The next time he forced his eyes open, he was in the Gryffindor common room. Ron and Ginny were over by the fireplace, talking between themselves as Hermione pushed through the door, eyes fixed on him,
"Tell me what happened, Harry."
It hurt his jaw to speak, and he tried to massage it, but couldn't move his hands. He heard tapping but couldn't work out where it was coming from,
"Voldemort."
Hermione raised an eyebrow sceptically as she crossed her arms across her chest,
"You know who?"
He nodded,
"It's him… He's back from the dead…He killed Cedric… He's keeping me somewhere…"
Ron spoke up,
"He can't be alive…You vanquished him…"
Harry turned to him,
"You have to believe me…He's back…you need to find me…"
Desperation clawed at his insides as his friends refused to believe him. He could still hear the tapping, more of a knocking. Someone was knocking, but when he looked around the room, he couldn't see anything.
He scrunched his eyes shut as Hermione asked,
"What's he doing?"
The words slipped past his lips and forced his eyes open,
"He's looking after me."
Ron let out a chuckle,
"Looking after you?"
Harry squirmed. A murderer was taking care of him, trying to put out the fire inside him, helping him, and he was about to reveal his return…
"The monster's looking after you?"
Harry didn't want to tell them anything anymore; he didn't want the pain to come back. He wanted the damp cloth on his forehead, the spoonsful of porridge, the cool water… He wanted fingers rubbing circles into his temples, and hands stroking his weakened body. He wanted care and compassion, even from a monster.
Harry turned his head, caught something in the corner of his eye, and found the source of the tapping. A window, that shouldn't have been there… It faced green fields and a stormy sky…
The window was shut, and on the ledge outside sat a magpie. It was knocking a snail against the glass, trying to break the shell, trying to get to what was inside.
The unwanted hard shell, for the wanted soft interior.
Harry scrunched his brow, feeling another headache coming.
Was the magpie trying to get to the snail? Or was it trying to break the glass, help him escape? Maybe the magpie knew the hell he was stuck in, but Harry didn't want to escape. He turned away from the magpie,
"Harry!"
Consciousness hit him hard, and he lurched forward, sparking pain in his head. Someone pinned him to the bed and when they lifted their head, Harry realized that it was Voldemort. A disapproving look was plastered to his handsome face.
"I thought I told you not to make any sudden movements."
He couldn't remember when he'd said that, but he didn't want the pain to come back. Voldemort hovered over him and touched his forehead gently,
"The fever has gone down but it has taken a lot out of you."
Harry could feel it, drained, weak.
Voldemort moved away, then sat down in the chair beside the bed. Harry took in the room for the first time. The dark green walls, the black sheets, the elaborate curtains that concealed the window from view… Harry flared his nostrils, taking in the scent… tomato soup. It smelled good, and he started swallowing excessively.
Voldemort gestured to the bowl on the bedside table,
"It's a bit hot at the moment."
Harry didn't comment as he took another look around the room. There was no clock in the room, and he had no way to know how much time had passed since Voldemort had brought him here. Voldemort always looked immaculate, styled. His handsomeness mocked him while he lay there, feeling worse each day that went by.
Voldemort ran his hand through his hair,
"Are you with me?"
He didn't flinch out the way, snarl an insult, or lash out. In his muddled head he knew they were the acceptable reactions, but instead, his eyes drooped, and he moved into the touch.
Voldemort soothed him, stroked back his hair, then curled the longer strands behind his ear. The touch was intimate, and nice, and Harry was too exhausted to deny himself the sensation of touch. It was wrong, but it felt right.
He knew it had been days of drifting out. Days of messed up dreams about his friends, Hogwarts, Cedric, his parents… but for some reason it was the magpie that stayed with him after he woke.
"How long have I been out of it….Sir?"
Voldemort made a thoughtful sound,
"You have been in and out of it for fourteen days now."
Harry tugged his eyebrows together,
"Fourteen days?"
The pain throbbed in his head, a constant sensation that only softened, and loudened, never faded altogether,
"Open your mouth."
Harry parted his lips and allowed the contents of the flasks to be tipped inside. It was bitter on his tongue, but it was good. The potion made him feel dizzy, detached. It made him no longer care that Voldemort was leaning close to him and kept his fingers on his lips longer than necessary.
"How is the pain?"
Harry spoke,
"It's okay at the moment, Sir."
Harry shuddered when he remembered the first few days. He hadn't dreamed; there had only been pain. Pain, even Voldemort couldn't stop despite what he pushed through his lips. Ordinary potions had done nothing so Voldemort had resorted to feeding him potions that he, himself had brewed for him. Potions that were potent, and effective, but made him tired, sluggish and unable to do anything for himself.
Everything hurt, and Harry felt most comfortable lying in the bed, doing his best not to move, and drifting in and out of consciousness. But he didn't like the dreams. The dreams were a different kind of painful, and he hated that Voldemort was the one to save him from them. Voldemort called his name and surfaced him from the nightmares.
Voldemort was his messed up hero.
Voldemort pulled him out of his train of thought,
"What were you dreaming about just now?"
Harry glanced at the curtains. The one thing his strung-out mind had recalled accurately while he was asleep, the green fields, and storm-gray clouds…that insistent tapping…
"There was a magpie tapping a snail against the window."
A thoughtful expression crossed Voldemort's face,
"A magpie?"
He nodded and just as he was about to speak…The tapping on the window started again.