"Mr. Potter, where's Bella?" Narcissa ventured to ask, now privy to the new details of the young man's character and identity.
"She's asleep. I figured, for the sake of my own sanity and her mental well-being, she shouldn't hear what we're about to discuss," Potter replied casually, meanwhile enjoying some soup made by the elf. "Just let me finish eating. I can see you've both already eaten, but I, on the other hand, have had nothing but alcohol since Azkaban."
About ten minutes passed in uncomfortable silence for the Malfoys. During that time, the man who seemed to be Voldemort calmly savored the elf's culinary talent, as if he weren't sitting in such a tense atmosphere. But what did he care? He'd eaten under worse conditions—he only had to recall certain American shamans who'd discovered Tom was English, and how fresh their memory of colonization still was.
Dabbing his mouth with a napkin in a genteel manner and setting aside his bowl, which vanished immediately, Harry suddenly relaxed, as if someone had pulled out an aristocratic spine from within him. He leaned back in his chair and summoned a bottle of cognac. This time, he simply felt like something stronger than wine.
Glancing at the lady, at the bottle, and thinking about the conversation ahead, he decided to relocate. Such a story would be better perceived in the right atmosphere, and he also wanted to sit in a comfortable armchair.
"Alright, let's go to the sitting room. The chair here is uncomfortable," he said.
The Malfoys exchanged glances and followed Potter, trying not to make unnecessary noises. Their new destination turned out quite atmospheric. Night had fallen outside, and the only source of light was the fireplace. The three wizards settled before it, Harry even decided to maintain a semblance of etiquette and conjured another cognac glass so he wouldn't have to drink straight from the bottle.
"Master, perhaps you'd like a cigar with your cognac?" Kreacher suddenly appeared and offered.
After a moment's thought, Potter nodded. Why not? Usually, one might pair cigars with whiskey, but the elf had caught the general mood just right. It wasn't about the details anyway. Anything that burned would do. He needed something smoldering to go with his alcohol, and technicalities were irrelevant.
"If either of you wants a drink, don't hesitate—interrupt. Nerves are a delicate thing and hard to restore," Harry said. "Let's begin with… my apologies. I'm a bit ashamed, specifically in front of you, because I was good friends with Abraxas Malfoy, your father, Lucius. He and I came up with and started developing our movement. It was supposed to be a political revolution. What competitors could an heir of one of Hogwarts' four houses have if he was supported by aristocrats, yet himself a half-blood raised in the Muggle world? Compared to the two radical factions—left and right—our party should have been a ray of hope for all halfway reasonable wizards. But… ten years of laying groundwork by your parents, forging international contacts by me, building personal power… and when our party finally emerged on the political stage, that moron Macnair—some zoo-fucker even worse than Hagrid—brought in dragon pox. He infected all our party members, and almost the entire older generation died," Potter paused, taking a sip of cognac and letting the blond family digest his words. Voldemort's serious tone, along with the heavy subject matter, made the Malfoys tense up and stare intently at the storyteller's face. Harry stared into the dancing flames, mentally absent, back in those days with his real friends, plans, ambitions… "Only their heirs remained, for the most part. A puffed-up 'golden youth,' sorry Malfoy, who grew up in a post-war circle with no proper upbringing, and who had only a vague understanding of what their parents were doing. And then you suddenly got obsessed with purity—like blood purity was everything. You were still teenagers. If I had tried to push the party line of equality and strength, you'd have turned away. So I had to devise a new plan quickly: set a conservative course first, and slowly steer away from radicalism as you matured," he paused again, lighting the cigar he'd been fiddling with. "But what happened, happened. I went insane, overdoing my pursuit of immortality. I got fixated on a fleeting position. To be honest, almost everything in our organization is just the product of my madness. Voldemort—that's just a foreign-sounding nickname they gave me in my later school years. Hardly anyone knew it. It was just some kind of coded, slightly whimsical moniker. I wasn't ashamed of my real name, contrary to what Dumbledore decided for whatever reason. And the name 'Death Eaters'? That's just stupid! The only thing dumber might be the 'Knights of Walpurgis'… who came up with that nonsense at some drunken party anyway?"
He got no response except silence and the sound of liquor being poured. The Malfoys, in a joint effort, poured cognac and drained their glasses quickly. It was not easy to accept that half of their life principles were madness, and the other half—some unclear combination of Malfoy upbringing or the enormous neglect their elders had shown them.
"What's wrong with the Knights of Walpurgis? It sounds like a noble name," Lucius asked more to break the awkward silence than out of real curiosity.
"You know Walburga Black? She's your aunt, right, Narcissa?"
"Well…" The woman thought for a second, "Yes. Sirius and Regulus's mother…"
"Damn, I shouldn't have mentioned that," Potter grimaced. "Right, we studied around the same time… She was a very beautiful girl but, how to put it gently… dumb as hell. No exaggeration. Stubborn and dumb, like an unholy mix of that unforgettably dim-witted Umbridge and some brick wall—but beautiful. Once I decided to conquer those Black depths, if you catch my drift. A closed faculty party, chatting, booze, and all the perks of teen gatherings. She was a tough nut to crack… or just really dumb. My subtle hints bounced right off her, so I tried another tactic: 'enlightening' her about our party's politics and making grand promises so she'd definitely give it up. I ranted about the Knights of Walpurgis, about Mudbloods… a lot of nonsense," seeing the shock on their faces, he continued. "But I got into her panties. Hey, don't judge me. I was seventeen, and everything seemed less serious. How could I know this nutjob would raise an entire generation of Blacks based on what I spouted that night?"
"And what about Bellatrix?" Narcissa asked, worried for her sister. "The same thing? Get in her pants and dump her?"
"What do you mean 'the same thing'? She more or less got into my pants, if we're honest. And how can you compare the fierce, intelligent, and utterly mad Bellatrix—who places only the 'Dark Lord' above personal power—to that stupid but well-endowed Nazi Walburga? They're completely different. No matter how you compare them, Bella wins out. Even physically, while Walburga was voluptuous, Bella is pure sex and fire. I'm sure that every male enemy who faced her began the battle with a hard-on… though they quickly forgot about it after a few spells. Pity she's insane, but who's perfect, right? By the way, while we're on the subject, in her mind something clicked and she refuses to recognize me as the Dark Lord. Let's not break that mental twist of hers because it's actually great! Otherwise, she'd fall back into a pit of madness and worship. Right now, she's almost normal," Harry smirked. "If only we knew why her mind is off-kilter. Two of the three sisters are perfectly sane, but something's off with her from birth. Could be, but unlikely. I did nothing to her, I can say with certainty. She joined my ranks already unhinged about me. The questions are: who, how, and why? We'll discuss that later. Now let's return to the bigger political picture."
They paused as the Malfoys refilled their glasses with cognac. It was already their third full glass, and they gulped it down like tea. Well, that was their business. As long as they listened carefully.
"Anyway, back to the main story. The deeper into the forest, the more wood gets chopped. Year after year, I lost more of my mind. I lost all emotions, desires, needs. I was left with only one stupid, impossible goal: 'Destroy all Muggles.' And my broken brain took some ridiculous roundabout paths to get there. After all, I'm no psychologist, just a middling mentalist. Granted, in England, there's likely no one better at mind arts than me, but still… What was I saying? Right—so I have no idea how my thoughts formed or through what triple fuckery of dogs they reached my mouth and then you. Now about my current body. I have absolutely no clue who I am. Maybe I really am just Potter with Riddle's memories, but to be honest, more likely I'm Tom Riddle who somehow ended up transplanted into the baby Potter. And I won't attempt to explain my conflict with myself. My existence is a colossal precedent, hard to compare to anything. It's simpler not to overthink it. And that's how we got here. Let's take a pause. I'll answer your questions and also go to the toilet."
Rising, Potter took a few seconds to steady himself. The alcohol hit harder than expected. He hoped the Malfoys weren't vegetables yet. Emotions likely fueled their resilience.
In truth, he didn't need the toilet as badly as he needed to give them some time to process the key points. But not too long. Otherwise, they might come up with unnecessary questions, and he wanted to sleep.
On the way, he decided to peek into the bedroom where Bellatrix slept. He didn't need any problems if she woke up and overheard something. He truly didn't know what to do with her. If he said he was the Dark Lord, that would be a disaster. If he didn't, there'd be questions. She was a puzzle. The main question: what to do about her?
Bella slept in a lotus position—probably a habit from Azkaban. Of course, if he'd knocked her out with a crude "Petrificus Totalus," she'd be sprawled like a puppet with cut strings. But he'd merely cast a somnolence charm during their lovemaking. Combined with alcohol and fatigue, it knocked her out solid for about eight hours. Still, better safe than sorry. He'd survived too often on luck alone, whether as Potter or Riddle.
Entering the bathroom, Harry's suspicions were confirmed.
"Yeah, the bathroom's fucked," he noted. "Good thing I'm a wizard and the aftermath of wild sex can be removed with a couple of spells."
After handling his business and double-checking Bella was still asleep, Harry returned toward the sitting room, suppressing some unnecessary tenderness toward his softly snoring lover. Entering, he saw the two fairly tipsy aristocrats still whispering about something. They fell silent as he approached, but he didn't dwell on it.
"Alright, I'm ready for your questions," the wizard said, flopping down into his armchair.
"What was wrong with the policies we… I mean, with how we treated Mudbloods?" Lucius asked a pertinent question.
Harry didn't rush to answer. He lit a new cigar, taking his time to figure out how best to convey the idea to the somewhat inebriated aristocrat, who was steeped in his own worldview.
"How can I put this… Everything, Lucius. Everything was wrong. Start with this: how many children do you have? And your aristocratic acquaintances? Usually one, very rarely two. The Blacks were once a huge clan, feared and their word weighed more than the Ministry's official stance. Now? Just a few women who married into other houses, and Bella, who was a Lestrange and is now a Black again. That's it. Same with almost all pureblood houses. When their heirs marry again, the Greengrass name will vanish. Parkinson, Davis, and many others too. We're simply dying out. Do you know why? Because of a policy that originated before Grindelwald's time, when no one considered demographic issues like we do now. Each family had dozens, if not hundreds, of members, and they felt superior. Where did that lead? To where we are today. If we don't abandon the doctrine of blood purity and return to the doctrine of personal strength, soon all wizards will become little more than Muggles with a convenient gadget—a wand—to tie shoelaces or pick their noses," he snorted. "Even Albus Dumbledore didn't like how things were going. But all he could do was invest his limited resources in Hogwarts. Aristocrats cut funding to the school, because Merlin forbid Mudbloods get the same education as them. So guess what happened? People ended up not learning much at home either. 'We'll outsmart the system, teach them at home, and only gather at Hogwarts for connections.' Fantastic plan. And how much were your children taught at home? Exactly. Fucking nothing."
Harry paused to take a drag of his cigar and empty his glass. Narcissa took the opportunity to ask a question:
"What is this doctrine of blood purity and personal strength? I've never heard of it."
"It's simple. The first is the modern European wizards' position: 'The purer your blood, the better you are,' no matter the circumstances. The second is a very old rule that more or less still persists de facto. After all, I ruled as a half-blood, didn't I? It's even simpler: if you are stronger, you are right. You could be the spawn of a mermaid whore gang-raped by a centaur, an elf, and the Loch Ness monster—but if you are stronger, you are, by Merlin, right. As I said, it still lingers on an instinctive level. Who were our top dogs? Dumbledore and Voldemort—two of the strongest wizards on this damned island. The idea is to apply this principle broadly, not just occasionally. Introduce it gradually, so that strength and skill matter more than blood. Unless you disagree? I'm open to debate. It's time you got to know the real me and understand why I was the leader," he finished somewhat smugly, the alcohol clearly affecting him.
"But Mudbloods come to our world and…" Malfoy began his usual argument.
"Lucius, for Merlin's sake, I'm the one who fed you that nonsense. Don't repeat it back to me. Think with your supposedly clever head. What must we do to help young children understand this is a different world, where their familiar Muggle norms are rubbish? Right, integrate them sooner and explain things, revealing what is obvious to locals—like paying the so-called 'slave' elves. By the way, that's nearly the first point in our future political campaign. Not paying elves, of course. Any other questions?"
"No matter what I say, you seem to have an answer," Lucius said somewhat pitifully.
"Of course I do. I convinced your father and many others who were much more firmly set in their blood purity nonsense. And I did it as a teenager, when neither head was thinking straight, and hormones were raging. Going through adolescence a second time, I understand that chaos even better now."
"But why is the first doctrine considered Nazism, and the doctrine of strength is not?" Narcissa asked naively.
"When you put people down for something they're born with, that's Nazism. When it's about their upbringing, strength, and such, it's not Nazism because a person can change, improve, and realize where they're wrong. It's stupid to oppress someone for something they cannot change about themselves. Understand?"
They both nodded, somewhat embarrassed. It seemed Malfoy didn't fully grasp these terms, but he caught the gist well enough.
"Merlin, I feel like I'm lecturing wayward parents," Harry thought, rolling his eyes mentally and downing his cognac in one gulp, immediately refilling it.
"Alright, I think that's enough of a brief historical overview. Are you still able to take in more information, or should we meet tomorrow morning to discuss everything? I warn you now: Lucius stays here, and Narcissa goes home. Your manor will be turned upside down any day now, and Draco needs to be warned. Or shall we just power through everything tonight until I've brought you fully up to speed?" Potter asked. "We have about two more hours, then everyone goes home."
"Let's get it all over with at once," the blond man decided after exchanging looks with his wife. "I suspect tomorrow will be busy enough."
"Good choice. Then slow down on the alcohol. The story ahead is no shorter…"