Malignantly Cursed

8

They now had roles with each other and it helped add balance to their everlasting game of house.

Neither spoke of what would happen once they got out and rejoined their own world. Would they still be turned against each other? Would they tell anyone what changed? Where would they go? How would they leave?

For Harry, it was best not to think about this. These feelings that erupted inside her, for Voldemort, would not fit the life she had left—a life that she sorely missed. Yet, she knew that if she were to live that life again, see her friends again, be active in the Order and end whatever it was she has with Voldemort—she would miss him too.

He was very attentive and considerate. Harry would spend long hours remembering their first days here. Even whilst in agony, he took care of her first. One could argue this was because he was cautious of Rose's curse and that's why he made sure she stayed alive.

But that wouldn't explain why he had let her use the warm water to take baths first. Or why he gave her the bed and took the couch for himself. Or why he caved and bought berries even though they shouldn't spend their money on things that weren't absolutely necessary. Or why he bought her two birthday presents, a birthday lunch and cake. Or why he used the little magic he was saving to conjure her a basket so she could pick berries and mushrooms, adding an extra hour to their walk, just because it made her happy.

He could have done the barest minimum—heal her and leave her to fend for herself in this house, and it would have already been the kinder thing to do.

All these thoughts ran through her head constantly. While he sat at the table and used his little bit of magic to figure out a way to remove the cuffs, she sat in his armchair, legs crossed, and watched him. Deciphered him. He exhaled in exasperation at his futile effort to restore himself to full magic, and looked up to see her squinting at him, calculatingly.

"What is it now?" he rolled his eyes, getting up from the table to trudge over to the couch. For days he's been frustrated at the fact that the cuffs won't come off. Both of them were glad that their newfound intimacy acted as a reprieve for him, else things would get ugly with his rage.

Harry clambered to the couch beside him.

"Can't we ask the Squib for help?" she asked, resting her arm on his shoulder. "If he gets a Portkey for us—"

"I don't trust him to secure an illegal Portkey to England without alerting some higher up searching for us. He'll lead them right here," Voldemort countered.

"Okay then let's ask for a Portkey somewhere else. A place that has no connection or ties to England. Like Switzerland!"

"And what would we do in Switzerland?" he rolled his eyes. "Ski?"

"It'll be a hell of a lot nicer than here," she grumbled.

"I have no safehouse in Switzerland. I have money and a lot of potions here. Besides, my Death Eaters won't know where to reach me if we relocate. The reason we're staying here is because I'm waiting for the signal. It'll come any day now."

'Any day' had turned into weeks.

They'd been here for a little over two months when Harry realized she was falling into routine.

Falling into routine became dangerous when she began to refer to him as Tom, rather than Voldemort.

He didn't object. From the first few times, she picked up on his quiet reverence of the way his name fell from her lips. Which was a massive relief because she knew Tom Riddle didn't like his name, but she couldn't refer to the man she cooked with, dined with, danced with and fucked by the moniker he adopted to be fearful.