Harry’s life was full of low days.
Since the war with Voldemort ended in a truce, admittedly, those days had lessened. For a while, Harry found himself breathing easier, waking up each morning lighter, and sometimes even found the will to peacefully drift off to sleep at night, not a single nightmare.
Yet always, the low days persisted.
Depression, Hermione had insisted. We should get you a mind healer. They’ll do wonders in helping you talk things out and foster natural coping skills that simply everyone has—
But Harry didn’t want people in his head. Voldemort already had a permanent little home dugout in there; hell, Snape was bad enough when he tried to teach Harry occlumency. There’s no way he’d put himself through anything similar.
So Harry did what he did best when the world became too much; isolated.
There was comfort and torture in his solitude with equal measure. Time was too abstract. Midnight and afternoon blurred until it was simply boiled down to: I’m awake now. He didn’t take visitors but allowed the occasional floo call and owl. He supposed that patronus counted as well since his wards couldn’t deflect them.
But there was only so long Harry could hide away before his status and the demands of the wizarding world came knocking.
Nothing was ever done. His opinion was always needed. And try as Harry might to siphon off responsibilities when people weren’t looking, they’d almost naturally work their way back to him. Like a damn boomerang, or better yet, a homing missile set on destroying Harry with its inevitable return.
He didn’t have the answers they were searching for, or at least never the right ones. And Harry was so used to being a disappointment that by now, he thought these small things wouldn’t get to him like this. Yet they always hurt in new and unexpected ways.
With a sigh, he cast another noise-cancelling spell on the floo, refreshing the old one. Harry was all too grateful that Grimmauld Place only had one connection, given its age and state of disuse. And given Harry’s tendency to lose himself in personal projects, making him forget about the floo entirely. Very handy, that.
It was the perfect place to hole up even if over the years, people had started to realise this was where he scurried away to. Being one of the few Black Ancestral Homes left, its reputation was nothing to laugh at. Unrealistic horror stories about the townhome were told without much levity, completely different from how Sirius had narrated them to Harry.
But not everyone was so foolish as to believe a few tall tales and stay the hell away.
For starters, Hermione, Ron, and all of the other Weasleys definitely didn’t give a rat’s arse about it. Living in the house and cleaning it for almost an entire summer made it lose all of its dreary, potentially murderous charm. So they frequently tried to swing by and only stopped when Harry finally warded the door and stuck a note to it, requesting they give him some time and space.
Honestly, Harry thought the wards weren’t even enough to stop Hermione. Hence the note. He knew she’d respect that, at least. Though it had been a few months since then…maybe six? Which would probably explain the renewed vigour in the frequency of the floo calls. The calls Harry was still ignoring.
Maybe the wards were stronger than he’d thought?
He’s broken from his musing by three sharp raps at the door. The very proper kind, one that used the knocker and everything. No pounding fists and shouts.
Harry started, unconsciously taking a step back. He’d stopped silencing the door after he put up the ward, its barrier just encompassing the front step. So a knock meant someone had finally gotten past it. Speak of the devil, and she shall appear, Harry sighed.
But when Harry opened the door and readied to speak to someone other than Kreacher for the first time in half a year, his words died all too quickly. His mouth hung open, and no sound could escape.
So he stared.
And continued staring.
Until finally—“Might I come in, Harry?” Voldemort asked.
What was one supposed to do if not stupidly nod and hold the door wide open to invite Voldemort in? Because if there were something else that could’ve been done, Harry would like to know. To armour himself for next time.
Next time?
Voldemort swept in like a maelstrom of robes, holding a small bundle of something. He took in the overall look of Grimmauld Place with slight bemusement and remarked, “You’ve changed it.”
In Harry’s defence, six months was a long time, and he ran out of things to do on day three. Tearing apart the stately dreadful everything of Grimmauld Place was the best way to fix that. Kreacher hadn’t been on board for the longest time but eventually caved when Harry had worked himself to magical exhaustion one fraught afternoon expanding the library.
Knowing all of this and the extent to which Harry had gone for it to look even half as acceptable, he could only passionately agree. “Of course. Wouldn’t you?”
And maybe he was asking the wrong person because Voldemort frowned like Harry had made a particularly tasteless joke. “No. There were most likely decades, if not over a century, of history in these halls. Changing it is akin to burning it all down.”
Harry crossed his arms, “Or maybe I’m making my own history. Leaving my own mark and magic on these walls. I doubt a few structural and design changes will really do anything.” Harry scoffed, offended at the implication that he hadn’t treated his home with respect. It also irked him, funnily enough, that Voldemort might not like his preferences. He’d worked fucking hard, dammit.
Voldemort stayed silent, slowly assessing Harry from head to toe and back again. He relented, “I suppose it is… cosy.” It looked like it had physically pained him to say it.
“Whatever,” Harry shook his head. “What are you even doing here?”
Voldemort raised a brow, “Am I not allowed to visit my Horcrux and see if it’s fairing well?” He turned his back to Harry and wandered deeper into the house, poking his nose (and wasn’t that a marvel after so long seeing him without it?) into the newly painted and freshly refinished dining room.
“Uh. No. You are not.” Harry followed after him with a brisk pace, “And I’m not your anything. We’ve talked about this.”
And they had, at length, talked about Voldemort’s odd obsession with Harry’s Horcrux. Because that was what it was: Harry’s. It had been with him longer, literally lived as a part of himself. It would die without Harry, which practically made it a limb. Not that he needed the damn thing…though, it would be very odd to wake up one morning without its silent weight and sharp, jagged lines down his forehead and temple.
It would be even odder to be without the occasional glimpse of Voldemort’s thoughts and feelings that sporadically entered his mind whenever they were loud and forceful enough to make it past his constructed barriers.
Regardless, they’d talked about this. Harry’s Horcrux wasn’t like some pet or kid they had shared custody of. Voldemort couldn’t just drop in unannounced to do welfare checks or whatever insane nonsense thing he deemed reasonable enough. He acted like he’d come over one day to find Harry dead on the floor or holding a basilisk fang to his head—ah, well, that last one might have been truer some years back.
Voldemort only hummed, its vague tone merely implying he’d heard Harry and not that he’d agreed. His steps took him into the parlour and back out into the entry hall. “You’ve not been answering your floo,” he stated and started to make his way up the stairs by the time Harry looped back to him.
“Hey! Hold on a second-!” Harry called after Voldemort, only to watch him ascend to the first floor with little care for anything Harry was spouting.
Incredulous, Harry practically chased Voldemort around his entire home. From the drawing room to the guest bedrooms to the study and, inevitably, the library. Voldemort opened every door he came across—even the cloakroom!—like he wasn’t invading Harry’s personal space and rudely giving himself a tour.
Harry wouldn’t say Voldemort had done so with any decency, but he had stopped once he caught sight of the new library. And even though Harry was miffed and, for some reason, still hesitating on calling upon the wardstone to remove Voldemort forcibly, he was pleased that this room seemed to hold Voldemort’s attention long enough to make him pause.
After all, the library was Harry’s biggest undertaking and still wasn’t actually complete. There were a few nooks he had to sort out, not only for himself but for Hermione and maybe even Luna, for when he’d finally break out of his isolation and let them over. Its deep forest green was a nod to the Black Family’s Slytherin roots which paired nicely with the polished silver hardware on every sconce and metal accent.
The black leather couches could also be an aesthetic choice, but really Harry only picked them because they reminded him of Sirius. And he’d never say that out loud for fear of over-inflating Padfoot’s already abnormally large head.
Voldemort carefully walked through the shelves and trailed his fingers along their fine wood grain. Once he came upon the darker, moodier books with more personality and bite than books ought to have, he stopped and lifted his hand. He rubbed his fingertips like a mother-in-law looking for dust. “It was once a deep maroon, did you know? Long before Orion and Walburga laid claim to the home. It was Arcturus the second, Orion’s father, who owned the house before him and had married Melania Black née Macmillan, a fiercely ambitious Gryffindor with a soft spot for cursed books.”
Harry watched as Voldemort started perusing the titles; he continued, “Lucretia often spoke about it, her mother’s prized library. Sensible rumours implied the woman was quite depressed after the wedding and requested the colour to adjust better to newly married life.” He turned back to Harry, “The other rumours, not so sensible, spun tales of the Black Family’s Library and spread like a fine duvet. Stories of how the walls were smeared thick with muggle blood and of the dark rituals that were required for the home to maintain its perfectly fresh hue without even a hint of an iron smell in the air. They were told to the younger Slytherins like a ghastly bedtime warning.”
Then Voldemort walked up to Harry—too close—and tilted his head down, his lips just a hairsbreadth away from Harry’s ear, “Between you and I, there may be some merit to them.” His breath tickled the side of Harry’s neck as he huffed a small laugh and stood straight once more. “Or it was all merely a power play by the entire Black Family. At the time, five of them walked Hogwarts’s halls together, and what a clever little tactic to establish superiority and cultivate fear that would’ve been.”
Say what you will about Voldemort, Harry sighed, his arms crossed. He certainly knows how to give a compelling monologue. He was confident he could leave a cardboard cutout of himself here for days, and Voldemort would go on and on and on, none the wiser.
But, Harry couldn’t help but smile ever so slightly. It was nice to hear.
“I didn’t know,” Harry replied and took one giant step back. “It was so mouldy in here that the walls were some kind of lumpy grey colour. I tried scraping the gunk off with severing charms, but it was a lost cause.” He shrugged, “They could’ve been red.”
Voldemort’s pleased look fell at Harry’s words. Harry couldn’t blame him. Gunk was not great imagery. No matter how accurate. “Well? Enough about the ‘good ol’ days’, old man. What do you think of my handiwork?”
Harry delighted in Voldemort’s scrunched-up nose. “You insolent child.” With a final glance around the library, he acquiesced, “It is acceptable.”
“High praise from the mighty Dark Lord,” sarcasm dripped from Harry’s tone. His thoughts shifted when he suddenly remembered, “And how did you know I haven’t been answering my floo?”
Voldemort looked very unimpressed, “Naturally, I tried to use your floo address and was promptly rejected. Your muggleborn friend seemed up in arms, ready to storm the castle if you will, because she hadn’t been able to breach the wards you erected.”
“What? When was this?” Harry couldn’t believe he’d somehow managed to block Voldemort’s floo access. Thank Merlin.
“That doesn’t matter,” Voldemort quickly sidestepped Harry’s question. “What matters is the amount of torment I’ve been subjected to because of your sudden disappearance for months on end.”
Voldemort was quiet for a moment. “And Granger mentioned you may be depressed.”
That previous shock, the one Harry had found himself in when he’d opened the door to Voldemort and his new pretty face and stupid nice hair, came flooding back. Harry’s body slumped with the surprise, arms uncrossing, utterly at a loss for words.
“I’m…” Harry tried to start, but Voldemort cleared his throat and talked over him, “It turns out she’s just ignorant. Had she gone through any of the books the ministry has falsely labelled ‘dark’, she would have found the counter to your wards much sooner. Wherever did you find the rune work?”
“She’s not ignorant,” Harry frowned. Hackles raised and surprise forgotten, “And take a wild guess.” He gestured to the room at large.
“Ah,” Voldemort stiffened. And though his awkward face tickled Harry’s satisfaction, Harry could feel Voldemort’s overwhelming relief leaking through their bond—Harry didn’t know how being made a fool could be relieving in any way.
Then Voldemort’s hand raised, and Harry watched as his leather lounges grew autonomous and walked closer together, a small glass-top table conjured between them. Voldemort did this, and Harry’s eye caught sight again of the small bundle he’d staunchly held since entering the townhome. He watched as Voldemort placed it on the table and gently tapped the cloth with his wand to reveal a warm, freshly baked treacle tart.
Like whiplash, that stomach-swooping surprise hit Harry again.
The evening sunset through the tall stained-glass windows of the library cast a golden glow on Voldemort’s features, and the silver-sconced candlelight flickered in the deep muddy red of his eyes, making them sparkle like garnets.
If that was the colour Melania Black had requested, Harry thought with substantial awe; I could see the appeal.
“Your favourite, I’m told,” Voldemort carried on like he hadn’t just done something incredibly thoughtful and considerate for what was no doubt the first time in his life.
It dawned on Harry just how lonely he’d been, isolated for this long with no one able to pull him out. The words slipped from his mouth uninhibited, “I…Thank you, Voldemort. I didn’t realise how badly I wanted to see a friendly face.”
The second wave, stronger and dizzying, of surprise, wasn’t Harry’s own. And he could see, now that Voldemort was in front of him and Harry knew to look, that surprise on Voldemort. “You think my face is friendly?”
Blinking rapidly, Harry responded with an inelegant, “Um…well….”
“That’s a shame,” Voldemort continued. A hint of something—laughter?—creased in the lines of his eyes and smirk, “I’d prefer intimidating. Or awe-inspiring. ‘Friendly’ isn’t the kind of face a Dark Lord should have.”
That might be so; Harry couldn’t suppress the fond smile that tugged at his lips and the way his shoulders relaxed, sinking with the thaw of his isolation. But—
“I think your face is just right.”