Anima Concordia

Chapter II

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 - ?"