propriety by ToAStranger
Summary:
The absolute, absurd relief he feels upon seeing Harry enter the ballroom is practically its very own brand of illicit potion-- even if he's being escorted on his godfather's arm.
It nearly has him stepping forward, stepping away, from the insipid sycophants talking his ear off. Only propriety stops him.
Just the sight of him, in the robes Voldemort sent, is enough to relieve him of the pounding headache he's had since arriving. And, as he draws nearer, the scent of him adds to the soothing balm of his presence.
"Good evening, my Lord," Harry says.
Words: 3k
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