Lord Voldemort, known to all wizards not in his service as ‘He Who Shall Not be Named’ and to the indomitable Harry Potter as ‘Voldie’, or ‘Tom’ or ‘baby snake’ sighed. His wand twitched longingly. Oh gods, just one really good Avada Kadavra would be sooo satisfying. Not at Harry, though. Just one of his minions who stood before him. Would he really miss Pettigrew? Would anyone?

Harry skidded to a halt before the circle of Death Eaters. If looks alone could cast Cruciatus, Voldemort would have been frying Harry.

"Harry. I’m having a meeting." Voldemort said, with the patience of a saint.

Harry shrugged apologetically and trudged past them down the hall.

Obviously he still commanded respect from some people, because the Death Eaters didn’t snigger. They shifted uneasily and glanced around the room.

"Okay. Now Lucius, you were saying there was some reason the muggles don’t seem to be cowering before us?"

"Er yes . . they seem to have long metal killing things." Said Lucius, trying to conjure up an appropriate mental image with hand gestures.

"Guns," reminded Severus, tiredly.

The pure bloods all chattered among themselves in disbelief and began telling tales of what they had heard about these ‘guns’ until they reached a bleating feverpitch.

"Silence!" Voldemort shouted, his ears ringing. "They’re muggles! Why didn’t you just use Imperius on them?"

"Er . . . we didn’t think of that," admitted Avery, scratching his chin underneath his mask.

"The guns sort of put us off," said Lucius. "They’re long and shiny," he added, his voice taking on a lustrous quality.

"ENOUGH ABOUT THE GUNS! Get out there NOW and don’t even think about coming back until you’ve taken over London, or at least a nice part of Islington where the house prices are high."

The Death Eaters shuffled out of the door, muttering to themselves. They had definitely gotten less ‘can do, master!’ of late. Voldemort suspected they were taking liberties because Harry had forbidden the use of unforgivable curses in the house after the unfortunate incident that had ruined the Persian rug.

"Voldie, pet, come here and help me unpack the shopping would you?"

Oh, Voldemort really hoped his minions hadn’t heard that one.

"Coming," he called resignedly and walked to the kitchen, ignoring the sniggers and whip-cracking noises that a plaster gargoyle in the ceiling border made at him.

Harry smiled warmly at his husband. "So, did you have a nice day Voldie?"

"No. The Death Eaters can’t tell their elbows from their arseholes."

"You should be nicer to them you know. They work very hard." Harry was trying to fit ready made ‘count on us’ meals into the ridiculously small freezer. "Especially Severus. He’s nice, we should have him around to dinner some night."

"I don’t think you understand . . . I’m the Dark Lord, Harry! They’re supposed to cower before me!"

Harry shrugged and gestured vaguely at some canned goods that he wanted Voldemort to put in the top cupboard he couldn’t reach. "So, be a Dark Lord. I’m not stopping you."

"Look Harry – it’s not helpful when you call me ‘Voldie’ before them . . . or, well – shop at Marks and Spencers – I mean, it’s a muggle shop and – ooh, teriyaki salmon steaks . . ."

"Hmm," Harry replied faintly, his green eyes taking on that far-away look that suggested Harry wasn’t quite all there. ‘Not all there’ was an understatement. Voldemort privately thought that Harry was as mad as a bag of wire hangers. Harry had survived the final battle because Voldemort had a mind to keep him as a catamite. Somehow Harry had gotten revenge in a bizarre and spectacular way by becoming a nag. Harry had his own methods of mind-control and torture that were far more effective than Imperious and Cruciatus. Voldemort now obeyed Harry’s will without even thinking about it; he always took off his shoes in the hall and always put the milk back in the fridge straight after he’d used it. "Do you want some tea, darling?"

"Yes please," Voldemort muttered, having realised long ago that trying to argue with Harry was futile.

Voldemort pulled back the hinged balsa wood screen door and went into the living room, dodging the various mahogany nest tables that Harry thought were tasteful. He sat down on the sofa, which was blue and green paisley and looked in despair at the junk shop portraits that adorned the yellow and puce striped walls.

The Dark Lord, in his best winter-weight sable robes, in this house? Now that was a picture only Charles Addams could draw.

"Here you are, petal." Harry sat next to him, placing two cups and saucers of Earl Grey on a spindly table before them.

"Thanks."

Harry curled up and yawned, shifting up against Voldemort and laying his head on his husband’s shoulder. Harry sought out Voldemort’s hand and squeezed it between both of his own. He nuzzled Voldemort’s neck for a moment, before saying in that tentative, bewitching sotto voice "I love you Voldie."

Voldemort gave a resigned sigh and put his arm around his husband. "You too, Harry."

"Good. Because my friends are coming over for dinner and you’re not allowed to get all jealous and moody."

Voldemort grumbled and narrowed his red eyes. He loved being married to Harry, but being married to Harry’s friends was really pushing it.

Harry spent the afternoon in the kitchen, pouring over Nigella Lawson’s How to be a Domestic Goddess and cursing her deceptively simple recipes. Voldemort tried to help, but invariably got in Harry’s way and was sent upstairs under orders to have a bath and put on that nice red dress robe that went with his eyes.

Voldemort stomped upstairs in a faintly-hurt huff and pulled open the bedroom door, then tripped over Nagini, who had been lying against the crack trying to be a draught-excluder. Voldemort picked himself up, cursing in English and then in parseltongue for good measure.

Nagini blinked at him and darted out her forked tongue, tasting the scent of baking in the air. Harry’ssss friendsss coming over for dinner again, massster?

Yessss, Voldemort replied, hanging his head.

Cursssessss, Nagini said and slithered away to hide in the linen cupboard.

Voldemort took off his tarmac-black robe and hung it between his midnight black and deepest sable ones. Then he stalked into the bathroom in his Primark Y-fronts that had once been white, but were now faintly pink after the incident in the washing machine with one of Harry’s red Gryffindor socks.

Downstairs Harry cursed as he tried to coat the inside of a springform tin with diamond-strength tinfoil, in order to create a make-shift bain-marie.

Voldemort lay back in the large, sunken bath and tried to clear his mind of all murderous thoughts. He’d have to leave his wand upstairs and out of reach if the night was to conclude without any casualties. Especially where Harry’s ex was concerned. The Ex was an impossibly handsome boy who Voldemort quietly loathed in jealous, seething rage to the very core of his being. ‘Now that’s totally irrational, Tom,’ said his ego. ‘Harry dumped him years ago and is happily married to you.’

‘Kill him. He is a threat,’ said his id.

‘I can’t believe you even suffer that mudblood boy’s whims in the first place. How dare he have a dinner party and invite the Ex without even warning you,’ said his superego.

Agh! Voldemort ordered all parts of his psyche to be quiet. His id unhelpfully supplied an image of Harry and the Ex shagging passionately.

"What’cha daydreaming about, sweetheart?" Harry’s voice interrupted his mental bickering. Voldemort opened his eyes and gave Harry a sultry smile.

"What am I always thinking about?"

"Hmm. Me naked?" Harry offered, pulling off his flour-dusted robe. His form was really very pleasing. Still boyish, but with lean muscles and just enough body hair to get the ‘rarrr’ factor.

"You are entirely correct."

Harry smiled and clambered into the bath and sat opposite Voldemort, inadvertently kicking him in his paunch.

"Oww!"

"Oops, sorry."

Harry stretched out and closed his eyes. Then opened them slightly and wiggled his toes suggestively at Voldemort.

"Oh for Merlin’s sake . . ." Voldemort took Harry’s none-too-subtle hint and clasped one of his husband’s feet in both hands, kneading at his shapely inner arch.

Harry moaned indecently, gazing up at him hazily from underneath his lowered lashes and whispered "I love you Voldie-bear."

"I bet you’d say that to anyone who’d rub your feet."

Harry smiled through his look of rapture then moaned again. "Yeah, I’m such a toe slut."

"Come on," Voldemort urged in his most persuasive voice, the one he used on Harry and potential Death Eaters. "Say it."

"Ah . . .mmmm . . . oh, no one does it like you do Voldie."

"No one? Not ever?" Voldemort said, without meaning to betray his irrational and unbecoming jealousy.

Harry laughed sweetly "Of course not, baby snake. I wouldn’t have married you if I’d thought I could ever want someone else . . . to touch my feet and my other pink bits." Voldemort smiled and lavished attention on Harry’s other foot.

The hour was growing late, so they reluctantly got out of the bath. Sitting on top of the floral duvet, Voldemort ruffled his husband’s hair with a lavender-coloured towel, while Harry carefully rubbed ‘Vaseline intensive care moisturiser – for skin as dry as a fucking snake’s’ into Voldemort’s back. Harry knew most people thought he was insane, but he liked the way Voldemort looked. The Dark Lord had had a bit of magical cosmetic surgery done since gaining his latest body. He now had a nose, which was long and aristocratic. His hair had grown back, black and glossy like Harry’s, with only a hint of grey at his temples. He also had heavy, expressive eyebrows. He looked sort of handsome, and distinguished, Harry fancied, like a professor of some arcane subject. He had very delicate hands, like pianist’s, and Harry loved to watch him make potions in the laboratory in the cellar. Harry hardly even thought that his greyish, pallid skin was odd anymore, it was just part of Voldie, who he loved and who loved him back, against all reason and, according to Ron ‘against every law of the gods and man’.

They abandoned their tasks and embraced. Voldemort made a contented humming sound and kissed his husband’s forehead, just over the Ziggy Stardust scar.

The moment was lost when Harry glanced at his watch and cried "Gods, look at the time!"

Voldemort sighed and got dressed. Harry had scurried off back to the kitchen when the doorbell rang. Voldemort patted his robe just to check that his wand was indeed upstairs in his bedside cupboard (out of temptation’s reach) and went to welcome the guests.

"Hello Weasley, hello Granger."

"Weasley-Granger," reminded Hermione, showing off her wedding band. Bah, 6 carat gold, Voldemort sneered, admiring his own platinum one which matched Harry’s. Well, at least he hadn’t said ‘mudblood bint’, because it was what he had been thinking.

"Of course. Do come in."

The guests were seated and provided with wine and Greek olives. Voldemort did not have time to sit down before the doorbell rang again.

"Hello Malfoy." Voldemort shot his most insidious glare at Harry’s EX.

"Oh hello Voldemort," Draco said casually, stepping across the threshold with a bottle of wine. "Oh, hello Weasley and Weasley-Granger. Where’s Harry?" he asked as he entered the living room.

"Kitchen," said Voldemort, coldly. "Cooking," he added. Hearing his voice, Harry came out, wiping his hands on a gingham tea towel.

"Hello everyone!" he chirped. He thanked Draco effusively for the wine and gave him a kiss on the cheek, then disappeared back into the kitchen to put it in the fridge.

Draco smiled smugly at Voldemort. Voldemort clenched his fists and decided to cast an impotence spell on Lucius in the morning, just for having created such a little bastard of a sprog. Hmm, maybe he’d just cast it on Draco instead, for being such a little bastard.

Voldemort sat down in an armchair, poured himself a big glass of Chianti, nabbed the bowl of green olives and set about ignoring the idle banter of Harry’s friends.

"Did you see the news today?"

"No. What’s going on?"

"Apparently some of those loser Death Eaters were trying to take over London again."

Imperious . . . Weasley-Granger doing a Russian squat-dance and knocking over nest tables. Voldemort smiled.

"Why do they even bother anymore?"

Cruciatus . . . Weasley writhing in agony on the shag-pile carpet. Voldemort maintained his indifferent expression.

"Sad isn’t it? At least they wear masks. I’d die of embarrassment if anyone knew my father was one of them."

Avada Kedavra . . . Malfoy DEAD DEAD DEEEAAAAD! Voldemort grimaced and tried to stop his hands twitching.

"Hey everyone, come to the table." Harry’s voice stopped him doing anything rash. Voldemort got up and helped his husband serve.

Voldemort sat next to Harry at the round mahogany dinner table and engaged in a staring match with Draco. Voldemort kept his left hand on Harry’s knee in a subconscious and hidden gesture of possessiveness, as he ate Harry’s admittedly rather wonderful penne pasta with aubergine and buffalo mozzarella.

Draco and Hermione were engaged in a heated political debate:

"I really don’t know how you can compare the muggle government to ours. I mean, for a start, it’s left-wing."

"Oh you would say that, Draco. The problem with New Labour is precisely that it isn’t left-wing enough. I mean it has privatised the rail system, the postal system and has shut down all the grammar schools. Nowadays, the only way muggle children can get a decent education is if they pay to go to a public school."

"Actually Herm," interjected Harry, "most of those things were inherited, they were introduced by the Tories."

Voldemort decided it was time to speak. "You know. I’m so glad that the wizarding world has a proper dictator. Muggle politics are just so fucking dull."

"Oh you would say that, you despot," said Malfoy, dismissively.

"Come on, admit it, I rule. Free education, a new syllabus . . ."

Hermione snorted. "With heavy emphasis on propaganda and the Dark Arts."

"Free funerals," Voldemort retorted, narrowing his eyes.

"Yeah, I mean what was with that textbook you wrote, Voldemort?" Draco said dismissively, while pulling apart a ciabatta roll.

"‘My Struggle’? It’s an honest account of my ideals and rise to power."

Harry’s friends put their hands over their mouths to hide their smirks and tried not to look at each other. Draco bit his lip to stop himself adding the phrase ‘heavily ghost-written’. Hermione wanted to say ‘Heil, mein Führer!" but she knew it would be utterly lost on Draco and her pure-blood husband.

"I liked it," Harry said gently, putting his hand on top of Voldemort’s.

"Oh Harry, you’re not serious," Hermione cried. "I know he’s your husband, but you don’t believe all that crap, do you?"

"I don’t know if I’d say I agree with them," Harry said, reflectively. "But I have to respect Tom’s ideas, because he believes them."

"So?" Ron butted in. "You don’t have to respect any of his ideas just because he believes in them - they’re deranged!"

"Deranged?!" Voldemort said, angry and slightly hurt.

"Harry," Hermione added, as if Voldemort was not there. "I don’t like to bring this up, but I mean, you know how insane his ideas are. He did kill your parents."

"Yeah. That’s true," Harry nodded, tilting his head to one side thoughtfully. "But then, I killed him . . . three times."

"He deserved it," asserted Draco, folding his arms across his chest.

"Er, I am still here you know . . ."

"Only in our subjective moral code," Harry retorted to Draco’s remark, grinning.

"Oh no, don’t you dare try to wrangle your way out of this with vague, post-modernist sentiments," Hermione warned.

"EXCUSE ME!" Voldemort said, with a throat-clearing sound to get their attention.

"I’d just like to say that yes, I am unscrupulous and a dictator. I just believe that my views are right and everyone else should be forced to think the same way."

"That’s stupid," said Draco.

"No it’s not, because I say so, and I rule the world. Or at least most of Britain . . . not including the muggle parts or indeed the Channel Islands . . . or Northern Ireland. Yet."

There was silence for a moment, Harry’s friends blinked at him. Finally, in a last-ditch effort, Hermione appealed to Harry’s reason again.

"Come on, you can’t honestly say you respect Voldemort’s ideals. They’re insane."

"Insane, perhaps," said Harry. "But, he’s a genius, and so that’s to be expected. That’s why I love him. I could never love anyone who was just vapid and good-looking." Harry said this quite guilelessly, but Voldemort sneered at Draco and thought ‘Ha, take that, pretty-boy.’ And nothing else after that could more than mildly irk him. Not even all their tedious, pretentious conversations about neo-paganism, Nietzsche or the Pre-Raphaelites. Not even Draco’s hungry glances at Harry or his parting kiss.

"So," Voldemort said to Harry as they lay in bed after all the guests had gone home. "You really are attracted to my intellect?"

Harry looked up from his copy of Riders by Jilly Cooper, to where his husband lay, propped up on one elbow reading a huge potions volume that was written in Anglo-Saxon. Nagini was coiled up asleep on the rug in front of the radiator.

"Amongst other things."

"What did you like about Malfoy?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Would you ever give that a rest?"

"I’m just asking."

"Oh for Nymue’s sake . . . I liked Draco because he was pretty. I don’t fancy him anymore and haven’t done for a very long time. Okay?"

"Okay," Voldemort said sulkily.

"You’re getting far too paranoid by being on your own. Why don’t we invite some of your friends over for dinner, some of the Death Eaters?"

Voldemort wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cry at that thought. "They’re not my friends, they’re my minions."

"See that’s your problem. You don’t have any friends or ex-boyfriends. You don’t know how irrationally you behave towards mine."

"I’ve never wanted any."

"You never wanted a friend? Gods, I can play the fucked-up orphan as well as the next, but you really were a sad little boy." Harry wriggled closer and laid his hand on Voldemort’s chest, sliding one finger through the gap in his pyjama top to tickle him.

"I was just . . .academic. I know things about the arcane arts that you can’t even imagine."

Harry rolled his eyes and opened and closed his hand to make it ‘talk’. "Meh meh meh meh meh meh!" it said, imitating Voldemort’s tone.

"Oh shut up, Harry." Voldemort snapped his book shut and put it on the bedside table.

"Meh meh meh?" the hand said, questioningly.

Voldemort smiled, despite himself and kissed Harry. A proper kiss, a familiar action by now but still a little bit exciting.

"Mmmm . . ." groaned Harry as Voldemort slipped his tongue in and they wound around each other in a serpentine embrace. All Voldemort’s murderous desires ebbed away as he felt the warmth of his young husband arching into his touch. Rapid shedding of flannel pyjamas ensued.

Afterwards, Voldemort lay back on the bed, wide-eyed, still slightly out of breath with a sticky chin and itchy beard rash on his inner thighs. Harry collapsed against him, panting and managing only four-letter words of appreciation like "good!" and "fuck!"

There was a kerfuffle at the window and a large barn owl entered. It landed on top of Voldemort’s book on the bedside table with regal dignity.

"Voldemort groaned and reached over to untie the piece of parchment on it’s outstretched leg.

"Oh gods, it’s from that arse Lucius," Voldemort grumbled, noting the crest that had been stamped on the seal before he broke it with a fingernail.

"Do you think they’ve taken over London?" Harry asked breathily, putting on his glasses.

"You never know. Wonders never cease." Voldemort opened the folded parchment and a smaller document, made of a solicitor’s cream paper fell out. He unfolded it carefully. It was the deeds and entertainments licence for a Notting Hill gastropub.

Voldemort sighed and looked at the note Lucius had written:

‘Dear Lord Voldemort,

Sorry, this was all we could manage. It may not look like much, but the muggles say the wood-fired pizza is really the best London, outside of Islington.

Regards,

Lucius Malfoy’

"Hey, we own a pub. Cool!" interjected Harry, before he dozed off with his head on Voldemort’s chest.

‘P.S. Pettigrew got himself killed in a particularly nasty incident with one of the customers and a folding metal scooter.’

Well the day wasn’t really such a loss after all. Voldemort smiled.

End.