If Paths Diverge

Chapter 16

Harry set the plate of baked beans, veggies, toast, and scrambled tofu down in front of Voldemort. He still couldn't look at the man and had therefore prepared a breakfast far more elaborate than he would have had alone just to postpone the awkward conversation they were inevitably going to have to endure now.

Harry sat down at the table with a sigh and looked across at the man seated there. The Dark Lord sat in Harry's cheap wooden kitchen chair, his cutlery untouched, as he raised a hairless eyebrow at the food on his plate.

"What is this."

Harry winced.

"Hermione. She... well, she's always been very compassionate. She started the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare back when we were in school, I'm sure you've..."

What, heard of it? And how would he have done so while imprisoned and tortured by the Ministry? Merlin, Potter, have some tact.

"Sorry," Harry mumbled. "It's tofu. Hermione convinced us all— Ron, Ginny, and I— to stop eating meat ages ago."

The Dark Lord continued to stare at his plate.

"Try it, it's actually good," Harry urged encouragingly, spearing a piece with his fork from his own plate and eating it.

When Voldemort remained unmoving, a sneer of distaste on his face, Harry snapped.

"It's fucking tofu, Voldemort, you'll bloody live. What, have you become spoiled after eating prison fare for twelve years? My cooking's not good enough for you?"

Voldemort met his gaze, looking startled. Harry stayed frozen, waiting, with tight lips and eyebrows raised as high up on his forehead as they would go, daring the bastard to say another word.

The Dark Lord slowly picked up his fork and ate a piece all the while holding Harry's gaze. He chewed cautiously and Harry found his own attention dropping to those thin lips and prominent jaw lines, remembering how they had felt under his tongue half an hour ago.

When Voldemort scooped up a second forkful of his breakfast, Harry relaxed, laughing slightly to himself. What a fucking mess. No way they were making it out of this alive.

They ate in painful silence, Harry too overwhelmed to glance up and chance meeting the Dark Lord's eyes. He tried to go over what he wanted to say in his head, how to phrase behave yourself or I'll kill you in a way that Voldemort would listen to instead of reacting defensively— or offensively, as was his wont. Giving up, Harry focused on his food and tried to pretend he was alone.

After ten or so minutes, the tension was too much to take.

"So," Harry blurted out ineloquently, setting down his fork and looking up, but he was immediately distracted by Voldemort's mouth closing on the condensated glass of water, his throat working as he swallowed.

That damn band of black metal shifting slightly with the movement.

Harry stared.

He got lost, wanting to run his tongue along that pale skin, wanting—

A whoosh to his right had Harry whipping around to see a letter falling out of his Floo. He stood quickly, grabbing it and ripping it open.

Harry,

Are you alright? Why is your Floo blocked for travel and calls? Kingsley said you were at home recovering, but why aren't you at St Mungo's still? Ginny is ready to bust down your door, no matter your feelings on us just showing up that way. You need to open your Floo so your friends can talk to you properly.