Chapter Text
The Butler skulked through the halls, and the Dark Lord followed in the shadows.
The Butler, to his own credit, seemed quite aware of the man behind him, being as he paused his fast pace every few seconds, waiting for him to catch up. He was subtle, the Dark Lord mentally praised, as he never seemed to stop for nothing, making no sign that an invisible man watched him down the hallway.
He would stop to polish the doorknob, or simply to correct the placement of an odd candle. Once he paused, seemingly with the intention to adjust the wall of house-elf heads, pulling the thing around until it faced the front, which of course came with a horrific creaking sound that, even the Dark Lord had to admit, was not his preferred source of entertainment.
(In all honesty, it reminded him of a horrible creaking sound muggle fabric made when dragged against something equally unpleasant, not that he would ever voice that thought aloud. It left him with an unpleasant shiver that seemed to travel all the way from his spine to his teeth).
And of course, only when he found himself near to tapping his foot, an ever-pressing ache building up behind his scales, did his Butler speak up.
“Would you care for a bath, Sir?”
“You have no idea how much, Evans, no idea.”
The Dark Lord had a sneaking suspicion that he did, but that was far from the point.
The two men walked together easily: pace unwavering.
“It’s all been rather a palaver today; it seems that nobody could stop fooling around. Do I seem the kind of man to attract fools Evans?”
The Butler, used to his disposition of silent observation, simply shook his head. He had learned from a young age that being asked a question and being asked for advice meant two very different things.
“I suppose I must not be; your perceptiveness Evans is what drew you to myself, and yet so few people seem able to mimic this trait of yours.”
Another man might have mistaken the Butler of smiling in that moment.
They turned into the bathroom together and separated immediately. The Butler, or Hadrian as Narcissa would sometimes call him, worked quickly with the tub. He knew to boil the water until he would need to put a protective enchantment over his own skin.
He knew the oils to add, the fragrances that would be subtle enough to not offend a serpentine pallet. He performed every action with a show of character that marked great experience, despite some items being added to the collection only that morning.
Upon his order, of course.
And if anyone had happened to peak through the top of the door at that moment, such as, perhaps, an overeager serpent, excited before a long hunt, they might have seen the Butler do something quite strange. He placed his fingers on either side of his forehead and closed his eyes as if focusing very deeply. They might have seen the way he swayed backwards and forwards, before his eyes snapped open and his gaze filled with a focus driven by a very particular kind of ambition. The kind of ambition that came from knowing exactly where the path ahead of you would go and knowing it would be in your favour.
When the Dark Lord strode in again, skin white and bare, the Butler had already opened the bathroom curtains and used a careful bit of transfiguration to give them both a lovely view of the inside of an untouched cave. It was quite romantic really, all low light and running water.
The Dark Lord always appreciated a view that gave anything more than the Malfoy’s patterned glass and rainbowed reflections.
The small trey of Turkish delight placed upon the recently added side table also appeared to work in his favour.
In all this time, the Dark Lord had not stopped speaking, allowing his Butler to help him into the steaming waters and lean him against the back of the bath.
Then, and only then, did The Butler remove his gloves.
Most people in such a situation would have grabbed the head of the dark Lord and desperately shoved it under water, but his Butler seemed to have no such inclinations. One might even think that his Butler would be a placid, calm man. As unwavering as the ocean, always prepared and never caught with his tail between his legs.
He massaged down the Dark Lords back and arms, applying pressure to the palms, hands and fingers in particular. He always had such a bad habit of clenching his fists, whether a wand was in it or not.
Of course, nobody else had ever noticed. Not even Lord Voldemort himself, not truly.
But he did.
There were times that Lord Voldemort himself, all powerful being that he was, was quite convinced that his faithful, true companion could quite read his mind. However, he knew the logic was impossible, as clever as he was, no man could ever go through his mental shields without his knowledge at the very least.
No, Lord Voldemort was simply too used to fools. When he finally received a true servant and companion, one who knew his needs without needing to be nagged and pushed. Some days, it seemed that one sensible man in his ranks was all he could ask for.
“The prisoners have escaped more than once now! They even got as far as the fireplace before I had to personally round them off. Bellatrix also thought it appropriate to press her own dark mark the other week, and, as expected, they did not have Harry Potter. They picked up some random children in the woods who escaped via house elf.”
If he noticed the brief tensing in his Butler’s shoulders, he said nothing. Massages as lovely and thorough as the ones he gave to the Dark Lord would require some personal sacrifice afterall.
His Butler seemed to further dedicate himself to eradicating the Dark Lords discomfort, rubbing over the same place on his chest over and over until the think layer of skin began to peel.
The Dark Lord had quite forgotten he was due for a light shed.
“How did you know?”
“When you skin needs to go, your eyes grow cloudy, almost as if a layer of film seeps over them. You wish to eat less than usual, and the usual pearly whiteness of your scales turns to a rather interesting, muted tone.”
The Dark Lord internally preened at the compliment.
“You know me so well, Hadrian.”
Lord Voldemort did not often use his Butler’s first name. Afterall, the root was so very unfortunate.
“I would like to think so, Sir.”
His Butler went back to rubbing lightly at his skin.
They both knew that the Dark Lord should be left to soak, propped up, for a few hours. However, his Butler would never burden or dull the sharpness of his mind by speaking the blatantly obvious.
Circe hopes that they would both be spared from that fate.
And, apparently deciding that this level of relaxation was simply not enough, his Butler reached to the back of his masters head. Two thumbs ran over the bottom of his skull and in little circles. The hands massaged over his scalp and over where his ears would be.
The action worked so well that the Dark Lord’s head dropped to the back of the bathtub, onto the conveniently cushioned neck rest. Lord Voldemort would have sworn that the sensation he felt then was the blow of fresh breath onto the top of his head.
Then hands fell back to his shoulders, lightly rubbing the loosened skin.
His Butler’s chest pressed against him, rough material of the tailcoat jacket almost itching at his skin, if it wasn’t so perfectly well cleaned. The Dark Lord also noted, with pleasure, that his Butler smelled quite wonderful, never with any useless perfumes or unfortunate bouts of sweat.
“My lower spine requires more attention,” The Dark Lord said, swaying dreamily. As always, the warmth of the steam seemed to wash away his concerns and any true thoughts within his brain.
His ever-loyal Butler made no comment. However, he did not immediately follow the instruction, choosing instead to hand a piece of Turkish delight to the Dark Lord, which he took.
Only then did The Butler press gently on his back to lean his torso onto his legs. He worked the bottom of his spine with practised proficiency, all while brushing off a few loose flecks of skin and scale.
“Sir, a house elf is coming our way. I have muted the space around the door to avoid any obnoxious noises. But be warned, I could not remove the full unpleasant effect.”
The Butler had a voice like pure butter, or dripping poison. It filled the dark Lord’s ears, and slipping through his consciousness with not much thought.
The house elf did appear, some raggedy creature with short cut hair and a trembling smile. The elf held a tray of some kind in it’s hands, before it was speedily passed to his Butler.
The elf vanished, the only change being the slight alteration in air pressure.
“Very well done, Evan.”
His Butler only smiled.
“I do not believe Nagini will be joining you this evening, I saw her on a hunt earlier today and I doubt she will be back in time. Should I prepare a warm pot that she may relax within?”
The Dark Lord nodded, and his Butler hastened to do as such. They had a little copper pot for this purpose. It had a padded lining and manmade rock formation in the centre for her to crawl around. The Dark Lord had no idea where his Butler may have bought the item, and rather suspected that he had made it quite himself.
The warm water sloshed lightly as his Butler retrieved it, and a pleasing trickling came as it hit the sides of the pot with a little, pleasant sound. The Dark Lord stared into the window, into the cave beyond and he could almost picture that the water was running there, and not in the room with him.
But then again, that very well could have been his Butler’s intention.
Voldemort felt the relaxing prickle in the air as several different stasis charms where set.
He wished that magic was on him now, just for a moment to have that feeling of cores intertwining – to feel his Butler for a mere second.
And, as always, as soon as the wish popped into his head, the Butler gave it. This time it came in the form of levitating the tea-tray over his chest, allowing a mix of grey magic and tea smoke to waft into the air and further relax the Dark Lord.
The tray remained that way for quite some time. Every once in a while, Lord Voldemort drew enough strength in his arm to lift the cup to his lips.
But mostly he talked.
“I must have new robes; the current ones are too heavy on my skin.”
“You must find a way to make the dungeons warmer for me, and not for the prisoners. I cannot be expected to go down there and shiver like a mouse.”
“We need to manually feed Nagini more, I do think she hunts too much. While more than capable, I am concerned that she will bring something undesirable back.”
His Butler remained silent and unmoving in the corner, listening intently. He did not need to reply, nor make notes. The Dark Lord further relaxed in the knowledge that these tasks had probably already been completed, quite without him noticing.
His Butler did like to do that, after all.
Eventually the tray levitated back down to a nearby table, and The Butler hastened to grab a towel. The Dark Lord was not too concerned, he knew he would not be asked to get out just yet. The towels were systematically laid out: One on the ground, and another to the side of the bath.
Just by looking at them, he could tell they had been heated.
At peace and relaxed, the Dark Lord simply allowed for his Butler to leave the room, assuming he would be off to complete some meaningless tasks that would somehow make his day better.
As such, he did not see when his Butler removed his glasses (rubbing his eyes in a weary action, seen most commonly with elderly men) and replaced them with round, black ones sealed together with tape. Nor did he see when his Butler rubbed a weary arm over his forehead, seeming to brush off the sweat from the days work, and instead a line of makeup came off onto his sleeve.
The oddly shaped scar revealed from beneath also went unnoticed.
And conceivably, if some other man, perhaps with a particularly rat-like face, was watching from behind a hidden door, he would have seen the Butler walk near the fireplace before ducking around a pillar.
The rat might have imagined it, but just for a second, he could have sworn that a very different man stepped out from behind that pillar.
But before he could shout for help, or assistance that would never be granted, the fire blazed emerald green, the man stepped in, and he was gone.
Harry Potter had vanished.