probably derisive in the extreme – instead focusing on the Dark Lord’s wand in case he has to defend himself.
“You invited me to go to a fair with you,” Voldemort says levelly. “Because we’re going to battle to the death soon.”
Well, when he puts it like that. Harry almost cringes out of his skin. He’s about to say something – an apology, an explanation, defensive anger, whatever – when the wand returns up Voldemort’s sleeve in a practised motion.
Huh?
“What are you waiting for, Potter?” Voldemort says, striding towards the flashing lights and hubbub of the crowd.
Harry’s eyes widen and he can feel a foolish grin spread across his face. He jogs a bit to catch up, not willing to chance the other man changing his mind.
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
Once Harry has paid the entry fee and acquired a spool of ride tickets, the two stare out at the assortment of rides, games, and food stands around them.
“So, where to first?” Voldemort asks.
Harry draws a blank. “Err…”
“You have no plan, do you?”
“It’s a fair – I didn’t exactly think we needed a battle plan,” Harry grumbles.
“Gryffindors.” Voldemort tsks. And there’s the derision.
“Fine then! Let’s just go to the Ferris wheel.” He starts to head in the direction of the giant wheel spinning languidly in the distance when he’s brought up short by Voldemort’s grip on the collar of his jumper. He only chokes a little bit.
“Have you no sense of drama, Potter? You need to build up to the main event lest everything afterwards be a disappointment.”
“Uh. Okay then. How about… food?”
Voldemort shakes his head, giving Harry a condescending look. “And risk getting sick on a ride?”
Harry blinks bemusedly. “You are unexpectedly serious about having fun. I think.”
“Whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well,” he says with the air of someone imparting great wisdom.
“Well then, oh mastermind, what should we do first?”
Voldemort looks around the fair, gaze intent on the attractions while looking through the people milling about. It hits Harry anew how surreal this all is – he’s at a fair with his arch nemesis, a Muggle-hating megalomaniac, who is deciding how best to experience said fair rather than murdering either Harry or the hundreds of Muggles around them. Or both – he’s also an overachieving swot, can’t forget that.
“This one,” Voldemort declares, drawing Harry out of his increasingly morbid thoughts. He looks where the older wizard is pointing to see warm lights and colourful mechanical horses on poles.
“The merry-go-round?” Harry says. “Why that one?”
“Because it’s one of the few I recognise,” the older man answers distantly, then adds, “And there’s no queue to get on.”
A crucial factor. “Well then, by all means – lead the way.”
“If only you were this amenable all the time,” Voldemort says with a wry twist to his lips.
“Maybe I would be, if you had good ideas more often,” Harry retorts mildly. He’s tempted to say more, to argue, but that’s not what tonight’s about.
They’re allowed onto the ride immediately once they’ve figured out how tickets translate into admission. He’s decided on a white horse with grey markings that reminds him of Hedwig when he turns to check where Voldemort has ended up. Harry has to stifle an incredulous laugh when he sees the man proudly sat upon an all-black winged horse.
He coughs to hide his amusement. “Nice choice.”
Voldemort narrows his eyes, seeming to pick up that Harry is laughing at him. With an absent gesture, the horse Harry is astride suddenly looks like a disturbingly realistic thestral. He even got the leathery texture down.
“Oi!” He looks around to make sure none of the Muggles have noticed the change. No one is looking at them, thankfully.
“Relax, Potter. We’re the only two who can see it. Do you take me for an amateur?”
“I take you as someone who doesn’t particularly care whether we have to obliviate Muggles or not.”
The older man gives an acquiescing nod. “You’re not entirely wrong. But I would rather not deal with them at all, beyond the necessities of this evening.”
The ride starts up and the two drop into silence. It’s hardly the most exciting experience, but there’s something so joyous about it. He can feel his breath catch a little, thinking of how this is something that would mean so little to most people, but that he hasn’t ever had the chance to do until now. He chances a glance back at Voldemort, who has his eyes closed and looks just a little lost. It’s nice that he’s not alone in these feelings.
“Joke’s on you, thestrals are great,” Harry says as they get up to leave, trying to lighten the mood.
Voldemort cocks his head to the side and observes him. “You’re an odd little boy, aren’t you?”
“You, of all people, are not allowed to make that criticism.”
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They stand outside a short fence, watching as the ride zooms in a jerky, vaguely circular motion.
“This one next,” Harry decides, getting excited. He’d seen the Twister on drives past fairs as a child and had always thought it looked wicked. Not bothering to wait and see if Voldemort is interested, Harry hands over a few tickets, strides through the gate and over to an empty carriage.
He’s barely settled into the seat when he feels it move under the weight of another person. Voldemort had been right on his heels, apparently.
“Uh. You want to ride with me?”
Voldemort gives him a withering look, which, yeah. The man’s in the midst of climbing into the same carriage as Harry, he clearly means them to ride together. Harry makes to scoot over but Voldemort beats him to it, a triumphant gleam in his eyes as he settles in at Harry’s left side.
“Er. I think the smaller person is meant to sit there, since the riders get pushed to the outside.”
“Your point being?”
“If you sit on that side, you’re going to crush me.”
Voldemort glances at him and smiles pleasantly. It may as well be a hammer to the head coming from Tom Riddle’s stupidly handsome face.
“Fine. But if I die, you have to explain to everyone how you killed me by squishing me with your body on a Muggle amusement ride.”
Voldemort tuts. “Such melodrama.”
The operator comes around to fasten them in and looks between Voldemort’s innocently smiling face and Harry’s resigned grimace. Deciding it’s not worth it (smart man), he closes the carriage gate and moves on.
As the ride jerks into motion and slides into the first slow-down, Harry finds himself squashed into the carriage’s not-at-all-adequately padded side with Voldemort pushed up against his other side. Brief periods of reprieve separate repeatedly being crushed between the other man’s firm body and the unforgiving metal of the ride, Harry letting out breathless sounds as the ride speeds up and the air is pushed from his lungs more forcefully.
After a particularly mortifying squeak leaves Harry, he hears the Dark Lord laughing at him.
“Git,” he wheezes irritably, next time he has the breath to do so. This just makes Voldemort laugh harder, head tilted back, soft wrinkles appearing at the corners of his closed eyes.
…Maybe it’s worth a little light tenderising to witness the other man in a moment of uninhibited glee, even at Harry’s expense.
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They decide to take a pause after a few more rides in the interest of limiting bloodshed (and involuntary loss of other bodily fluids) - Voldemort threatens to curse him after Harry gets his vengeance for the Twister by spinning the teacups as fast as he can, leaving the older man decidedly green about the gills.
After wandering in silence for a few minutes, while picking at a cone of candy floss, Voldemort tells Harry about the time he snuck into the Bertram Mills Circus as a child. His favourite act had been, naturally, the snake charmer, though mostly because he could hear the snakes hissing profanities at their “charmer” and he found the incongruity amusing.
“Well, good to know if the Dark Lord schtick doesn’t pan out, you have a back-up career,” Harry teases.
“You’re a regular comedian,” he says dryly. “Alas, I do believe I’m a bit too old to run away and join the circus, but there’s still time left for you.”
“Hmm, d’you think they’d teach me to do the trapeze? Now that would be proper flying.”
“Of course you would choose the most dangerous act,” Voldemort mutters.
He decides it’s finally time to ride the Ferris wheel. Harry would make a joke about the older man being a total control freak, but he can’t deny how well the evening has gone so far because of Voldemort’s forethought.
It takes a couple rotations before Harry breaks the silence.
“...It’s a little underwhelming, isn’t it?” he says, the slightest bit disappointed. “After flying on a broom.”
“Everything’s underwhelming after flying unassisted.”
“Right.” Harry forgot that’s a thing Voldemort can do. “Don’t suppose you’d teach me how to do that?”
“A magician never reveals his secrets,” he replies loftily, before grumpily adding, “Besides, you don’t need any added escape-making advantages. You’re already harder to pin down and kill than a cockroach.”
Harry looks away and grins a little smugly.
The Ferris wheel may not be the greatest thrill of his life, but being forced to stop and sit and enjoy the ride at its slower pace – the low swoop in his stomach as it descends, the slight head rush as it rises – is satisfying in its way. The view of the rest of the fair from the top is not too shabby, either.
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
The fair is due to close down for the night in an hour or so, so Harry decides to try his hand at whac-a-mole before they leave. Part of him wants to draw this out as long as possible. Who knows whether either of them will be alive in a month or two?
He wonders if it’s possible to feel nostalgic while living through the moment he knows he’ll remember wistfully. Hermione would surely know the word for that.
Harry’s always had good hand-eye coordination, despite his terrible vision, and playing Quidditch has honed the skill, so he puts in a solid showing. He feels just a little bad about hitting the cartoonish moles – it’s possible he’s been spending too much time with Hagrid.
When given a choice of prize, Harry seizes the opportunity for a bit of fun.
“Here,” he says, holding out the small plush snake to the older man with a laugh. “It seems only right for the heir of Slytherin to have the snake.”
Voldemort stares at the stuffed animal in Harry's hands with an inscrutable look before turning his gaze on Harry. He wonders if perhaps their strange détente is at an end.
The older man turns on his heel and strides purposefully towards the whac-a-mole game. The operator makes some comment that Voldemort disregards as he takes the small mallet from him. He hefts the mallet, eyes fixed intently on the game cabinet, and proceeds to absolutely annihilate the plastic moles that rise out of the holes. He only misses one and crushes the current high score handily, to the operator’s wide-eyed surprise. Harry can’t blame him – Voldemort doesn’t exactly look like the type to excel at children’s games. Perhaps he cheated using magic.
Voldemort returns, looking punchably smug and carrying the largest stuffed lion Harry has ever seen. Competitive git. Harry holds his stuffed snake a little tighter and ignores the feeling of rejection. He’d meant it as a joke, anyway; there’s nothing to be disappointed about.
Voldemort clears his throat. “I propose a trade.”
And he holds out the stuffed lion to Harry, his other hand gesturing for the snake.
Oh.
Harry hands over the snake hesitantly and accepts the lion in turn.
Did we just win each other stuffed animals? he thinks.
The silence grows tense as they walk back through the fair entrance. Much like he hadn’t planned how the evening would go, he hadn’t really thought ahead to how to end the night.
“...Right. Well,” Harry starts awkwardly, turning to face the other man. “See you on the battlefield?”
Voldemort rolls his eyes. “Good grief.”
He grabs Harry’s shoulder and draws him close, ducking down to press a chaste kiss to his cheek. Harry can feel himself flush instantly and make some embarrassing, wobbly noise of confusion.
“Thank you for a lovely evening, Harry,” Voldemort says too close to his ear, before pulling away. Harry’s hand rises to his face and covers the spot where Voldemort’s lips (?!) were moments ago, staring disbelievingly as the man smirks at him and walks away, leaving the circle of light cast by the midway.
Harry stares at the man long after he’s disappeared into the darkness, hugging the giant stuffed lion tightly. Oh dear. Had he...
Had he accidentally taken Voldemort on a date?