Savior In Black Robes
Wait. Just wait for him to get here. He’s waited for safety for Merlin knows how long now, and he can’t wait a little longer? It’ll be alright. Voldemort will get here soon. He said so. Don’t bother him too much.
Ring.
The doorbell. Is that him? Will Petunia answer? She has to. She doesn't know it's Voldemort.
Footsteps. A sigh from his aunt, most likely putting on her guest face. The door creaking open slowly.
“Hello! How-”
SIlence. What did he do? He said not to kill them! No no no…
More footsteps. Slowly coming to his place under the stairs until they reach right in front.
“Harry.” Despite everything else being muffled, his voice was clear. “Is this where you’ve been residing?” He can’t respond, but he doesn’t need to. His cupboard door opens. “By Merlin’s beard, you look horrid.” Red eyes burn into his own, a stark contrast to the pale, snow white skin of the man who bears them. “I suppose I should have expected it, with all you said, however I did not come believing you’d be in…such a state.”
Long, spindly fingers reach out to touch the boy’s sad, caved in cheeks. An experimental touch, one to see if Harry truly is the way he looks. The man sighs as the boy flinches weakly, causing him to hack and cough, providing more pain.
“Harry. I don’t intend to hurt you…as of this moment, at least.” He adds on as a second thought. “I’ll be bringing you home with me. Calm yourself.” His voice is as soft as he can manage, doing his best to soothe the shaking boy. “I assure you, it will be alright.”
Voldemort scoops Harry into his arms, carrying him bridal style as gently as he can. The boy whimpers, but doesn’t, or is unable to, fight him. Harry closes his eyes at the light that burns him now that he’s fully submerged in it after being in the dark for so long. Now that he can see, however, he notices his aunt, laying on the floor. Not dead, but stunned. Thank god.
“I do not believe you well enough to floo, nor appariate, as such we will be walking.” The pale man says in a monotone voice as he begins making his way out of the home, stepping over the petrified woman laying on the floor.
Harry wants to say something, anything really. A thank you, maybe, but his throat is so dry even his whimpers and whines from pain sound like he’s eaten glass, so he chooses to remain quiet. He lays his head against Voldemort’s chest, and closes his eyes. Rest is unavailable to him right now, with how much pain he’s in, but he can try.
He can try.