Voldemort kept Harry confined to his room, claiming a desire to see full recovery before Harry was allowed to so much as look through his window outside. Harry didn't like this, but he wasn't in much of a position to argue. So they spent the day together, mostly in silence, and Voldemort read from his books while Harry drifted in and out of sleep.
The next day, a healer was brought in to check Harry over—Ernie Macmillan, another familiar face. Harry had been feeling better, and therefore thought the entire ordeal was a bit unnecessary, but apparently Ernie had shown up at some odd hour in the morning and waited for Harry to wake up, so Harry would have felt terrible in sending him away after all that.
"Well?" Voldemort demanded.
Ernie cleared his throat and rubbed at his chin. "I would say it's only a regular cold, my Lord. Just that the symptoms are worsened given… a pre-existing state of physical and mental distress. Have you been getting enough sleep, Mr. Potter? Eating regular meals?" Ernie hadn't said anything about the scar on Harry's chest, which was good, because Harry no longer knew how to feel about it.
"Um," said Harry. "Yes? Mostly…"
Neither Ernie nor Voldemort looked like they believed that.
"Anyways," Ernie said, "I'd say a day more of bedrest, the usual potions for exhaustion and dehydration, and then he ought to be fine for moving about. Take it day by day, but I don't see any cause for concern."
"Another day?" Harry protested. "That's a bit much."
Voldemort's face was impassive. "I will take your advice under consideration, Healer Macmillan."
"Absolutely contact me if there are any changes, or if you have any additional worries," Ernie said, straightening. Then he hesitated, still hovering by the bed.
"You are dismissed."
Ernie bowed low and vacated the room at speed.
"Hope you pay him well," Harry said wryly. "Is he on retainer or something?"
"Or something," Voldemort said briskly. "Now, shall we have breakfast? Or would you prefer to eat later."
They had scrambled eggs and orange juice. The situation ought to feel more surreal than it did, only it didn't. Something fundamental must have shifted again, Harry thought. Because Harry hated being fussed over, but having it come from Voldemort felt strangely like a victory.
Even after Harry was finally deemed well again, Voldemort still kept Harry inside the manor.
Voldemort would visit the Ministry during the early hours of the day, and then they would spend time in the study or in the office, where Harry would mostly sit around as Voldemort conducted research, or whatever it was that he was doing.
Harry had also been given a pile of books to read, books on subjects that Voldemort said he would need to understand before he could be truly useful here.
It would have been boring, only Voldemort liked to chat while he worked, and so Harry got used to taking a break from his readings to hold the occasional conversation.
They spoke on a lot of topics. Voldemort seemed knowledgeable on everything, and so Harry could speak up with nearly any errant thought and be subjected to a full lecture on the subject of his choosing.
Tom Riddle could have been a professor at Hogwarts, and maybe he could have even been a good one, if he could be as patient with his students as he was with Harry. Because Harry did feel he often asked a lot of stupid questions, especially about the readings he was working through, only Voldemort never made him feel stupid for asking.
There was, however, one major issue that Harry wanted to address, only he had no idea how to phrase it.
Voldemort was brewing a potion in a large cauldron on the floor while Nagini and Harry served as his audience. The fumes from the cauldron were consistently swallowed by a spell Voldemort had cast, so that the spirals of yellow wafting from the potion flew up and vanished into nothingness.
Harry had been trying to plow his way through a particularly boring passage on the differences between wizarding and mundane immune systems—he was sure that Voldemort must have picked this book to prove a point, because Harry had somehow caught a common cold despite having a heightened immune system—but now he watched, interested, as the Dark Lord worked his way through the brewing process.
It was nothing like Slughorn's classes at Hogwarts. Harry had never seen someone create a potion before, and while such a thing was supposed to be dangerous at best and fatal at worst, Voldemort seemed very confident in what he was doing.
The brewing continued as Voldemort prepared other ingredients to be added to the cauldron. Harry tried to go back to reading, only the text was boring and technical. He must have reached his limit for comprehending jargon today, he decided.
"I'm going to use the bathroom," Harry said aloud. The last time he had gotten up to leave on his own, Voldemort had levelled him with a stare and asked him where he thought he was going, to which Harry had replied, grumpily so, that he needed to take a piss.
Voldemort hadn't been happy with the snark, and Harry had already been far enough along in his book on immune systems that he had an idea of why Voldemort was still being so fussy. So as a compromise, Harry had decided he would deign to inform Voldemort when and why he needed to leave, and as long as Voldemort didn't try to follow him around to make sure he didn't dramatically collapse, it was fine.
Harry stood up, waiting to see if Voldemort was going to say anything. Voldemort was looking at him, eyes narrowed, mouth pressed shut. In reality, it was a mostly-neutral expression for Voldemort, but Harry had learned to read between the lines for what existed underneath.
"Very well," said Voldemort, after another pause in which Harry had debated just leaving, because the sooner he left, the sooner he would come back and Voldemort would stop being so weirdly overprotective.
"I don't need permission to use the bathroom," Harry said. "I'm just letting you know so you don't interrogate me about where I'm going."
Voldemort only huffed in response. Harry took that as a noise of agreement and made for the door—
He did not get very far before a slow hissing sound signalled that Nagini was trailing behind him. Harry turned around, glanced down at her. Even though snakes didn't actually have facial features to show emotions, Harry could still sense the aura of innocence she was attempting to exude.
"Okay," Harry said. "Okay, I'm done with this."
Nagini said nothing, only continued to watch him with her glossy eyes.
Harry stomped back into the study. "Hey," he said, glaring daggers at the Dark Lord. "I would like to interrupt."
Voldemort paused mid-stir and waved his hand over the cauldron, sealing it in a bubble similar to the one that he had used on Nagini. "Yes?"
"I am fine, " Harry snapped, his self-control splintering at the sound of the Dark Lord's casual tone. "I'm not sick anymore, and I'm not a child. I can look after myself, and I don't need Nagini following me to the bathroom!"
They stared at each other. Harry's breaths were heaving, his lungs and chest strained, and Harry thought that if his body decided now was a good time to cough, he would have to lock himself in his room until Voldemort got bored of all the Death Eaters and decided that having a semi-cooperative Harry was better than nothing.
"Fair enough," said Voldemort. "Did you wish to return to work at the Ministry?"
At this, all the fight blew out of Harry, leaving him flabbergasted. "I—what?"
"If you wish to return to work, we shall have to set some boundaries. Set hours, so you do not overwork yourself again. I am not above limiting the number of projects you are assigned if you insist upon running yourself into the ground."
Then Voldemort stepped towards Harry, imposing, the set of his brow immovable. For once, Harry didn't feel that instinctual urge to lean away. He was stuck in place; frozen with shock, maybe. Definitely at a loss for words.
"If you are to continue to save people," Voldemort said, his voice a low rumble, "then someone must first save you from yourself."
Harry's head shook in a negative. He had just said he was fine. He didn't need to be looked after. "And that someone's going to be you?" Harry asked, incredulity colouring his tone.
Voldemort's jaw flexed, the muscles tightening, and then he said, "I believe I told you that you belong to me."
Harry bristled and stepped away, only Voldemort followed a second after, leaving them both closer to the wall next to the door.
"If someone is going to care for you, then it will be me," Voldemort said harshly, looming.
The meaning of care was two-fold: to care for someone, to care about someone. There were two ways for Harry to interpret that sentence; two different implications that Voldemort could have wanted to impart with his words.
Harry went to shake his head again, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. "I'm your Horcrux," Harry said, desperate to make sense of this. "Is that it?"
But all he could think of were those words—you underestimate your value to me—and the way Voldemort had looked at him with concern.
"You don't believe that."
Harry squirmed under the scrutiny, under the weighty presence of the Dark Lord in such close proximity. What did he believe?
Voldemort had turned objects of importance into his Horcruxes. Voldemort had turned Nagini, his beloved familiar, into a Horcrux. And now Harry was also a Horcrux—made into one out of necessity, but one nonetheless. So in Voldemort's eyes, he was special.
"I don't need you to look after me. I'm fine," Harry said. "It's not like I can die anyways. You already took care of that." This seemed like the right answer for him to give. A reassurance that Voldemort would rule Britain forever, and a confirmation that Harry had accepted his place by Voldemort's side.
"This is going nowhere," Voldemort said, sounding angry as he turned away. "I cannot convince of what you refuse to believe. Leave. Go to your room, or do what you will. You will report to the Ministry tomorrow morning in my office, and we will resume work as usual."
Upon reaching his room, Harry had no further clues as to what had triggered Voldemort's sudden frustration. Harry had given all the correct responses. Voldemort should have been pleased with what he'd heard, not angry.
Harry shut the door behind him and made his way to the center of his room. The bed he'd left rumpled this morning was already made, smooth and tidy. Harry took a deep breath to clear his head so he could think.
The room had changed since he'd first been shown into it. There were actual things on his desk, parchments and inkwells, and there were plenty of books resting on the shelf next to it. All things that had slowly migrated into Harry's living space as Voldemort had given him more possessions, more freedoms.
And then there was Harry's wand, which was a welcome presence in his robe pocket. Voldemort had yet to ask for it back.
Also, Voldemort had given him those photographs. Harry hadn't put them out anywhere. It wouldn't feel right to. Not at the moment, anyways. Maybe at some point in the future, when he felt less like a traitor and more like someone who deserved friends like Ron and Hermione.
Harry shook himself of those thoughts and refocused on his current problem.
Voldemort had said he was going to care—
What did that mean?
Harry did believe Voldemort was capable of kindness, of caring. The problem was that Harry didn't know what Voldemort's definition of the word was. But that did narrow the issue down further.
How to tell what Voldemort's type of care looked like? Behaviours of Voldemort that indicated care… the only framework for such a thing that Harry had witnessed were Voldemort's interactions with Nagini.
When Nagini had gotten hurt, Voldemort had gotten mad, and—oh. Oh.
When Harry had gotten sick, Voldemort had also gotten mad. And he was mad now because he didn't think Harry had taken the illness seriously enough. Voldemort cared if Harry got sick, and he wanted to avoid it happening in the future. Hence the house arrest and all the fussing.
But that was all because both Harry and Nagini were Horcruxes. Or at least, it was because Harry was a Horcrux. Voldemort did care about Nagini. He transfigured prey for her to chase, and he acted fond of her sassy commentary. Nagini was a familiar and a pet, and people tended to be fond of their pets. But Harry was a person, so it wasn't the same comparison.
You do amuse me, Harry.
Harry was—he was—
He was an assistant, a Horcrux, a companion—
He was—
Voldemort's voice refused to leave his head, dragging up another memory, another echo of that deep tone that implied fondness.
I'm a prisoner, Harry had said. I'm a Horcrux.
You are much more than that, Voldemort had replied.
They had been touching, then. Voldemort's fingertips tracing designs on his forehead. But Voldemort had not touched Harry today, and he had not touched even while Harry had been sick. There had been a few times when Harry thought or expected Voldemort to reach for him, only all the motions had been aborted, or else so subtle that Harry must have imagined them in his exhausted state.
Harry knew what happened to the mental state of Muggleborn prisoners who were deprived of touch. Harry knew from experience, because it had happened to him during those long weeks in confinement with only Narcissa's company at arm's length.
Voldemort touched Harry, but he did not touch anyone else—not any people, only Nagini. When they were at the Ministry, he tended to wear gloves.
Harry walked over to his desk chair and sat down hard. There was a possessiveness to Voldemort's behaviour, sure, but there was also the gaping absence of everything else in Voldemort's life. No family, no friends, no genuine relationships. No touching.
Voldemort claimed to need no one, to be above the ties of love that bound other people together. He had sought to destroy all that he did not understand.
But that void, that emptiness—all of it combined to create a person who didn't know how to care properly. Voldemort ruled with fear, with the control gained from being more powerful, more forceful than everyone else.
The way Voldemort treated Nagini was similar to the way he treated Harry. Gifts meant to please. Spending time together. Being upset when one of them came to harm. So however it was that Voldemort defined care, it applied to Harry as much as it applied to Nagini.
Which meant that…
Which meant that Voldemort did see Harry as more than a Horcrux, like he had said. Because all those extra things were not things that Voldemort would do unless he was trying.
And maybe this was all in his head, but Harry thought that this explained a lot of Voldemort's other actions, too. It explained why Voldemort was more merciful lately—because he knew that was what Harry would want. Why the Order had been allowed to surrender, why Harry had been taken abroad over the summer after expressing an interest.
Guilt gnawed at him. Voldemort was trying to be nice, and Harry had dismissed his aid as unneeded and unwanted. If their… relationship, for the lack of a better word, was going to work, then Harry needed to acknowledge the effort.
When Harry returned to the study, Voldemort was still there. The fire under the cauldron had gone out, the potion inside a disgusting murky brown.
Voldemort was seated in his armchair, eyes closed, feet propped up on the footstool, though this changed as Harry passed through the doorway and into the room.
"Harry?" Confusion rang clear in Voldemort's voice as he sat up, his hand smoothing over his chest, pushing away the wrinkles in the fabric there.
Harry rubbed the back of his neck. "Sorry. I know you kicked me out."
Voldemort only continued to stare like Harry was a strange vision that had wandered into the room. "Did you forget something?"
"I came back to say that I understand," Harry said. "What you meant earlier."
"You... understand," Voldemort repeated.
Harry bobbed his head. He wasn't good at talking about these things; he never had been. But he thought he knew how to get the spirit across without needing to say anything. He understood the balance between them better now; he knew both the things that Voldemort could give and the things that Voldemort expected in return.
As Harry approached Voldemort, he kept his motions slow, deliberate—paced to not spook or upset. Nearer, nearer, intent upon that imminent sensation of closeness.
Voldemort did not move. His eyes, sanguine as ever, were fixed upon Harry's face.
So Harry extended his arm and placed his hand down on Voldemort's shoulder. The robes covering it were soft, but the body underneath felt colder than expected. The result of too many dark spells? Or maybe Voldemort just tended to run colder than everyone else.
Voldemort's head had tipped back, the curl of his bangs tumbling away, exposing the pale forehead. He was frowning up at Harry, now perplexed.
"We're okay now, right?" Harry asked quietly.
"We are," Voldemort said, hesitant. Then, when Harry continued to stay silent, he went to remove Harry's hand from his shoulder.
Harry let it happen. The sudden touch of skin on skin was jarring, and he was already disoriented from their current proximity. He'd never gotten this close willingly before. The hand that grasped his own was cooler, the skin soft and maybe a little dry. Harry tried, vainly, to recall the last time he'd held hands with anyone.
Maybe a second had passed since Harry had first made contact, but it felt it had been like much longer.
Then Voldemort released his hand, and Harry allowed his arm to fall to his side. The space between them returned to normal as Harry shifted, straightening.
"So," Harry said. "Back to work tomorrow?"
"I suppose so," Voldemort said. He maybe even sounded happy about it; as happy as Voldemort ever sounded. "We will reserve research for the weekends."
"Okay. And I'll keep up with my readings when I have the time," Harry continued, "and I won't overwork myself."
Voldemort stood, and Harry forced his eyes up even though he was nervous. He hadn't moved far enough away that Voldemort's sudden movement failed to startle him.
But the silence that resulted was natural, normal, and Harry wasn't pressured to fill it with words. He had gotten his point across, somehow, and things were okay—Voldemort had agreed.
The Order was gone; the last piece of Harry's past was now resolved. He and Voldemort had come to tentative terms and were now working together. Harry had hope that, with time, Voldemort could become a better man.
So, yes. Things were finally okay, and Harry had the feeling they would continue to be okay for a good long while.
A/N:
if you were wondering what voldemort's thought process during this chapter was like, you are in luck. i typed all this up when i was going over the chapter with my beta (you are sort of my beta) hannah / waitingondaisies, and i think it's funny enough to include as an A/N here.
so the following disjointed notes are how voldemort perceived their argument lol.
voldemort: okay fine, i will let you go to work, but you have to TAKE CARE of yourself, we will have ORDER in this household.
harry: i am fine. i don't need help, and i certainly don't need YOUR HELP.
harry: you only like me because i'm a horcrux. that's the only thing you care about, because you're selfish.
voldemort: no, that's not true, you don't really think that (think of all the other things i've done for you recently)
harry: none of that matters, what does it matter, i can't die anyways; you already took care of that, took care of me in that way
at this point voldemort's just. mad. and confused. because what he's tried to do isn't enough and giving harry what he wants (going back to work) isn't enough, and harry STILL thinks he's being selfish?
so he tells harry to get out. harry leaves.
and then he's like ok... harry's mad at me now. time to Brood.
then harry comes back! and harry's looking all apologetic! so voldemort is thinking to himself: 'i must be hallucinating'. cause he's still not sure why he's mad and upset to begin with, but really he's upset bc of the perceived rejection from harry...
but then harry is NICE? harry touches him on the shoulder, and voldemort feels better! but he's still confused so he doesn't really say anything lmfao. anyways. being a repressed bastard is hard work, whew!
