Chapter Text
Tadeus died on May 1, 1970. A clear sign. Harry must have suspected that fate had a cruel twist in store for him from that moment on.
The following day, surrounded by hateful relatives and treacherous friends, Tadeus Nott, the third of four brothers in the main Nott line, was buried in the family tomb on the grounds of the castle where the head of the family lived.
As was the custom, and since his parents were already buried in the same tomb, the remaining brothers led the procession, carrying the coffin, accompanied by the deceased's closest friends. Harry Nott, née Evans, waited patiently with his son for the mourners to arrive at the tomb so they could bid farewell to his husband and close the door to his eternal rest forever.
In pure-blood circles, the stoic manner of the widower would be the talk of the town—until the day of the scandal. Despite being a mere half-blood raised by Muggles, he maintained his composure; he didn't weep uncontrollably as he placed a single white lily in his beloved's hands, he didn't weep or kneel like a Muggle on the earth as he used his magic to bury the dead, he didn't remove the black veil that covered his face, and he didn't look anyone in the eye but his young son.
A true example of proper social behavior. The epitome of manners; perhaps he'll have the opportunity to remarry someone from another respectable family when his mourning period is over and he can show his face again.
"Today we gather here to bid farewell to a great man," said Harry with regret… for having to say all this nonsense; Tadeus was writhing in hell, thank you very much.
The truth was that Harry Evans hadn't married Tadeus Nott for love; in fact, they had barely met a week before their wedding. Their relationship was nothing more than business partnerships. It had been useful at the time to have all the money he needed just for the work of reviving the occasional corpse and pretending he was searching for a way to maintain complete resurrection in humans, but the charade was coming to an end, and Harry didn't want to get involved with Death Eater affairs any further. The last thing he wanted was to attract the attention of a Dark Lord when he was finally living in peace.
So, Tadeus had to go. Perhaps Harry would have felt bad if he had been a good person, but his husband was a Death Eater and died as one: serving a madman.
Although if the pure-bloods believed that his lack of reaction was due to his good manners and not a complete lack of feelings for his husband, he had no reason to correct them.
"A great man who fought for what he believed was right and sacrificed himself for his cause. May his memory always remain in our lives." And with a final flick of her wand, grass began to grow on the grave and a white lily bloomed in the center "Rest in peace, Tadeus."
The wands of those present were raised, red lights illuminated the sky as shots sliced through the air. Three shots per person for the three moments that comprise having a soul and a physical body: Birth, Life, and Death.
Corvus shifted nervously beside him when he saw a green light flash. Harry couldn't blame him; sometimes he, too, felt uneasy when he saw something that reminded him of the Killing Curse.
He took his son's hand and pulled him closer as a second green light passed overhead.
"It's almost over, sweetheart," he whispered to Corvus as the last shots rang out.
Harry looked at his son—his face covered in glamour to resemble Harry's more than his own—searching for any sign that his unease stemmed from something other than the green light, but he already seemed calmer.
Harry was glad that Corvus didn't really care about Tadeus's death. The relief he felt when, upon hearing the news of his father's passing, Corvus merely smiled contentedly and went back to reading, was liberating; for a moment he thought he had been wrong to let a man his son cared about die, even though that man's fate had been sealed the moment he saw them and defied death with his offer.
Now, at last, it would be just the two of them in their beautiful country mansion. Although life with Tadeus hadn't been bad, one might even say pleasant, Harry would much rather live alone with Corvus; he was tired of him and his son having to tiptoe through life so that no one would suspect who the other father was.
Finally, after seven years living in this timeline, Harry would have all the peace and quiet he could wish for. Too bad about the megalomaniac who sought to take over the wizarding world, but he'd find time to get rid of him when Corvus started at Hogwarts, and then…
"I wanted to offer my condolences", a voice interrupted from Harry's right; it was soft, with a pleasant baritone that surged into his nervous system, demanding his full attention and ensuring he never looked away.
Harry didn't look at the man, firstly because custom dictated that he shouldn't look at anyone but his son for the next 90 days after his husband's death, and secondly because he had a faint suspicion that he knew who was speaking and didn't want to confirm it.
So he would ignore this interaction as much as possible and then pretend it never happened.
The way Corvus stiffened and tightened his grip on Harry's hand was just a very convenient coincidence, because it definitely wasn't him. He never attended the funerals of his soldiers unless they were part of his inner circle, and Harry was certain he would remember Tadeus boasting about his rise among his lord's followers.
Yep, this man was a complete stranger, nothing like the Dark Lord himself—and if Harry glanced at his son to make sure the glamour was still there, that was also pure coincidence.
"I accept your condolences, sir", Harry said in the flattest voice he could muster to mask his unease. If anyone noticed anything odd about his behavior, they could easily attribute it to the grief weighing on his soul. It wasn't as if Vold—no, it wasn't him—the lord would notice his unusual behavior upon his arrival.
"It's a shame when someone so young dies prematurely and leaves behind their spouse and young child."
Harry wasn't going to say another word.
The man continued, moving a little closer to Harry's personal space.
Corvus's hand began to tremble.
Harry wouldn't look at the man.
"If you need anything, anything at all, you can ask me." The baritone, so close to his ear, sent shivers down Harry's spine. "Your husband was a great servant to my cause, and I'm sure he would be honored to know that his lord is looking after the well-being of his widower and son." The man sounded somewhat arrogant as he said this, as if it were a great achievement even to have the opportunity to breathe the same air as him, and as if you were reaching heaven itself simply by being under his protection.
Cause? What cause? Harry didn't know anyone leading a blood supremacist cause in which his husband was involved. What was this man delusional about?
The non-Voldemort seemed somewhat lost, given his lack of reaction to the not-so-subtle display of his position in the pure-blood social hierarchy—not just anyone could boast of having upper-class, noble-born servants, after all—and he leaned a little closer to Harry's ear to whisper something else.
"And Lord Voldemort doesn't make this offer to just anyone, Mr. Evans."
Great. Now how was Harry going to feign ignorance about the man's identity?
Still staring at his husband's grave, and gently stroking Corvus's hand in small, hopefully comforting circles, Harry deigned to reply to Voldemort.
"I appreciate your kindness, sir, but my husband made sure we had everything we needed, whether he was alive or dead, so I couldn't accept it."
Voldemort remained unnaturally still. Harry could feel the force of his gaze pressing against the side of his face, demanding attention, but he still didn't look at him.
A strong breeze arose over the grave. It was a sunny spring day, and until now, not a single breeze, not even the slightest, had stirred the leaves on the trees or the grass growing among the graves, not to mention the unusually cold temperature of this wind, unnerving for the almost summery season.
If Harry had still wanted to doubt the man's identity, this display of nonverbal, wandless magic had dispelled that doubt. The cold wind carried Voldemort's characteristic magic in the air, shattered like its master's soul. It tried persistently to entangle itself in Harry's veil and send it flying away from his face, but, in an equally impressive display of power, Harry's magic, as stubborn as he was, stuck the veil to his face and prevented it from being blown away.
The wind blew harder, but it didn't even begin to reveal a fraction of the grieving widower's face.
"I think I'd better leave," Harry said so that all the mourners in the front rows could hear him. "This changeable weather isn't good for my son's health."
And as the wind and Voldemort's magic seemed to entangle Harry with increasing force, trying to keep him there, he pulled Corvus along and began walking toward the Apparition point.
All the while, Voldemort's gaze was fixed on the back of his neck.