Chapter 2

Harry woke, feeling better than he had in ages. Opening his eyes, he saw dark-blue canopy above him, the unfamiliar sight making him curious and a little worried. He scooped over to the edge of the bed, he'd slept at, intending to stand up and look around more. He was already raising to sit, when he heard the lazy and rather amused drawl behind him:

"I wouldn't lean on that hand, if I were you."

Harry quickly turned around and, not heeding the advice, put his weight on one hand. With a yelp of pain, mixed with surprise, he'd fallen on his back and hissed from the ache, shooting through his obviously injured hindside.

Harry looked at the occupant of the other side of the bed – a man in his thirties or early forties, with pale skin and fine features on handsome face, dark brown locks of hair falling constantly onto his face, hiding his eyes -

And then it hit Harry. He remembered waking in this same room just hours (or days?) before and coming face to face with red-eyed bastard of a murderer, Voldemort, and him getting a wand in the face from said bastard and -

Harry went red in the face, suddenly remembering how he collapsed on the chest of the man in front of him. And they both have been naked – or, in case of Voldemort, half-naked, as he had had then and still had now at least his sleeping pants on, although, like before, remained shirtless. Feeling absolutely humiliated, Harry looked at himself -

He was dressed. Or at least more dressed, than before, meaning, he was, too, sporting black and silky sleeping pants and no shirt. Though, the latter, probably had something to do with him bandaged like a mummy of sorts from waist up to his throat -

His less injured hand shoot upwards, to the wound on his throat. Still there. Probably will ever be, he thought bitterly.

His head was filling with blurred images of flashbacks to the time, when he cut himself. He remembered feeling tired, more like exhausted beyond everything and not caring about anything anymore, just wanting all of this to end. What was this, anyway? He tried so hard to recall the events from that night, that his head began to throb with dull ache, but -

Nothing. There was nothing in his memory. Only numbness and exhaustion and pain and -

He was shaking now, so much so, that his teeth clanked.

Blurry figure towering above him, yanking him by the collar, throwing him to the floor -

"Stop this right now!" someone growled. "You're giving me a migrane!"

Harry looked at Voldemort, now towering above him with a snarl on his lips, and whimpered pitifully uncontrollably, trying to back away from the figure, looming above him so menacingly.

"Cease this nonsense right this instant!" Voldemort hissed, adding in clear outrage, "I'm not -" He abruptly closed his mouth firmly, with obvious uneasiness on his face, when Harry just crab-walked from him, ignoring his injured hand and back, moving as quick as he could at his state. His silky pants, as oversized as they were, caught on something and slipped from his waist, almost to his groin.

Harry noticed, that there, too, were even more bandages, covering him, like second skin. He shuddered, definitely not wanting to recall the particular reason for being bandaged in that area.

"Potter, either faint already or stop your stupidity," Voldemort commanded. "If I wanted to maim you I'd already done so. You've been here for several hours now and your limbs are still intact. That should count for something, no?"

"V-vold- Tom!" Harry rasped. His voice was weak and hoarse, talking was difficult and painful, so he turned to the easier way of addressing his opponent. "How - ?"

"That's my line," the other growled. "This place should be warded, unplottable and absolutely unreacheable. And yet," he made a gesture with his hand, as if to say "you are here". "And I don't even want to start on your injuries, or whomever caused them," he added, narrowing his eyes angrily. Harry was very surprised to notice, that those eyes were not blood-red, but of the very dark blue color, almost black, but not quite. Though, while Voldemort was speaking and getting more angry, that dark-blue color got the red tint to it, making Voldemort's eyes almost purple for a moment. Harry again tried to scoop away from these angry eyes and Voldemort's obvious fury, radiating from him in heated waves. Though why exactly he was angry and at whom, Harry couldn't even begin to comprehend, but he realized, that he was not the reason behind the outburst.

Seeing Harry's retreating form and hearing that pitiful whimper, uncontrollably escaping boy's lips, forced Voldemort to calm down a little, but he still was going to learn who did that to the Potter boy.

If he, Voldemort, only got anger and defiance from the teen in front of him at even the most horrid of their confrontations, he need to look that person, making the Boy Wonder whimper and shudder, in the eye, at least. And kill the worm, as no one was allowed to cause Potter more suffering than him! At least that was his reasoning, as he assessed the lithe form before him, mindful, still, so as not to bring attention or even to look at the area below the waist of Potter's pants, which at that moment began sliding further down -

"Oh," he pointed his wand on the embarrassing piece of clothes and muttered the appropriate incantation.

Harry, who stilled at the sight of the wand, like a hare before the cobra, ready to run at the opportune moment, was once again widening his eyes in surprise, when Voldemort only fixed his pants' size, so they fit him more closely, with the less threat of falling off his hips.

"So -?" Harry prompted.

"That, too, should be my line," Voldemort scoffed. "Although, seeing as your throat is not fit for long talks at the moment, this should do for now," holding his hand to the side he, it seemed, summoned some object, which glistened in the morning sun pouring from the window, when it came flying to his open palm: a vial. Vial of potion.

"I won't -" Harry rasped. He is not going to drink it! Either it's a poison, or Snape made it, though in Harry's book that counted as even worse, than mere poison.

"I'm not eager to force it down your throat, you know, but it will ease the pain and will work from the inside to assist in mending that horrendous wound you have there. Quite possibly, the scar will still be left afterwards, as too much time had passed, but at least you will be able to talk -"

"Still not drinking it -" Harry protested hoarsely.

"As you wish. But I will still require your talking in quarter of an hour necessary for the potion to work. Your choice: croak or talk in less painful way."

At that Voldemort got up, leaving the potion at the bed-side table, and went first to the wardrobe standing to the side from the bed, and then – through the door, presumably, leading to the bathroom, in the other corner of the room from where the bed stood.

Harry let out the breath he was holding, when the bathroom' door closed, only to be opened again in the next moment:

"Your glasses, horrid, as they are, rest near the bed, on the nightstand, beside the potion. Although, I daresay, you need new prescription and certainly new frames," Voldemort disappeared into the bathroom again.

Harry quickly grabbed his glasses. Horrid, or not, he won't be able to see without them!

Or will he -?

Harry blinked couple of times, as his vision only worsened, when he put the glasses on. He removed them. His vision still wasn't perfect, but he rather clearly could make out the big letters on the Voldemort's book on the other nightstand, across the bed, and saw perfectly well his own reflection, when he turned to the mirror, placed on the wall beside the wardrobe, even small details, like angry red gash at his cheek, going from the outer corner of his right eye and down to the outer corner of his swollen upper lip. His lower lip, too, was not pretty, as he'd bitten on it and made a small wound, splitting it almost evenly in two halves, like a bunny's. He snorted at the comparison, he'd made in his own head. If he was a bunny, then Voldemort should be – what? Snake? Though, he was already one. At least in terms of his Hogwarts house, if not his appearance anymore. That, too, like the rest of the bizarre morning was curious, strange and made Harry wonder, what had transpired after his last confrontation with that snake-like monster for him to turn into almost normal human being. Red eyes still counted as monstrous in Harry's opinion, but in general Voldemort was okay. Yeah, okay was the best thing Harry could come up with, though he never was too inventive in his assignments, let alone in things, not related either to school, or to the war efforts.

Sighing, Harry carefully touched the potion vial. Knowing Voldemort, he won't hold back, and he just promised Harry exactly that. Maybe the potion is Snape-made, or poison, though frankly Harry doubted that last bit. Voldemort said it himself: Harry was at his place for several hours and still had been alive. Even bandaged and clothed. Though, that, too, still worried Harry. Why bother? He was already half-there -

He again felt the trace of a flashback threatening to engulf him and to bring him to a whimpering and trembling mess, he was moments ago, when he thought that Voldemort was that creature, that thing from his half-remembered nightmarish memory -

"Potter, you make my head explode!" In a matter-of-fact voice informed him Voldemort. "I am feeling generous, so you have ten more minutes. Drink your potion!" Voldemort retreated back to the bathroom, picking something from the drawer of the wardrobe on his way.

Heaving another sigh, Harry grabbed the vial and took the careful swig of the shimmering rainbow-colored liquid, half-expecting it to taste bitter or nasty. Surprisingly, it was almost tasteless, with just a tint of sweetness, lingering on the tip of his tongue. All in all, the feeling the potion left in his mouth and throat wasn't bad: a bit cool, but not painfully. His throat was already feeling better, just from this small sip. He upped the potion, ignoring his conscious telling him to be vigilant and careful. He doubted, there could be something worse than what he'd already faced before. And he was not remembering his previous encounters with Voldemort, at that matter, but rather thinking of the events leading him here.

"Ah, good boy, Potter! You could also do with a bit of pepper-up and headache potions, while you're at it," Voldemort, having returned from the bathroom once again, produced two more vials with the potions.

Harry eyed them suspiciously, spared a quick glance for Voldemort, scowling at his antics, after which decided to brave it and accepted both vials, as well as the cup of nicely-smelling broth, which Voldemort conjured for him: "You need something more solid than magically induced water in your system to function properly," came the snide remark at seeing Harry squinting his eyes suspiciously at the cup, too, like he did for the potions. "If you're going to suspect every little thing, better begin from this bed and pyjama," Voldemort suggested dryly. "And do continue onto how you'd happened to appear here, going through my wards, like a hot knife through the butter, not even denting them and not tripping the various alarms. Ah, and while you're at it, from exactly where you came here, too, I'd rather hear."

Harry managed to finish all of his potions and half of his cup of broth, while Voldemort was positively ranting, not even stopping to catch a breath.

Harry coughed experimentally, trying his sore throat. The potion really did miracles, he thought, and although he felt more like whispering hoarsely would be easier, than trying for the full voice, he began to answer some of Voldemort's questions rather truthfully.

"I don't know about your wards. I woke here, after nasty concussion and loosing consciousness. I – well, I was at my summer house. And then came here," he finished a bit lamely. "Don't know anything more, really," Harry added for good measure.

Voldemort hummed in thought.

Harry tried really hard not to gape at that.

Voldemort looked him in the eye critically.

"It should not be that simple," he half-asked.

"What?"

"You coming here. Through wards. To my house. To my bed," Voldemort winced slightly at the double meaning. "Something happened. I just need to analyze -"

And then he stood up from the chair, which he'd conjured earlier, and left the room.

Harry was left gaping and perfectly free to go if he wished, if a bit under-dressed and a tad unhealthy.