19. Blood and Bile
The light was low and stable, not a fire or a candle. He lay on something soft, not the floor he had kept himself to the last few days. There was naked skin against his cheek and chest, against his arms and against his back. Skin slightly cooler than his own, but smooth and hard with muscle. He groaned a low protest even before he fully understood what that sensation meant.
"Do not move," the words were a command, the voice terser than Harry had heard it in a long time. "We will get you to a position that you can handle better, but so far you have gone partly insane every time you have tried to do so. Wait a moment and let us figure out how best to do it. Please."
"I don't follow." His voice was even rougher than before, if that was even possible. It hurt to talk.
"I am not surprised. You have gained consciousness, if we can call it that, three times now, this is the fourth, and immediately started fighting me. All that led to, was a new bout of insanity when you got too far from me, and a new round of unconsciousness." There was exasperation in Voldemort's voice and his arms tightened around Harry's back a moment before he loosened them again. "It would please me if we could try something else now. The fact that you are able to talk gives me hope."
"What happened?"
"The soul fragment made you very ill when you kept away from me for so long, it almost killed you."
"How is it logical for it to kill me? Will it get back to you that way?"
"No. And it is not a thinking being, it cannot make plans or decide to do anything."
"That's good, at least, I think. Wait a minute, I thought Horcruxes were supposed to be durable, to the point of eternal, unless they messed with basilisks or Fiendfyre?"
"Inanimate Horcruxes, yes. Living ones, obviously not. You are quite a bit less resilient, unfortunately," Voldemort said drily.
Harry was beginning to struggle against the awareness that he was in Voldemort's arms, in his own bed, and that they both were naked from the waist up. He still wore his trousers, as did Voldemort, at least he thought so without being able to look, thank fuck. The worst part was probably the fact that one of his own arms was clinging to Voldemort's back, the other one was between them and unable to cling. He couldn't let go. And he didn't want to think about that.
He really, really didn't.
"Let us try to turn you around to get your back to me, before you start hyperventilating. That is probably as much space the soul shard is willing to give you right now."
Harry hadn't noticed that he had begun to breathe faster, but he was already getting lightheaded.
"If you can get your arm closer to yourself, slowly …"
It was hard to follow Voldemort's suggestion. Not because he didn't want to, but his own arm was fighting him, trying to get back around Voldemort. He managed, but by then he was already hyperventilating and crying. He didn't know what he did because of the soul fragment and what he did because of his own distress, and that was truly disturbing. Voldemort used magic to levitate him and hurriedly turn him around, so Harry's back was to Voldemort's chest.
Harry clung to Voldemort's arms that lay across his chest, holding him to Voldemort. Clung to them and cried and cried and tried to breathe and swore and gulped for air and shivered and cried even more.
"I hate you!" he hissed when he finally had enough air to speak.
"I am not surprised," was his answer, smooth, cool, and calm.
So calm.
It made Harry cry even harder, he shivered again and barely bit back a whimper.
"I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you." It became a litany, only interspersed with quiet sobs.
He didn't know how much time had passed before he was able to quiet down from the … panic attack, was his best guess. He still clung to Voldemort's arms, and Voldemort was still holding him as calmly as before. When Harry tried to let go of Voldemort to scrub at his own face with one hand, he noticed that he couldn't. He really couldn't, even if he had managed to let go when he changed positions.
"I can't let go!" He pulled at his own hand. "I can't even get my grip to loosen! I can't …!"
"I know, and if you keep trying you will only work yourself up again."
"I have a right to get worked up when my own body doesn't obey me!"
"Yes, you have that right, but it will not help you now. Even though you are not as resilient as an inanimate Horcrux, you have evaded death quite a lot for a human, if my sources are correct. Tell me about that."
"What does that have to do with anything!" Harry almost shrieked.
"Right now; distraction, because getting another panic attack will not help you in any way. In the long run, it might answer whether you are … not quite immortal, but close to it."
Harry froze. "Immortal? Because I'm … I'm … Damn it!"
"Yes, because of that. And I said, not immortal, but … more likely to survive than others in dangerous situations."
"What do you mean?"
"I believe that you are unnaturally hard to kill, and that that is a consequence of being my Horcrux. You can die, you can be killed, but it is much more likely that you will die from old age then from an accident or murder. Luck simply cannot be behind all of your extraordinary escapes from death."
"Just because you haven't managed to kill me doesn't mean that someone won't be able to. You could have done it too, if you hadn't been overly fond of monologues," Harry muttered.
"Yes, I seem to remember that," was all he got for his grumbles.
What was it with Voldemort and his uncanny calm? Was he raging inside but capable of keeping it locked up, or was he really this calm despite all of Harry's protests and complaints? It was a mystery. But Harry honestly didn't know what he would have done if Voldemort began to hiss threats right now, or tried to hold him harder or to hurt him. He knew it wouldn't be good, though.
So, despite the fact that he hated the situation with everything in him, and despite the fact that he already had experienced a panic attack and most likely would experience many more because of this situation, he was grateful for the fact that Voldemort managed to keep calm and not make it worse. Because it could easily be worse, Harry was sure of that.
"But I'm accidental," Harry said slowly after thinking about it. "I'm not even a proper … a regular … Fuck! You did not mean to do this, that's what I'm trying to say. You didn't do the ritual to actually make a Horcrux that night. I'm not even an actual … thing," he finished with gritted teeth. "I shouldn't have any kind of protection because of that."
Voldemort hesitated. "I did not complete the ritual, no, but I did begin it. While you are accidental, I cannot tell if you are complete or not. I am not certain that has much significance in this context."
"You began, but didn't complete … You were going to use my death to make your last Horcrux! A child! You are a sick bastard, has anyone told you that?!" The words just tumbled out of him.
"You have done so, several times in the last few hours."
Harry stiffened, but Voldemort's tone was dry, if anything, not hateful or accusatory. Thinking about it, he hadn't reacted to Harry telling him he hated him either, not at all. He really seemed to be perfectly calm.
"I have? I don't … Wait! Few hours! How long …"
"It is closing in on three hours. You were delirious and dying. I do not doubt that it made the whole situation worse than it needed to be, than it might be in the future. How much do you remember?"
"From what?"
"The last day or so."
"I …" Harry frowned and tried to think back. It was blurry and dark and painful and sickening and …
Harry retched once, then again and then he was scrambling to get to the edge of the bed. Scrambling across spots of blood and bile and pain and his head throbbed, and he thought he might pass out while retching over the edge of the bed. Only bile came up. He couldn't remember the last time he ate or drank anything.
Pain lanced his throat and his head, and he retched again.
More bile.
He sobbed.
The pain raced down his spine and exploded outwards. The world went painfully white and shattered. He heard his own screams.
Then the world went blessedly dark.
He was shivering but could feel both the arms and blankets around him.
"There was blood …" he croaked. He thought it had been rather a lot. "On the sheets …"
There was a minuscule sigh, but Harry heard it, even felt it against his neck.
"One of the times you woke up, tried to get away and became delirious; you bit your tongue nearly in half and then almost choked on it. I have been healing you more or less continuously. Harry, your body very nearly shut down completely. I know that you despise this, but I will not allow it to go this far again. If you have to fight me to be able to tolerate this; then fight me. But it will not happen again."
"I hate you … so much … but I'm so very tired of fighting …"
"Then will you permit us to come to some kind of agreement to solve the situation?"
"I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you."
Voldemort didn't react. He was like stone behind Harry. Soft, living, breathing stone, that didn't try to crush the life out of Harry.
Not physically, at least.
After a long silence Harry whispered, and knew that his voice sounded pleading, but he couldn't change it:
"I'm not going to beg. I'm not going to crawl before you and beg for help! I'm not!" He sounded desperate and fresh tears made his voice thick. "I'm not going to do that!"
"Then you do not remember your conversation with Astoria?"
"Astoria … No … She was here?"
"Yes. And you told her that you would not beg me or crawl before me for help, that you did not even want to have to ask. She told me this and while I do not know how to give you the help you now need, when you need it, if you will not even ask; I acquiesced. You need my help to survive, and if we can find a method where you can tell me when you need help, then asking will not be necessary. And you will never have to beg, crawl, or grovel, or anything else for that matter."
"This situation … it is not alright in any way, shape or form."
The Dark Lord huffed at him. Actually huffed at him.
"I am not the one who suffers the most and not the one who went blindly into this, so my opinion hardly matters, but consider this: I was prepared to spend some hours with you every day in return for a better and more stable soul and mind. That was the plan. What I got … is something completely different. I am surprised and … dismayed about this fact. But again, it hardly matters. It happened. Now we have to learn to live with it."
Harry thought about it for a moment. "Yes, having tea and dinner together every day has to be quite different than knowing that you have to give up … how much time do you think? … every day to keep me somewhat stable and alive. You most decidedly didn't get what you bargained for."
"I did not. Or I did not get what I thought I bargained for. That is also a part of dealing with the Dark Arts, of which Horcruxes definitely are a part. As for how many hours each day … at this juncture I would not want to speculate. Today was an extreme circumstance, or I would like to hope so. If you do not push yourself so much, it might be different, both the experience and the time it takes to … quiet the soul fragment."
"It has to be skin on skin contact?" Harry asked slowly.
"Oh, yes, believe me, there is no question of that."
Harry thought he felt Voldemort shudder a bit and looked down to where his hands still clung to Voldemort's arms. His fingers and nails were bloody. He blinked at the sight.
"Did I attack myself, or you?" he asked.
"Me. Though it was less an attack and more desperation and need. You ripped through my robes and a lot of skin on my back, to try to get closer, I assume. One of several reasons I know that it is skin against skin contact that counts, and that nothing else will do. Of course, if you need proof for yourself, and I will understand it if you do, we may try to recreate the situation in more controlled circumstances, if possible. So that you can observe the differences yourself."
"I don't remember attacking you."
"You were delirious."
"Is it possible to recreate the situation in a more controlled circumstance?"
"I do not know for certain. But if you do not push yourself as far as you did now, and then try to get close to me with clothes or blankets between us, I believe you should notice a difference. Hopefully not as … forcefully as today." Voldemort tightened his arms just a bit before loosening his grip round Harry again.
"I wish it wasn't necessary at all. I really, really wish it wasn't necessary," Harry whispered. "And I do not know if I can force myself to get close to you, when I know how close I have to be … Maybe if the soul fragment takes over again, but … I don't want that either. That was … not … good …"
Voldemort didn't answer and they were silent for a while.
"You said that it isn't you who suffers the most, what did you mean by that?" Harry asked, because silence wasn't helping at all. "Other than that I obviously suffer the most out of the two of us."
"The last few days have not been comfortable for me. I haven't really been quite myself for a few weeks, but I didn't notice. I thought I was in a bad mood after the debacle at the Ministry and the consequences of that; the press, Madam Bones, you, the obvious security holes that no one caught because there were two forces that were unused to cooperation and communication with others. If I were in a bad mood and had a constant headache, that would not be at all remarkable.
"The last few days, when I had accepted that it was the soul fragment that made difficulties for you … I realised that it transferred to me. And as everything else; it was more than I experienced with Nagini. You became a lot worse than I think she can ever be because of this, and thus I got a small portion of that."
"Bad mood and a headache, that's all you got while I was delirious and dying? That hardly seems fair."
"If it is any consolation, Harry, it was a bit more intense the last few days," Voldemort said wryly. "I could still function normally. I am used to functioning while insane, at least somewhat, so it was not too hard. But if it had gotten a lot worse … what would have happened if both of us were incapacitated?"
"Hmm. You have a valid point. Then, can't we use that as a measurement for when I need your help?"
"Let me reiterate; you were delirious and dying! We will not let it get to that point again. If I had known anything less than I do about healing, you would be dead now."
"So … that's a no to that suggestion then?"
"A resounding no. And you will meet with a Healer in the next twenty-four hours."
"Fine. Any suggestions?"
Harry wasn't going to protest about seeing a Healer. He knew that he had harmed his body by starving it, once again, and then it was all that had happened the last few days too. If not for Hermione and her stubbornness, there was a very good chance he would already have died of malnutrition. She had dragged him to a Healer after a drunken night when he had confessed just how little he had gotten to eat in the ten years with the Dursley's and every summer after that, too. The Healer had confirmed Hermione's suspicions. Harry would have died before he reached twenty-five years of age, and not from any curse, but from the abuse and starvation he suffered as a child.
Hermione's rabid fierceness when it came to getting Harry to take the potions the Healer prescribed for him, as well as almost forcing him to eat as often as he could, had been able to cure the malnutrition and give Harry a longer lease on life. It was one of many reasons Harry owed Hermione his life.
"Suggestions on Healers?" Voldemort asked.
"No, on possible methods for getting your help with this shit, when I'm incapable of asking for it. As for Healers, if he is still alive, I would like to contact Healer Brentwood. I have talked with him before, and he knows … a lot … about me. He was at St. Mungo's last time I heard anything about him."
"Incapable of asking? And I will contact the Healer for you."
"Yes, incapable. I literally can't force myself to ask … I'm almost choking on the word even now," Harry ground out and swallowed hard against the bile in his throat while he shivered.
This was his life. This was going to be his life now. How often would it be necessary to have skin against skin contact with Voldemort to stay stable? Every week? Several times a week? Every day? He shivered hard. Every fucking day? That would be just his luck, wouldn't it?
And none of them knew right now. Not how often it would be necessary nor how long it would have to last each time. Neither of them even knew what the warning signs would be. Would Harry feel uncomfortable at first, like he had done this time, or would he go straight to delirious, and how long did he have from the first warning to collapse? Would they be able to delay the necessity of skin against skin contact, if they stayed in the same room more?
So many questions, and so few answers.
The story of his life.
"I see," Voldemort said. "While you seeking me out would be unusual enough in itself to give me a clue … What about a phrase or a word, to make the message come across loud and clear? Not a request for help or anything like that," he said when Harry stiffened, "but something that makes it obvious that you need … this. Obvious to me, that is, not to anyone else."
"Not a bad idea, but I honestly don't know if I will be able to do even that much," Harry admitted.
"You will not be asking for help, simply informing me that you need it."
"That might be too close to asking."
Voldemort sighed a minuscule sigh again.
"I know empathy isn't your strong suit; but try and put yourself in my shoes for a moment. A man killed your parents, had a lot of your close friends killed, including your Godfather, and also kept a war going for years and tried to kill you every chance he got … Then everything gets turned on its head and now you need physical contact with that same man to stay alive, and to die is no longer an option. How easy would you find it to even admit that you need that physical contact; even knowing what will happen if you don't get it in time?"
Voldemort was silent for a long while.
"As you say, empathy is not my strong suit," he started slowly, "but there is nothing wrong with my reasoning, not anymore, and I am able to follow what you are saying. However, I still do not see a method where you can get the help you need, if you cannot tell me somehow. Unless you want me to seek you out and ask several times a day?"
"I truly want to say hell no to that suggestion, but honestly … That might be better, for a while at least. I don't particularly want to go through this again, but … my mind rebels when I think about having to make it clear that I need this kind of … help."
"Then we have a temporary solution. I will find you and ask you, and … will you be able to answer me truthfully?"
"I … I promise to try my best to do so. That's all I can actually promise."
"Then I will also make my own judgement, if I think that you are incapable of answering truthfully at that point, or if you seem to be suffering more than you are ready to admit." He stopped. "Harry, are you willing to give me consent to help you, even if you at that point refuse, because of delirium or fear or the like? This time I waited as long as I did, to give you every opportunity to consent, but now, knowing how bad it can become and how incredibly obstinate you are … I will not wait that long again."
Harry swallowed hard. His heart started hammering. "Consent to give me skin against skin contact to calm down the soul fragment before it harms or kills me? Skin against skin contact, like we have now?"
"Exactly. As close to what we have now as possible. Preferably before it hurts you, too."
His heart was hammering away in his head now, and he shivered. "I … alright," he whispered. "Alright." He hesitated. "You should know, I might lash out if I feel cornered, it's a wonder that I didn't do so this time, actually. And … if you look … like in the graveyard … that might just … kill us both." He was breathing far too fast, and he had to focus to slow down his breathing again.
"I will always use a glamour to prevent that reaction, and I will be as careful as I possibly can. Hopefully, you will never get to the point that you did today, again. To begin with, I will ask several times a day, and if you notice anything in yourself and are able to send some kind of message, please do so. In time we will learn more about how this works and be able to work with it, and around it, better."
"I hope so." Harry scrubbed a hand over his face, froze and stared at his hand. "Apparently I can move my hand, hands," he slowly removed the other hand from Voldemort's arm, "away from you now. Do you think that means that the soul fragment has … calmed down, or something?"
"It has been four hours, so that would be good. Are you willing to try to move away from me?"
"Yes." It was fine to remove his hands and it was fine that Voldemort removed his arms and Harry slowly inched away from Voldemort's chest while observing his own reactions carefully. No pain. No panic. No confusion. No incessant need to get closer to Voldemort.
Harry moved to sit on the edge of the bed with a relieved sigh. "Thank fuck!" He ran his hands through his dirty hair and then looked at his blood and bile covered arms and hands. "I need a shower, or ten."
"I agree." Voldemort moved behind him. He could hear and feel him leave the bed. "I will let you do that. Remember to drink water and take the nutrient potion, I assume that it will not be a problem to keep things down now. Eat if you are able. I will get the Healer here first thing in the morning. Do you have a Dreamless Sleep potion?"
"Yeah, and I'm going to take it, so it would be good if the Healer got here second thing in the morning instead. I don't remember the last time I actually slept at all."
"Done. I will see you when the Healer arrives."
Harry looked over his shoulder when he heard Voldemort move away. Voldemort was dressed only in slacks, his hair was tousled and his pale back was marred with something that looked a lot more like claw marks than scratch marks. Harry looked down at his hands and his blood covered fingertips. He hoped that it wasn't actually claw marks, that would be all he needed right now.
Voldemort left the room and Harry's gaze went to the corner he suspected he had been sitting in for the last few days. His t-shirt lay there in tatters, so did Voldemort's robes. He got shakily to his feet, picked the robes up and held them out in front of him. The back was slashed several places, so were the shoulders. Almost certainly by claws.
Fuck.
Had Voldemort noticed? There wasn't a lot the bastard didn't notice. How long before he decided to ask about it? Harry didn't know the answer to any of the questions Voldemort was likely to ask. Or, well, he knew a few, but none he particularly wanted to part with, and none that could answer as to how there were claw marks on Voldemort's robe and back.
It was yet another thing in his life that didn't have a proper answer.
Yet another thing that shouldn't really have been possible.
Fuck.
Harry scrubbed at his face. "Dobby."
"Master Harry sir! Dobby be worried about Master Harry!" The little elf wrung his hands and stared at Harry with big, wet eyes.
"I know, Dobby, I'm sorry. I hope it won't get that bad again. Could you please burn the clothes and clean up and air out the room while I try to get clean?"
"Of course, Master Harry!"
"Thanks. And if you could get me something light to eat after I have showered and a bottle of water, so I have that close by, I need to rehydrate."
"Yes, Master Harry!"
Harry gave him the destroyed robes and slowly went over to a table where he had the boxes with potion vials from Draco. He swallowed down a nutrient potion, got clean underwear, sleep pants and a t-shirt out of the wardrobe and went into the bathroom and into the shower.
It felt heavenly to get clean, to wash off the stink of blood and bile and sweat and fear and desperation. Both his legs and his arms shook by the time he sat down in the now clean bed. The whole room smelled fresh and clean and nice. Both water and juice were on his nightstand and Dobby appeared soon after with a tray with soup and fresh dinner rolls and a small bowl of cut up fruit.
"Thank you, Dobby." Harry ate sitting up in bed, and he ate slowly, a bit of everything, but the only thing he finished was the soup. His stomach started to protest, and he knew the drill. After a period of little food or starvation, he needed to be careful with what and how much he ate and build up to eat a proper amount of food, over time.
Dobby took the tray and gave him a fresh bottle of water, before Harry took the Dreamless Sleep potion and let himself disappear from a world that simply was too exhausting and upsetting and confusing, right now.
A/N:
Thank you for the comments, the favs and the follows! They are much appreciated! I love to hear what you think about the story and the characters!
I'm so sorry there wasn't any smut here either. I have written it, but I believe it's safe to say that this is a very slow burn story. Nothing else would have made sense, seeing as the two people in question have been enemies for so very long.
Hope you liked it! Please review!