Sometimes Harry was prone to tossing and turning.
Night's clutch was ruthless and unforgiving, promising always the long restless drag of pitch-black wakefulness. His body was unable to get comfortable, unable to keep his eyes shut even with yawns so wide tears fell from them. They stained his pillow, leaving it damp and wholly unpleasant. As though he needed a reason, or to try any harder, to lose sleep.
With a sigh, Harry wasn't surprised to find himself in that state once again this evening. His reluctance to use dreamless sleep had only held firm by the sheer inability to make a halfway-decent potion himself. His ever-faithful (and surely disapproving of potion addictions) house-elf made it impossible to purchase them elsewhere, and Harry had tried one too many times to smuggle them away from Kreachers' keen eyes. He swore the elf had the nose of a bloodhound. Nothing got passed him.
On nights such as this, Harry would hazard an attempt to reach out to Ron or even Sirius if it was early enough. He couldn't simply lull to sleep with a long talk, but the comfort and warmth of their soothing voices made it a near thing. So he cast a tempus and—
Frowned when he saw a bleak 02:46.
All right, so Hermione or Remus it was. They were most likely to still be awake with their head in a tome, after all, but they were also a riskier bet. Their concern outweighed the potential for a relaxing conversation. It was always harder to admit what was happening when confronted with Hermione's nervous nail-biting and 'Oh, Harry...'s, and Remus' worried frown and soft eyes.
But with his hand halfway to the floo jar, Harry paused.
There was…one other person.
Someone who kept odder hours than Hermione, Remus, or even Harry himself. In fact, he was nearly certain this particular person never slept at all. But there was no way Harry could just floo call this late at night, right? That would be outrageous. No one but his family or friends would answer him this late and—
I do not have friends, Harry.
And they weren't friends at all, but—
But Harry was calling out, "Slytherin Manor," before he even realised it.
In the broken haze of what could no doubt only be described as the prelude to his inevitable demise and undoing, Harry felt like an idiot. The green-licking flames of floo fire were never warm or scorching, but his embarrassment lent a hand to be a mimicry of its sibling's blazing red-orange heat.
What in Merlin's name was he thinking?! People didn't just call up Voldemort! People didn't just call up the Dark Lord. Harry vaguely realised the sort of double standard he was encouraging, considering Voldemort could damn well call up whomever he wanted whenever he wanted and had done so to Harry now more times than he could count. But! That was clearly different!
Right?
Harry thought back, thinking of Voldemort's claims of checking in on his Horcrux and the shoddy attempt at hiding his desire to simply check in on Harry, that they were. And was once again reminded of that Christmas they had spent together under the guise of ministry paperwork, Voldemort's need for company (and maybe just Harry's company—but he wasn't ready to think on that quite yet) rivalling his own.
So maybe Harry wouldn't get cursed— or worse, laughed at— in the face of his attempt to reach out. Maybe Voldemort wouldn't even answer.
"Harry?"
Fuck.
"Hi," Harry started. Voldemort's head didn't appear in the flames, so Harry assumed he must have answered from a distance. Maybe he caught the call by chance? Honestly, Harry had never gotten over his surprise that he even had access to Voldemort's floo. How many people could say that?
I do not have friends, Harry.
Fine. It was a dumb question, Harry knew. But the pleased (scary) feeling in the deep of his stomach didn't lessen with the acknowledgement, even if it was for a ridiculous reason that only Voldemort would think up. Something like giving Harry open floo access because he didn't trust Harry to protect himself. As though Harry Potter, the-boy-who-lived (one title of many), would inevitably be under attack one day, and Voldemort just expected him to floo on over no big deal so the big scary Dark Lord could protect his Horcrux.
"Harry," Voldemort repeated, exasperated. How many times had he called Harry's name?
Harry, still sort of distracted by his thoughts, replied, "Yes?"
"Did you call to sit here in silence, or did you have something to say?" Voldemort questioned. And really, it was a good question because Harry wasn't sure. Sometimes that's what they did, Remus or Hermione, when the questions (interrogation) ended, and they were simply left with the desire to keep Harry company. To not let him feel lonely while trapped awake and unable to rest.
"I…" Harry thought long and hard about what he would say— should say, "called to say hi." He hit his forehead with the flat of his palm and dragged it down over his face. Clearly, not long and hard enough.
There was an eerie pause, and Harry wondered if that was that. Voldemort probably silenced his floo and carried on doing… Well. Whatever it was he did at 3am, and Harry would have to suffer the embarrassment of this moment on top of his inability to sleep.
"Move," Voldemort's voice suddenly sounded much closer.
"What-" Harry started backing away, scooting on his rump and using his arms to help pull himself as the floo flames rose to an impressive height. He had the startling realisation of what was happening just seconds before Voldemort appeared through the fire.
Unsurprisingly, Voldemort didn't use the floo like any normal person. He did not arrive coughing or soot-covered or with the air of pretentious flawlessness that a wizard trained in the fine art of fire travel since birth would have. But he did arrive with an easy sort of controlled grace. Like the flames and bricks of the hearth would never dream of making his travel anything less than prompt and efficient. Or like his magic would only allow total obedience and mastery over something even as simple as floo travel— actually, that last one seemed most accurate.
Harry just knew that if he'd attempted the same, he would have wound up face down on the floor, maybe in another country. Anyway, all of these runaway thoughts were doing an outstanding job of distracting him from the fact that Voldemort was once again in his home and that Harry's response to this unexpected visit was to continue sitting on the floor in his pyjamas and look up at him in startled shock.
Voldemort kneeled on one leg and carefully examined Harry's face. Finally, he leant back and tilted his head once satisfied with his thorough appraisal. "You are not drugged," he said.
"What?" Harry asked again and spluttered out, "Why would I be drugged? Who would drug me?"
Voldemort seemed to give the question some serious thought, "You are impervious to the Imperius, and I can think of several ways someone could get you to ingest, touch, or inhale an unknown substance. As for the why and who, would you like a list?"
Harry glared and summoned his glasses—which he immediately regretted because now Voldemort's face was right there in front of him in clear, perfectly crisp quality. Being this close to him should be very illegal. Harry couldn't pinpoint when he'd started to get so jumpy around Voldemort, but it felt like a recent development in their strange…relationship.
Harry didn't think that was the right word. It was more like they were two planets that happened to share an orbit. Though that somehow seemed even worse. Maybe they were stars in the same constellation? Two bright gas giants like Castor and Pollux, mirrored but distinct.
He stumbled up onto his feet and looked down at Voldemort with his arms crossed as though the thin sleeves and his tight hold could shield him. "No. I'm good without a second opinion on who would like to kill or harm me." Although, Harry wouldn't be surprised to learn that that list was very real. "I guess I should have phrased my question different— why did you think I was drugged?"
Voldemort had that quiet amusement floating through their bond, the kind Harry couldn't spot without the liquid-like tingle that spread slowly in the very back of his mind. He gracefully stood, and Harry lamented the short life of his high ground.
"You floo called me at the notoriously potent witching hour, claiming you only wanted to 'say hi'." Voldemort's raised brows and pointed look said far too much with so little, "I have not lived this long on spite, Harry. I am reasonably distrustful of most unusual occurrences and feel it unnecessary to point out that this is highly unusual."
Harry would feel very embarrassed if he weren't hung up on the fact that, "You came over because you're a paranoid bastard and thought I was going to kill you?" He wanted to say he couldn't believe Voldemort would think that, but it would be a lie. Of course Voldemort would think that. Of course.
"No, Harry. I came over because I'm a paranoid bastard and thought you were sent to distract me as an outside force readied itself for a full-on strategic attack on my manor or through your floo connection." He paused as if to let that sink in and continued, "It is what I would have done."
Crazily enough, that answer was better. And Voldemort smiled teasingly, probably feeling Harry's relief—if it wasn't already clear as day on his face—and added, "Alas. You appear to be yourself. So to what do I owe this call, Harry?"
Harry sighed, a grin fighting its way onto his face. "I really did just want to say hi, you know."
Voldemort hummed, unconvinced, "And I attend wizengamot meetings for the scintillating conversation and their prompt effectiveness at passing completely reasonable, not at all biased, bills. Do we plan to exchange blatant lies all evening?"
"Well," Harry faux pondered, "considering it's early morning, I think we can skip all that." Then he turned, walked out of the parlour, and waved a hand over his shoulder, "Come on. If you're going to be annoying, then at least have the decency to do it over tea."
The amusement pooling in the back of Harry's head was much louder now. As he set about starting the kettle— and kept one eye on Kreacher, who looked about ready to keel over at the sight of (not only Harry doing anything for himself but) Voldemort sitting one leg crossed over the other at the kitchen table— and picked out two large, proper mugs, Harry debated over what to tell Voldemort.
How did one explain restlessness to someone who didn't require rest? How did Harry go about breaching the topic of nightmares and phantom pains to the person responsible for half of them? Harry didn't think it fair to place that burden on Voldemort now. Especially with how different he was and how hard he was trying to be better. Be more.
Harry was pretty sure he didn't even hold it against Voldemort anymore. It'd be like reprimanding a puppy for something it had done over a week ago. Or, in this case, trauma dumping all the bullshit a murderous dark lord had done to him on the very same dark lord who was incredibly insane at the time of inflicting said trauma.
The kettle whistled, and Harry finished up preparing their tea the way they liked it. Harry's, with a small amount of milk, and Voldemort's, who simply preferred a spoonful of honey. Though, he rarely allowed himself the delight for some odd reason. Harry figured he thought it was some misguided show of weakness and kind of wanted to strangle that out of him.
With mugs finally placed and Harry comfortably sitting in the chair closest to the still-warm stove, Voldemort spoke. "Your thoughts are buzzing like Cornish pixies. I cannot say I personally have ever felt so… indecisive," he sipped his tea slowly. Harry wondered if all of Voldemort's careful pauses were intentional or if they all held such gravitas because it was—well, because it was Voldemort. "Harry?"
Harry tilted his head, confused, and said, "Yes?" It wasn't like he hadn't been listening. It was very rare that Harry found himself distracted from Voldemort; if he ever was, it was typically by a Voldemort-related train of thought. So that hardly counted.
Voldemort's silence transition to something thoughtful. "I tend to be singular with my curiosity of you. This results in my insistence on answers, prying them out of your mouth because I cannot pry them out of your thoughts." Harry clung to each slow spoken word with his complete focus but sorely wanted to laugh. They both knew that if Voldemort were determined enough, he'd easily be able to get anything he wanted out of Harry. "All of that to say you need not answer my questions at once, but you do need to answer them. Fortunately for you, I am a patient man."
Harry laughed, "Are you going to sit here and wait around all morning, then?"
"If I must." Voldemort looked very serious. Harry was almost flattered.
"Even if I don't tell you anything?"
Voldemort's face screamed how doubtful that was, but he replied, "Even then." Damn, Harry was definitely flattered.
After tossing his thoughts back and forth a few more times, Harry safely said, "I couldn't sleep."
Voldemort stayed silent, probably expecting Harry to continue on. He shrugged, "That's really it. I couldn't sleep." But Voldemort was far too good at waiting Harry out and simply sat across from him, quiet and intense, elbows on the table and eyes locked to Harry's own as he squirmed and eventually caved.
"Fine! This has been an ongoing thing. I've been dealing with something like insomnia for a while, I guess, and usually, I call up Sirius or Ron, but after a certain hour, they're both out cold. So that leaves Hermione and Remus, who are great and kind and just so concerned, and I didn't want either of them to sit there and look so worried and disappointed and—" Harry took a deep breath to cut off his longwinded spiral. Voldemort was looking at him with a sudden understanding, and Harry could almost hear the 'Ah' like it was said aloud. "And…and I know you don't get much sleep either. So…" Harry trailed off.
Voldemort gave an understanding nod, and for a second, Harry thought he would make a small throwaway comment, something like a joke. Harry even felt the start of it bubbling through their bond, but that now familiar amusement faded into something softer. Something Harry couldn't quite put a name to. Even though their connection was always so much stronger when they were closer together.
"You are welcome to spend your evenings and early mornings with me, Harry," Voldemort quietly murmured. And his eyes were much darker in this light, the red hardly noticeable, appearing almost like a warm spiced brown. Almost like a steeped tea. "You are always welcome…and to much more than that."
And you are so much more.
What could Harry even say? How could he reply to that? Did Voldemort hear how that sounded? Did he even realise? Harry's heart felt like it had stopped beating, but also like it was beating so hard it could cause tremors to the earth. Was he shaking? Was his house shaking?
Voldemort stood, and with a quick flick of his wrist, his and Harry's mugs floated delicately away. He took Harry's chance to reply with them. "Let's adjourn to my manor and talk more there. I have documents needing some minor attention that I wish to finish, and I see no reason we cannot kill two snidgets with one stone, so to speak." Voldemort sighed before adding, "Nagini has also been rather persistently asking after you. She would enjoy your visit."
Harry's strained laughter didn't seem to phase Voldemort as he held out his hand to help Harry up. And thank Merlin for that. Harry didn't think he could move even if his life depended on it. Maybe Voldemort had cast a jelly-legs jinx while Harry was gazing into his eyes, petrified.
Harry took Voldemort's hand and at once startled at his warmth. Voldemort ran cool on a good day and downright icy normally. Harry suspected the hot drink couldn't have lingered this long and wondered if Voldemort had cast a charm on his hand after noticing Harry's slight chill. His small reluctance to leave the cosy heat radiating from the stove lessened, and he held Voldemort's hand a little tighter, a little longer than he probably should have.
Time slowed for just a moment when Voldemort appeared almost surprised by Harry's grip. His eyes caught and lingered on their held hands (and with a softness Harry really should be used to by now—maybe even come to expect); Voldemort ran a slow, exploring thumb over the back of Harry's knuckles. He traced their small peaks and valleys over and over until he finally rested his attention on Harry's ring finger. He dragged one long line down it as he released Harry from his hold.
Then without a single word, Voldemort trailed out of the kitchen, looking back only once to tilt his head and motion for Harry to follow.
And what else could Harry do but follow? Voldemort had taken with him Harry's heart, after all. Stole it right from his chest with a simple touch.
Harry wasn't sure he wanted it back.