#am i a writer or am i just a renovation kink in a trench coat

[tommarvoloriddlesdiary]

Something different.

Frustration bloomed in the back of Harry’s throat wide enough to choke, unfurling until his mouth felt full and dry—though that could’ve been the third glass of wine. He didn’t understand what ‘different’ was, what had changed. The answer seemed shrouded from his sight, scarcely out of reach.

Or, Harry pondered, slouched comfortably in an armchair, his eyes locked on Voldemort’s candlelit form. Maybe not very far at all. He had an inkling it was hiding just behind the monster sitting before him—the wolf in sheep’s skin.

Delicately drafting missive upon missive, Voldemort fell to silence some time ago. Their steady back and forth lulled and gave breath to the ever-diligent scrawling, barely clear enough to hear over the crack and sizzle of the fire.

If Harry hadn’t grown so accustomed to Voldemort’s sudden breakthroughs and thoughtful quietness, he wondered if he’d be more offended.

His mouth curled like hands strangling, ripping weeds from the root; Harry would be much more than offended if he were anything like he used to be around Voldemort. He doubted there’d have been anything left of this humble study, and they’d be anything but—

Harry sighed… And there it was again—that frustration prying at his lips.

But—what? What were they doing anyway? The words at the tip of his tongue didn’t seem right, but Hermione would tell him not to fight it, that his gut reaction wasn’t typically too far off.

So…companionable? Is that what they were?

Friends? Or, at the very least, friendly?

Harry tasted bitter pollen and fresh dirt on the flat of his tongue, but his lips tugged wider. He couldn’t stop himself because this all seemed so absurd. Completely laughable.

“Why are you grinning like a fool?”

Harry’s attention pulled back to Voldemort, though he could hardly say it ever left.

Voldemort’s form was relaxed, never slouched but comfortable. He sipped his wine, eyes sharp over the rim of his glass, keen on Harry.

“None of your business,” Harry replied. It wasn’t biting or challenging like he meant it to be (like it used to be), but that didn’t matter.

Voldemort took everything as a challenge.

So Harry watched as Voldemort set his glass down on the desk, narrowed his eyes, and considered his options.

Harry knew from experience that Voldemort liked to try casting an imperio on him every once in a while to see if he’d suddenly lost his ‘immunity’ (Ron’s words). Or liked talking circles around him until he unknowingly answered everything Voldemort was wondering and more.

It was rarer when Voldemort attempted to glimpse his thoughts, but Harry knew he enjoyed trying.

It’s uncomfortable and oppressive, Voldemort had once told him. Sounding disconcertingly impressed. I have not seen anything like it during my time.

And Harry had nodded, understanding. He was well aware of the unusualness of his mindscape.

Yet, Voldemort had continued, It is not unfamiliar.

It turned out Voldemort’s curiosity was always more harm than good. Harry went weeks managing raging headaches from his many tests. The goal was ultimately to reveal Harry’s breaking point or, at the very least, find some of his hidden memories and thoughts.

All those headaches were endured to no avail as Voldemort was, and continued to be, dissatisfied.

Voldemort stood abruptly, and Harry startled. “Come,” he said as he walked to the door. He paused and held it open; Harry took that to mean ‘no’ wasn’t an option.

Hoisting himself up and finding his balance when the blood rush became less too-quick-standing-up and more maybe-one-less-glass-next-time-Harry, he quickly made his way out of the study. He waited for Voldemort to shut and ward the door before taking off after him down the long, winding halls of Slytherin Manor.

Voldemort had really gone all out after the truce. When Harry was invited to the newly constructed and stately home, he wondered if all purebloods used the same magical architects. There was a grace and a flawless connection to every room, a theme or some sort of thoughtful pattern, that Harry didn’t quite achieve with Grimmauld Place. There was something to be said about professionals, and those at the top of their field no less. For Voldemort would never allow second best.

Mindful of these small details, it was hard not to compare everything to the Malfoys’ manor, which housed all their meetings during the first two years of the truce. But Harry could hardly be faulted when one took in the tall and expansive windows and the spacious drawing rooms and grand libraries (yes, more than one), so close yet so vastly different to the Malfoys.

Harry had remarked upon this several times, of course. Unfortunately, it took Voldemort using the wards to forcibly remove him for Harry to realise that his comments went very much unappreciated.

Admittedly, the colour scheme was way darker here, though that didn’t surprise Harry. With their pale hair, pale eyes, pale walls, and paler peacocks, Draco, Narcissa and Lucius would stick out like sore thumbs here. Just like Voldemort, with his dark hair, dark eyes, dark robes, and darker humour, had in their home.

Nonetheless, with all the apparent beauty of Slytherin Manor’s interior, Harry quickly realised that nothing in these walls pleased Voldemort more than the gardens around it. And naturally, that was where Voldemort led them.

The season’s chill bit at Harry’s skin, and he watched as Voldemort’s breath spiralled out in clouds of white. It was the only proof Harry could find of Voldemort being affected by the cold. Even with his new face (or old? Harry supposed the similarities between it and Tom Riddle’s were too close not to assume), there was still an apparent…otherworldliness to him.

His motions were too graceful. His gaze was too precise. His voice was too melodious, like charming sleigh bells or an arresting church organ depending on his moods. Harry caught himself enthralled and appalled by Voldemort in equal measure. That may be why it seemed so impossible to Harry that they had gotten close. Because he still couldn’t entirely remove the man from the monster. But Harry was starting to realise he might be okay with that. Accepting Voldemort for who he was: both.

“Is this better?” Voldemort startled Harry out of his intense focus.

He frowned, “Is what better?” What was Voldemort talking about? Had he missed something?

Voldemort led them deeper into the sprawling gardens. Fairies fluttered about the grounds shimmering and shining in their transparent multicolours. They twinkled over the no doubt carefully selected winter flora and fauna; heather and aconite clashed for attention amongst the evergreens and large shrubs with dainty bell-shaped yellow flowers that dripped down arching branches like bundles of grapes. Harry couldn’t name half the growth scattered about, probably not even with Neville’s help.

They stopped in a small clearing home to a single (surprisingly tasteful) fountain. “The fresh air,” Voldemort finally answered. He was so quiet that Harry almost missed it. “Is it helping ease your mind?”

“My mind didn’t need to be eased?” Harry aimed for a statement, but it came out like a question.

Voldemort looked at him like he’d said something particularly idiotic. “Yes, because you often look one minor thought away from breaking everything in a room.” His light, sarcastic tone, sickly sweet, had Harry crossing his arms.

“So that’s why you ran us out of the manor,” Harry scoffed.

“Lord Voldemort does not run, Harry.”

“Lord Voldemort apparently does if he thinks Harry Potter will blow up his pretty little house.”

They each held their ground, eyes locked. But the tittering of the fairies was an embarrassing wake-up call, so Harry broke first. His snort huffed out and clouded the air, surprising Voldemort and himself. He completely gave in to his laughter after that. The sight of Voldemort’s shock was too funny to keep bottled up.

Voldemort shook his head like a silent prayer and waited for Harry’s giggles to die down, “I thought you were…upset. I felt it through the Horcrux, that festering feeling of something unresolved and annoying. You seemed frustrated.”

Harry didn’t really know what to say. He was taken aback that Voldemort could even tell something was bothering him. Though he had been strangely intuitive recently, Harry noted. Especially since that day at Grimmauld Place.

And Granger mentioned you may be depressed.

Harry shook his head to rid himself of…whatever that was. Voldemort continued when he wasn’t paying attention, “-decide to spend your holiday with your friends. I found that odd, considering you are all very close. Trouble in paradise?”

“What,” Harry frowned. How was it that Voldemort never failed to make him feel wrong-footed? Why couldn’t Harry ever catch a break? “No, nothing’s wrong. And that’s a muggle thing, you know? Trouble in Paradise.”

“So you’re celebrating Yule at my manor because you want to?” The very idea seemed unfathomable to Voldemort, judging by his wrinkled brow and scrunched-up nose. Though maybe his face was because Harry mentioned muggles, and that was still a touchy subject.

“Well, yes? No- I’m,” Harry stuttered and looked away. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with the Weasleys or Sirius and Remus. Everything really was fine. It’s just, well, Harry didn’t feel comfortable tagging along this year. He’d gone missing for most of it, isolating as he did, and people still looked at him with this weird mixture of concern and pity and treated him like a spun glass ornament.

Voldemort never did that.

“I mean- Wait, you invited me here!” Harry shouted to some hellebore, his exclamation entirely misdirected.

Voldemort had invited Harry here! That’s right! It was under the guise of ministry paperwork, some dumb bill that required Harry’s approval too, because even though Voldemort had clearly been on the straight and narrow for years, people were still under the impression one couldn’t teach an old dog new tricks. Or, in this case, one couldn’t teach a Dark Lord the advantages of political warfare over guerrilla warfare. Stupid.

Harry glanced over at Voldemort, who had conveniently turned his attention toward the night sky.

But hadn’t they finished it hours ago? The documents were read, discussed (debated), and adjusted. They were resubmitted with the help of Hedwig, who was miffed to have to rush a packet of paperwork back to the ministry on Christmas of all days. She’d been bribed with a rather spoiled selection of meats—Nagini was very jealous.

So. Why was Harry still here? Why did he stay when Voldemort had offered him wine and refill after refill? Why did he feel like leaving was the very last thing he wanted to do? Why was he worried, reluctant to floo home, and suspiciously confident that Voldemort hadn’t wanted to bear the holiday alone either?

Why did Harry think Voldemort would be terribly sad if he left?

Harry wanted to break their silence. He pushed aside the growing weight in his chest, taking a deep breath to shake the overwhelm pressing behind his eyelids. He opened his mouth to maybe thank Voldemort for his thoughtfulness (because that’s what it was—Voldemort was always somehow considerate of Harry and his feelings) but accidentally blurted out the one thing that had actually been weighing his mind, “Are we friends?”

Horror. It was all Harry could feel. Shocked dumb, he watched as Voldemort stilled for a moment. His eyes left the shining expanse of stars and found Harry’s. He raised a single brow, “Friends?”

Harry’s face felt hot, and he wasn’t sure he could blame the wine. “Yeah,” in for a penny. “Friends. Are we?” He wanted to smack himself for being so short, words too stilted. But this wasn’t very comfortable, and Voldemort’s evident amusement wasn’t helping.

And Harry wanted the answer. He wanted it so badly that it scared him.

“We are not.”

The words echoed too loud in the night, which was ridiculous because Harry had only just been straining to hear Voldemort better moments ago. He couldn’t breathe. His heart felt like it had caught aflame. Yet there was no comforting warmth from its inferno, only an all-consuming blaze that turned Harry’s heart into ash from its fire.

He wasn’t sure when he’d turned away from Voldemort again. The sight of frosted grass was surprising when Harry registered it, along with the feeling of Voldemort’s hand cupping his chin and pulling his attention back to those garnet eyes Harry knew he was growing too fond of, too fast. They were much darker beneath the moon and stars, gleaming like the dried-up dregs of wine Harry left behind in Voldemort’s study.

“I do not have friends, Harry,” Voldemort’s eyes combed over his face. A brisk wind scattered his heart in the breeze, Harry shivered. “And you are so much more.”

The feeling of Voldemort’s magic, a delicate touch down the length of Harry’s throat, wrapping around and sinking in, chased all the cold away. A warming charm. Harry blinked once, twice, eyes wide. He felt light-headed.

“Let’s return,” Voldemort said. His fingers didn’t quite remove themselves fast enough, hesitant, lingering. Like Harry, perhaps they too wanted to remain just a little longer.

As Voldemort finally pulled away, the tip of his thumb grazed the edge of Harry’s lower lip. Harry felt a righteous anger then, justifying the heat still creeping up his face—he’s teasing me.

But as they continued back inside, chatter somehow more intimate and strictly the same as always, Harry came to the conclusion that Voldemort probably wasn’t. This was just as new and scary for him as it was for Harry, and though they may not be friends (and Harry wasn’t really sure what more would be), Harry knew they were definitely something.

Something different.

#tomarry #harrymort #tomarrymort #pov: harry #my fic #2.2k words #am i a writer or am i just a renovation kink in a trench coat #maybe both #i hope you (yes you-the you reading this tag right now) enjoy this #it's a continuation technically of candle-lit garnet but they are somehow extraordinarily different #series: (the world) its quiet turning