A cooling vacation

Dawn was barely able to drag itself over the lavender hued sky when Voldemort tried and failed to rouse Harry deep in her slumber to the land of living. 

Bubbling headache built up like a storm to the forefront of her mind as soon as the sleeping spell bursted. It hit the shore with a thunderous wave, crashing and raging a war with the serrated rocks. Tousled hair and dishevelled night dress, Harry groaned into her pillows, refusing to get out of bed before nine.

Having met her objection, his soft hushed voice leaned in. Hot breaths grazed the curve of her ear as steady hands peeled away the blankets she hoarded the night before. Harry was bared as an orange under. The thin translucent albedo layer draped over her tanned golden skin. A grunt starved off at the back of his throat, she could feel the heat of his gaze wandered over her body. The egg shell coloured undergarment left nothing to image as a flush of arousal echoed back in her head. If it wasn’t hers then it must have come from Voldemort, who took an awful long time to calm down his racing blood pressure. Harry was a tad bit of concern for his cardiovascular health. 

His cologne brushed over her shoulders through burning palms, branding a blush in shades of vermillion on her skin. A heavy smoky scent it was, tasted like dark magic and burnt tangerine’s skin as it rippled in the air. Harry could catch his aftershave at a second whiff. A clean fresh smell emanated in the crease of his knuckles.

Heat settled over her body like a lover’s charm.

Despite the tempting warmth, Harry turned her face away from the liquid amber light streaming from the windows. The room crooned a lullaby of a working pipe system and cooling charm. Half-form thoughts about how it was too early to deal with Voldemort pulsed in her head then faded back into the realm of shadow. She was too tired to argue. Folding her limbs into a bundle of flesh and silk on the king size bed, Harry vied for the discarded duvet like vines to sunlight to shield her muddled vision. A mess of curls doused in perfume from last night’s rendezvous was the only thing to be seen under the duvet. The silver stitches scratched the skin of her cheeks. Her head was made of concrete instead of flesh and Harry couldn't find the motivation to get up early. 

All was said and done and she was dozing off again on the ruffled bed cover.

Summer assaulted her senses when his magic tugged the windows wide open. Thick humid air pilfered through every nook and corner, every crease on the blankets and every pore on her body. She let him push the cover aside.

Patting up and down her back to get Harry wake up before the songbirds did, Voldemort seemed to be in a good mood as he gingerly picked her up. She didn’t know where he sourced the endless patience to endure her but she wasn’t about to complain. The man toppled over and both of them fell back into that mindless haze. At least Harry was when he failed to pick her up because she tossed and twisted away from his embrace, he sighed dejectedly, patted his knees and tried again.

It wasn’t long until he ditched all attempts and she resumed her sleep. Voldemort smoothed out his dress shirt and went to the main sitting room in the suite to bark out his orders on something. Harry heard of rusting fabrics and hurried footsteps. Turning to the other side, hugging the spare pillow, his, to her chest, she couldn’t be more careless.

Fifteen minutes more of undisrupted silence, the sweet scent of baked bread and piping hot tea woke her up eventually. More effective than ten Voldemorts combined. He figured from the years of subconsciously learning her habits that he might as well have tempted her with food rather than wasting his breaths and energy hauling her up like a sack of potatoes from under the comfortable blankets and fluffy pillows.

Nothing could beat her affinity for sleep but nonetheless, Harry found herself cracked an eye open. She moved not an inch from her position, merely peered up angrily from under the cover with her audacity. 

As if feeling her ire, Voldemort turned his head and pressed his thin lips into a cheeky smile. Staring at the silhouette of the man sitting in front of the open balcony, her eyebrows jarred into a frown. She didn’t like it that he hit the nails on the head without lifting a single finger. Sunlight blurred out his features, washed out the dark eyebags from sleepless nights working overtime and magnifying all of that was beautiful. The sharp shadow under his cheekbones. The hooded eyes. The masculine forehead. The roman nose with a slight bump when he tilted his head the right way. A vague disapproving noise bubbled up from the back of her throat. It oddly sounded like a curse. Harry hated that she couldn’t hate him.

He was having some thoughts in that pretty head of his.

Like making fun of her. Like finding how to rub his triumph on her face. Whatever it was, Harry didn’t like it. Squinting her eyes, she mumbled incoherence when he smiled into the rim of his tea cup.

Big pretty hands, long fingers and finely shaped nails smoothed last night's edition of the Daily Prophet. Don’t ask how Harry saw that. She just squinted real hard and hoped she looked annoyed enough. Harry knew she should stop staring now before it was too late. Her neck groaned out in distress. But it was already too late.

The glorious sight of an older Tom Riddle with greying hair speckled at his temple burnt a brand into her brain permanently, pressed dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up neatly to show wiry forearms, tanned with the Mediterranean sun the other week. He looked good and he knew it as he winked at her playfully. The ego. Harry rolled her eyes.

All that just to ignore her until she got up the bed and polluted the air with her morning breath. He cringed his nose, mouth curled down to a grimace. "Have some decorum, Harry."

"You married this." Harry proudly announced before shoving her way into his lap and shoving her tongue into his throat. Just a little prank to wipe the smugness off his visage. The newspaper crumbled in his trembling fists and disintegrated into ashes at the force of his shock between them. She could feel his throat convulsed and gagged at first before Voldemort got over the initial repulsion. 

Snickering into his mouth, Harry pushed his head back with her fingers entangled in his hair, and coaxed his hands to manoeuvre her thighs over his on the small chair. The metal wires armrest printed red welts into her skin.

Calloused fingers hoisted her up further on his lap behind the knees, clamouring under her scandalous night dress to feel hot flesh against flesh. They ran up and down the side of her ribs, so big that the thumb could stretch over and graze the globe of her breast. Harry shivered under the intense sun. It beat down the length of her spine, covered by the lingering trace of his cologne. They smoothed out the back of her nightdress, playing along with the knobs of her spine as if stringing up a song from a lyre. Voldemort spread his thighs, craning his head to receive her possession like one would receive communion bread. 

In the shade or under the bright light, he kissed her with the same vigour, head tilted to the side to deepen the kiss.

A soft warm shade of brown bled under her eyelids and then cooling grey when they swayed with a broken off rhythm. Harry wasn’t sure if it could be counted as a rhythm. Even with her eyes closed, she could still make out the board line of his shoulders. She ran a hand over the span of his collarbone. The pleased smile. Pressed against hers like a flower in pages of a book. The ruffled fondness. Cackled in his muffled grunt.

Desire spreaded out like jam on toast. Like a heatwave spilling over her nervous system.

Broken off the kiss, Harry leaned back just to get the sight of Voldemort chasing after her lips like a man in desert finding water, eyes fluttered open. The red of his irises deepened to wine, swirling around like thick honey. He scowled at her teasing. Reaching back for a cup of tea, he washed off the bitter tanginess of her saliva.

Dark hair dyed golden under the silky sunlight. She tugged on the stray tuft of hair on the back of his head just to hear his wince, to see the bruised rosy lips that curled back as if he was about to play on her pity and cry. Voldemort looked like, to Harry then, halfway there to beauty in the eyes of a beholder. A statue to be revered instead of a man of soft flesh and hot blood. Of thrilling nights and grim days. Harry liked it when he looked like he was about to cry. But she knew it was only for show. The red rimmed eyes. The puffy lips. The bunny pink blushes on his cheeks and nose. Harry guessed she wasn’t so far behind when he was awfully stiff under her. Voldemort was miserable as a  cat stuck with a pack of hyperactive golden retrievers. He reminded her of one also in his office.

Another big gulp down his throat and he went right back for a kiss, hand behind her head to secure Harry in his hold. His hips jumped up. Voldemort released short wet snippets of air through his nose. It stuck to her skin like a film of oil. Someone was getting a little too excited as his hands pushed her hips to grind against his pelvis. When he shifted to fumble with his belt, knuckles brushed against the seat of her panties, against that place between her legs, residual arousal flared up in her stomach and Harry knew she took it too far. Oh no. Her eyes shot open. She squealed. 

Without a goodbye kiss, she scrambled out of his grasp, slippery as an eel and ran off to the bathroom, laughing all the way in exhilaration.

Sharp eyes piercing through her, Voldemort threw his hands up in the air in frustration, cursing Harry with gritted teeth. His hair was as much of a bird nest as hers. Crossing and uncrossing his legs, he straightened his clothes, summoning another edit of the Daily Prophet, acting as if he wasn’t hard as rock under his dignifying pretence.

Leaving the door open, Harry shot him a grin through the mirror when she caught the shadow of his eyes through the window panel. A reflection of a reflection. Voldemort was absolutely worked up and it showed. Ridiculous. Humming under her breaths along with the chiming sound of chinaware and teaspoons, Harry eyed the tremble in his hands. Amusement clung to the bridge of her nose. She took in the calming ingredient of the incense faintly wafting in the corner of the adjacent hallway, connecting the bathroom with the bedchamber. 

The rush of blood in her head subdued with a splash of water. Harry bent over the golden marble countertop, submerging her hands in the cooling sensation, feeling his fussy magic clinging around her ankles. She didn’t want to know what was in the burning incense Voldemort picked out because her mind was getting loose like a screw, softened like bread dough under kneading hands. It wasn’t unlike the siren calls of the Imperius Curse. It was like cotton candy and bubbling champagne, things that shouldn’t be together but it felt right. 

Running water and the sound of it hitting each other and the porcelain basin, it drowned out the soft whispers of turning paper. Dark fleckers spotted on the front of her silk dress. It ran down her wrist, down her elbows and dripped on the floor beside her heels.

Hair pulled back, eyebrows in a permanent arch, Harry brushed her teeth in a hurry as the hunger in her guts grew bigger. She wanted to start her breakfast right away. When all was done and cleaned, she casted a tempus and drilled her anger into the back of his head through the mirror. It was barely past five and Harry wanted to throw a vase at his face. 

Too late to eat and then take a short nap. Too early to get on his nerves and his lap again.

"I know what you are thinking." He drawled out, not even bothered at the least by the homicidal urge that bled through the thin barrier that separated their shared quarter of a soul. It was probably worse if it came from his side. "Don’t. The vases here are very expensive. You can do it at home."

Harry dragged her temper like a corpse over the flooring, slumped on the table, hair a dark oil spill over his books and notes and quills.

A tired sigh passed through his nostrils, Voldemort brushed her hair away from his tea. "Get something in your system before we leave." He said, a silken voice grazed the nape of her neck, a pointer finger flipped through the papers. The warmth of the day soaked into her soles. Pink small toes curled on the carpet.

"To where?" She gave an inquiry noise, resting her head on folded arms.

"Doesn’t matter." It was as if Harry only needed to sit tight and look pretty and left the rest for him. She was mildly chaffed and flattered.

Voldemort had now reached the end of the weather reports, his cup of tea and her nerves all at the same time. Staring at his face until he stared back. Staring into the void and the void stared back. Harry kicked his shin under the table until he put down the papers and ate with her. Brat, he remarked under his breaths. 

And despite that, he nudged a piece of toast into her hand. A golden sheen of melted butter glazed on top of coppery brown bread, the fat and sweet scent of it made her mouth water. Loading up strawberries and hams, Harry brushed off his disapproving glances and scarfed down. She was positively famish and Voldemort should be grateful that she wasn’t eating chocolate with ham and his stomach lurched at the mere thought of it. His alabaster skin turned greyish green when Harry launched it into the atmosphere of his mind. The ballistic attack successfully invaded his territory and left behind the sticky distaste on the walls of his thoughts. He shuddered.

That was the death of his appetite. Voldemort rose to his full height and made his way to the wardrobe. The farer he got, the more closure his mind gathered. He had already dressed to the nines, polished oxford shoes, clean shaven face and ironed clothes compared to her bare feet, messy hair, and rumpled nightdress.

Of course the man had to put on a robe, traditionalistic bastard, she wrinkled her nose.

Having sensed her attitude, he regretfully put it back in the closet. Not without another wistful glance.

Summer was approaching its hottest weeks of the season and waistcoat buttoned, neck tied tight like a noose. It must have been a sensory nightmare. Spying in his head, learning of their destination, Harry spelled the tie loose, the waistcoat unbuttoned and the trouser magically turned tanned.

When met with his vengeful glare, Harry added. "We are not leaving for an official meeting nor a diplomatic exchange." And silence stretched out to an eternity while she chewed on her food and Voldemort fussed over something insignificant. Like his hair or hers.

It was oddly domestic to the point of nauseating.

After making a list and checking off his preparations, Voldemort turned his attention to her and asked if she wanted to wear something airy for the day. His velvety voice travelled over the bedchamber, over the rustled bedding and the pot of tea on the silver tray. Voldemort made her life seem so easy, so indulgent, so tempting with the leisureliness of a little life. She hummed in agreement.

The stative ray of light flickered to life. "I don’t care."

Harry never cared enough or she cared too much. Harry cared about a random stray cat on the street, about the state of her small world, about Voldemort and his sycophants.

There was a funny feeling tickled behind her ears as she watched his head half hidden behind the door, combing through whatever cluster fuck there was. After a long while, he spoke over the deafening silence, words smoothed out like a faint breath of air. "How about a nice dress over your slips?"

"My what?" Harry spluttered, dabbing the spilled tea from her chin. Suddenly becoming hyper aware of her clothes or the lack thereof, she tugged the hem of her dress down, crossing her legs at the ankles.

Raising an unimpressed brow at her antic, Voldemort repeated drily. "Undergarments."

"Sorry, heard that wrong."

"No you don’t." He offered a charming smile in return, a dimple pinched his left cheek, knocking the breaths out of her chest. Harry was about to comment on his nice voice until he ruined it for her.

Turning her head the other way, she sipped on her tea wordlessly, leaving him hanging there like a death row inmate on execution for the sake of pretended contemplation. Bloody Wizen robes and horrible (read: handsome) hair, Voldemort kicked off his oxfords and eggshell coloured socks for a pair of brown loafers to match with the trousers. That and he pilfered through their shared closet, looking for something. To be honest, if Harry had the energy to walk over and put her nose into their business, she would probably vote for a dress.

The summer weather was boiling and impeding Harry from even thinking of trousers.

And for an afterthought, Harry wondered how on earth could Voldemort survive in a formal suit and socks. He managed to not look sweaty and stuffy and in short, terrible. Just to knock him down a few pegs, she teased. "It better not be in white."

Metal collided with metal, Voldemort hastily put back a dress as if it burnt. It must be the sweetheart neckline one that Narcissa gave her last summer.

Watching him frisked over her closet was elite entertainment. 

"You have virtually nothing!" Voldemort argued his case. Harry had dresses but they were mostly white, cued to someone's preference (not hers) and never been worn before. Never to sympathise with a Dark Lord but Harry was deliberately tying his hands. 

She shot back, a flinty look hurled at him. "And you have too many ties."

Voldemort gave one look at the pile of dresses and moved on, mourning his defeat but not without the last pride-saving attempt. "Darling, which kinds are you referring to?"

A snort tumbled into her tea cup and Harry relented her effort in sabotaging him. Then, miraculously, he retrieved a few items for Harry. A cream satin pencil skirt. Sheer fabric blouse with dyed green flora patterns. Draped over his forearms. Long fingers hooked over the heel of her black-and-cream ballerina flats. Impressed, Harry regarded him with a slight approval. Voldemort officially had tastes. Not that Harry and her stupid collection of tattered tees had any says in this matter.

Voldemort waited with his forearms crossed in front of his chest for Harry to gobble up her ration of chocolate eclair and milk before hauling her out of the chair, having her as his personal human sized doll to play dress up with. He wiped her fingers, one at a time with a napkin, examined the berry pink skin, and covered it in kisses.

Suffering through the unnecessary torture, Harry squirmed and pushed his head away.

It took an eternity to dress Harry when the sugar rushed into her system and she wanted to go back to bed immediately.

One arm in each sleeve, straight collar remained unclasp. The embroidery of snakes and thyme bloomed around her neckline and cuffs, giving a subtle look for modesty. She sunk into mindless indulgence from him. It was like sinking into a warm bath. On one knee, Voldemort trailed the skirt up the length of her legs, up her hips and settled on her waist. Silently cursed the flimsy nightdress as it kept riding up, Harry absentmindedly buttoned her blouse and stuffed them into the waistband. His chaste peck to her stomach startled Harry and she gripped his shoulder for support. Finishing the look with a stained silver belt, he petted her calves, resting the side of his head to her hip.

"Creepy." Harry mouthed as he slipped her shoes on, hand clasped fully around her ankle. It was the general consensus that she would kick him in the face at any chances given.

Tiny courtyards and open sky well, the throngs of maids and butlers squeezed into the hallway. Harry plastered herself to the wall and held her breaths, hoping no one spared a second look. There was a heavy stone logged to the back of her head, thoughts weighted down every time she tried to shake herself awake as she waited at the backdoor of the hotel.

It was too warm to stay outside and too cold in the shade to not take a nap.

From somewhere so far away, Voldemort came to her rescue, manoeuvring their ways to the other side of the water fountain. An open door awaited them at the end. Its red paint and dark metal lock stood out in the surrounding sandy yellow bricks.

They had an extremely hot day ahead courtesy of the quick rising sun. She cupped her eyes and surveyed the sky for the greying clouds. A good downpour was needed to dispel this heatwave. If Voldemort planned to have a picnic then he had been infected with the cursed Potter luck or had an aneurysm in his head that meddled with his cognitive function. Fanning herself with a hand, Harry decided to keep her mouth shut while cursing him until Sunday when he put a cloak over her.

So from the door of the suite to the courtyard, she bore the heat as if bearing a child, in agony and loving embraces.

Hushed voices muffled from the back of the hallway but Harry casted it away like hurling her arms over the tabletop, dismissing all the small talks that lingered around her the curls of her hair and the green in her eyes. She didn’t quite understand why they had to use the deserted corridor to leave the hotel but she felt like a dirty little secret that Voldemort tried to shove under the rug and act like nothing when people asked, only to be brought out and used when times called for. Pressing her lips into a thin line, she buried the lower part of her face under the high collar, wanting to hide from the world.

She breathed in the familiar scent. Roasted chestnuts from last August intertwined between the seams, under the outer layer of the cloak. A frown marred shadow to her face.

A shiny black car drove to where they stood.

At first glance, its windows weren’t tinted but Harry had a feeling that magic would conceal them either way. The roaring engine persisted, humming with the bustling undercurrent activities of the Grand hotel. It urged Harry to hurry up and get in when her mind was half hanging with the cooing doves above, one foot hanging in the air as she ascended the three-step stairs. Those ugly adorable chubby birds marched and hopped on the cobblestone street, pecking and looking around with their unnerving red eyes. Harry saw him in every face she passed on the street and everything there was in life. 

A tender hand under her elbow, the other on her hip, Voldemort guided her to the car. The back door sprang open like the mouth of a viper and Harry dug her heels momentarily before taking a deep breath, taking a leap of faith. She picked up the hem of her robe and hopped inside before his hand lowered to the small of her back. So close.

The car looked like it came straight from the mid-century, a time capsulate. She tasted the sterile air inside, scrunched her nose at the scent of wealth that none of them grew up with. As the last saving grace, tied to the rear mirror, a bag of coffee beans swung with each reverberation of the engine. It comforted her to at least have something ruining the carefully cultivated aesthetic. Something authentic and real. The weak spot in an armour, a chink in the mask. When Voldemort shut the trunk and climbed into the seat, the tires rolled again.

Their chauffeur for the day was an enchanted pupper to fill in the empty driver seat. A guise for the automatic car. Interior warded to the teeth, extension charms put in place, her companion stretched his legs. The sound of his even breaths placed a peaceful pretence between them. Harry had a hunch that this placid air wouldn’t last for long because of how much of a workaholic he was.

She was very much content with pressing herself to the side of the seat, having as much space away from him as possible as he sucked up all the air inside the car with his 6’2 stature.

Window rolled down for air circulation, her migrain settled down, not without a fight as dark spots bloomed in her vision. Wind flickered through her hair, messing up the plaids as it barged in in waves and blasted away the humid sticky air. It went with a pulse. Harry muffled her pained groan with the back of her hand, nausea flunked back and forth in her guts. Sparing her a prodding glance, Voldemort left her to her own devices when she mumbled something and waved a hand in dismissal. She had never gotten motion sickness before. It must have been because of the tea before food, Harry winced, squeezing her eyes until white spotlets filled her vision. 

Further and further away from the heart of Paris, they passed through the intricate network of streets. Even with the window down, the ward kept out noises and honking car horns. All roads led to Rome then in Paris, all roads led to the Arc de Triomphe. Or at least a detour for Harry before they left the city of love.

In the most romantic city of the world, they were as romantic as haughty cats in a feud. Claws and fangs. Prowling strides and prolonged pain.

Drawn out like an ache.

Something flickered at the corner of the passenger seat and the corner of her eyes. When thin dirt green end whooshing back and forth like a cat’s tail, Harry reclined in her seat, treating the snake with as much caution reserved for Voldemort.

Nagini was too bloody big to consider safe on any occasion. Breathing in and out through her nose, trying to calm her racing nerves, Harry cradled her stomach, wanting the queasiness to die down. She was ready to tell Voldemort to let her out or she would vomit all over his expensive leather work or his lap, whichever closer. The snake perked her thick diamond shaped head over the headrest to greet her master, her slitted tongue flicked out, tasting the air and catching the scent on Harry’s hair. If the snake could whine, then Nagini must have done exactly so to cuddle in Harry’s lap.

There was no reason in this world for her to take a liking to Harry aside from their shared status as Voldemort’s Horcruxes. Shudders.

The number of times she tried to sneak in while Harry was taking a bath was frankly worrying. Harry was the least suspicious of his involvement to slither his way in her private moments, to be closer to her. Or that was something Voldemort liked. A fucking voyeur.

"No you will not." She shut down all alternatives with a growler.

That was the end of the discussion as Harry threatened to throw her out of the window. Cloak shrugged off, she sprawled the silky fabric over her thighs, knees pulled up and shoulders curled up, effectively blocking both Voldemort and his annoyingly affectionate pet, or pest, depending on whose view they consider. His or Harry’s.

The constant smothering rumble of car’s engine lured her deeper into slumber. A breath culminated in her lungs like snowballs, cold and clean like a stream of water. 

Expelled out in an equally even breath, her thought shimmered down and melted away.

Sleep claimed her before she was aware of its gentle embrace. Soft as if it belonged to a flower’s petals. Spread out and wrapped tight. Harry nuzzled her cheeks into the comfortable warmth.

She didn’t know how long they had been travelling, going somewhere, away from the suffocating air packed with cigarettes’ fumes mixed with men’s colognes and saccharine perfume in every corner of the room. The sun was steadily rising to its peak if she wasn’t wrong with the brown fleckers behind her eyelids. They were probably moving among fields of wheat, so very golden and sweet as the smell of fresh soil and lingering sap offered itself to her like a gift. The ringing in her ears faded. Safe and sound as if she was in her mother’s womb again. Nothing could reach her. Except the hand smoothing up and down her nape.

One of her arms hung around something thick like a tree trunk, she clutched the material, testing the folds between her fingers before a wave of embarrassment rendered her limp. She didn’t dare to breathe loudly.

Voldemort grunted, the vibration of his voice knocked against her skull. "Go back to sleep."

Fingers carding through her hair, the ghost of a kiss sat on her head, heavy as a crown. He simply hugged her tighter into his chest, shielding her away from the sunlight.

His thighs shifted, creating a valley for her to properly sit between them. Reddening ears betrayed her thoughts as Harry hid her face in the crook of his neck. A soft sound of metal colliding with wood and Voldemort pinched her ear, thumb grazing the lobe gently. She squeaked. It was the most indignant she had been after the corset fiasco. The rumble of his laugh sounded like that of a dragon.

Harry sneaked a peek through her lashes, surely that he could feel the flutter pressed to his throat. She eyed the retractable table full of files and envelopes. Muddy brown for bureaucracy forms waiting to be signed, pastel red for personal reports, and pale blue for something she hadn’t gotten her hand on to see yet. Voldemort rested his wrist on a floating slat of wood, a makeshift surface for him to write and work. Picking up the ink pen, he resumed fixing a draft, crossing a word, adding another, annotating a whole paragraph and chewing someone out. The sound of pen scratching papers lured her into false placidity. Her eyes closed again, ears tuned in to the flipping sounds as it cut right through the undercurrent air. Sharp and clean. She spied the shifts of muscles, the clinking glasses and the gulp of water against her ear. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down, the skin pulled taunt when Harry pressed her face to the reddened collar. It was as if she pressed her face to a piece of coal, burning with a vehement.

A sigh. She cuddled closer, frowning when the subdued cologne tickled her nostrils. Turning her face away, Harry grumbled, stirring relentlessly as if to annoy him for the sake of being annoying. It was a miracle that Voldemort was so lenient with her.

"Won’t you sit still?"

"I don’t like it here." She said, rubbing her eyes aggressively with whitened knuckles. "It’s distressing." Legs kicked back and forth, Harry squirmed, making Voldemort wrapped his arms around her knees and squeezed her into a ball of flesh and sinew. He rubbed his palm up and down the length of her back, knowing that he spoiled her for so long that it probably was his fault.

After a while his patience ran thin.

"Stop that," He reprimanded, thin lips curled back to show off those fangs. The whiteness of his enamel dragged a fine line on her cheek. "You are making it worse." Shifting back on the seat, he pushed her to sit on his knees. Cooling palm to her forehead, Harry huffed in satisfaction. She had been running with a fever for a while. "Where does this come from?"

"I don’t know."

"Must be that night dress." Muttering to himself, Voldemort casted a cooling charm to his handkerchief and a sticking charm to her forehead. Harry glared vengefully at him through the corner of her eyes.

"It’s not." She pouted, argued with a mouth thick of sleep and consonant.

"I will not argue with you any longer." Her cloak slithered out of her grip and folded itself under her bum. Harry made a noise to object before his withering glare stifled her anger.

Recently, her mood swung like a whip, worse than Voldemort and that said something. She wrapped her arms around his chest and squeezed, squeezing the air out of his lungs before resting her head on his collarbone, right above where his heart beated the loudest. Eyeing his work, Harry shuddered to think of working on vacation.

As if knowing that her curious nature had been piqued, Voldemort brought the table close, adjusting her head so that she could read. Not a second late, a groan escaped her lips as her brain skipped through the rows of words crammed together. He patted the side of her thigh in consolidation because one thing Harry despised more than night shift was doing paperwork. She curled further into his lap, shrinking away the mere notion of bureaucracy and the horror of work politics.

"It’s not that bad once you get the hang of it."

"No," She rubbed her forehead against his heartbeat, trying to erase the headache. "Why didn’t we use a portkey and save you some time for paperwork?"

"To enjoy the scenery of course."

"Bullshit."

"Language." He pinched her cheek, picking up his pen right after. To be honest, it was more of having Harry with him, the terrain was just the cherry on top. And Voldemort could live without those lovely cherries in his ice cream.

Endless fields of golden wheat surrounded them. Shooting through the meadow like needle over gold tapestry, the car was a moving black dot on beaten blue asphalt road. The shine of its roof reflected back like a moon. Harry was a speckle of dust in the world, incredibly insignificant when she sat on Voldemort’s laps. The world was so big and he felt even bigger when he enveloped her like a wrapper to a gift. She was a gift to him and someone would have to get through him, tear him to pieces before they could get to her. Wondering if this was a dream, Harry hummed a tune. Everything was a little hazy. The colours were overly saturated. And life seemed like a river slowly making its way through the mountains and the valleys, the meadows and the smooth curves of a plain.

Harry considered if she should get up and sit somewhere other than his lap or stay where she was because he was the cosiest seat there was.

"What time is it?"

Voldemort glanced absentmindedly to his watch. "Barely half past seven." He tilted his chin down, regarded her with a suspicious look. "Are you hungry?"

"No but my back complains."

"I think there should be a town ahead. We will take a break there." She grumbled a little. "Rest your eyes then."

Harry was a bundle of sleepiness that sat in his lap and she was quite pleased at how comfortable it was. She hoped his legs were dead by the time they got to the said town. Despite that her thoughts were practically writing itself, Voldemort harmonised with her tune, resting his chin on the top of her head, deep breaths wovened itself into her hair. She smelled like him. Like his.