Harry fried the tomatoes, garlic, and onion, toasted the bread, then served it up with a sprinkling of rocket. He wasn't a natural chef, but it at least looked edible.
He grinned when he presented it to Voldemort, and they both sat down at the table, like they'd done every day for the past few days. They ate in silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable. He was content being near Voldemort, especially after he'd been gone for hours. Voldemort finally spoke,
"Thank you for making me lunch…"
Harry blinked out of his blissful feeling and glanced at Voldemort on the other side of the table. He'd just made him lunch and hadn't even thought about using the knives as weapons or attempting to slip something in Voldemort's meal. He'd made Voldemort a meal, because he'd wanted to. He wanted to sit down opposite him, and Voldemort to compliment him.
"Harry?"
He lurched forward, shaking his head,
"Sorry, my head…"
"Have you taken your potions yet?"
Harry frowned. It had been more than twelve hours since he'd had the last one, so he couldn't even blame his complacency with Voldemort on the potions in his system. Voldemort reached across the table, pressing his hand to Harry's forehead,
"Are you feeling well?"
"Yeah, I'm fine… Do you mind if I go back to the room?"
"You do not have to ask."
Harry got up and hurried out of the kitchen. He'd memorized the corridors now and in no time, he found himself on the bed again, staring up at the ceiling. He only had to think about all the awful things Voldemort had done to remind him of who he actually was, but he couldn't do it. The Voldemort he knew was different from the monster that had done all those things.
Harry growled out in frustration,
"No, he's not… It's all a game to him, and I'm losing."
He struggled to sort through his mash of feelings. How could he like someone he was fundamentally supposed to hate?
Harry didn't know how much time had passed, but Voldemort came into the room. For a few moments, he felt him stand in the doorway. Then finally he walked up to the bed and towered over him. He was handsome… His eyes…his lips… his sharp features…his hair…Everything about him was so refined and immaculate…Well everything except for the bump on his lip. Harry closed his eyes so that he wouldn't have to look at him; it was hard enough working out his emotions without adding lust to the mix.
He felt him vanish, and Harry let out a long sigh, reopening his eyes. He regretted it when Voldemort reappeared almost instantly and got into the bed. He shuffled up, then rolled on his back next to Harry.
"There is something I wanted to show you."
He held something up, blocking Harry's view of the ceiling, and his eyes readjusted on a photograph.
A tattered black and white muggle photograph of a dark haired boy, and a magpie perched on his hand. A boy with big eyes and a smile that showed off his teeth. Harry's lust vanished, but his curiosity doubled.
"You and the magpie."
"Yes."
He passed the picture to Harry, and he held it above them carefully, afraid that he might damage it,
"There really was a magpie?"
"What did you think I was on about?"
"I don't know, I thought you were just telling me a story to get in my head… trying to torment me."
"Not everything is about you."
Harry's lips twitched into a lopsided smile, and he snorted,
"You look happy?"
He said, with his attention fixed on Voldemort's mouth. His smile dazzled, lifting his cheeks, framing his eyes.
Voldemort whispered,
"I am happy."
"I mean the haircut is … tragic."
Voldemort laughed,
"It was fashionable, the whole choppy, uneven look."
"Did you do it yourself?"
"No, no, I did not,"
Voldemort said, poking Harry with his elbow,
"And you have no right to comment on my hair cut. Your hair is a mess at the moment."
"Cut them short then."
Voldemort shook his head as he entwined a stray curl around his finger,
"I rather like it this way."
Harry moved his attention to the magpie. Not the battered one he'd pictured in his head, with missing feathers and sore patches. It was huge, and the white feathers of its chest contrasted with the oil-slick black ones of its tail.
"Wait, who took the picture? You said no one knew about it."
"There was a girl that worked at the orphanage…Martha… She noticed I'd been acting strangely, That I'd been disappearing to the shed at every opportunity. She probably feared I was up to something terrible, given my reputation. One day when she opened the door, and I explained, she was so relieved, then impressed."
Voldemort sighed,
"I don't know why, but her being impressed about the magpie made me feel good… I explained about how I splinted his wing with sticks, and caught it worms, and snails. I told her I washed it, stroked it, and it had become affectionate. She tried to touch it, but it squawked, scared of her, that made me feel even better. It was loyal to me. It was our bond, still wild to others, but tame to me."
"I knew it. I knew you weren't completely heartless like you sai…"
"I wouldn't jump to conclusions. You know how it ends. The magpie won me over, that's all. At first, I'd wanted to heal it, so we'd continue playing our game with the eggs, but then I manipulated it, made it get attached to me. I wasn't expecting it to go both ways. I wasn't expecting to want to keep it, to enjoy it sitting on my shoulder, or it grooming my hair, or feeding it, but I did."
"Then what happened?"
"One day, I showed Martha how it could fly again, and she said it was ready to be released. I should let it go; it was the right thing to do. For a ten-year-old boy, who knew he was different, not quite right, not like everyone else, all I wanted to do was to fit in. That overwhelming desire to appear normal, to do something normal, for the right reason, but I didn't want to let it go. I didn't want to say goodbye. It was like losing a piece of me."
Harry whispered,
"I know the feeling…2
"I didn't sleep for days, caught between what I wanted to do, and what I knew was the right thing. Just because I'm different, doesn't mean I wanted to be. I wanted to feel the same way about death, love, cruelty, affection as everyone else, but I was twisted, something inside me was twisted. I wanted to keep the magpie, but I wanted to be normal as well."
"What did you do?"
"I killed it."
"Do you regret killing it?"
"What's the point in regret? I did it."
"But you cared about it."
"Still killed it though."
Voldemort sighed, taking the picture from his hand and vanishing it,
"So, there it is, there's the magpie. It was only fair I showed you this after I'd told you the story."
He spoke softly,
"Thank you."