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A shudder moved along his spine, the flames from the roaring fire did nothing to warm his cold skin. Frustrated, Voldemort stood closer to the heat, centimeters short of being licked by the blaze, but still his body only absorbed the tiniest bit of warmth. Tired of trying he occupied the old leather wingback chair by the fireplace and with a flick of his wand cast a warming charm around him which pushed the cold away. A temporary fix he was willing to accept.
Sitting alone in his dimly lit room, he stared at his feet, missing the weight and heat Nagini had always provided. He tried not to think of her, but on nights like this, when he was alone, it was hard not to think of the past. He convinced himself these last few years that she didn’t die in vain, for he was now the ruler of the wizarding world and there was no need to dwell on what was before. The Potter nuisance was dead, along with the murderer of his familiar, which was enough to bring some sense of satisfaction.
Voldemort closed his eyes, the memory of Nagini made him escape into the darkened corners of his mind. The image of another sprang to life. Bellatrix. Her unwavering loyalty, sometimes overbearing, was always quite impressive in times of need. He was sure she’d be delighted to know the majority who fought against him were rotting and he had made sure her murderer had also met their demise. There were still some traitors out there. However, they were in hiding, and hadn't shown their faces in almost three years. This was absolutely fine, because as his reign spreads through the rest of the UK, he will weed each one out to face the consequences of their betrayal.
His crimson eyes flashed opened and he chastised himself for drifting into the past. These unproductive intervals where he found himself without purpose were almost a nightly occurrence. A solitary confinement that either brought up memories from the past or worse, the eagerness of waiting for the clock to chime 8 o'clock. He stood up, pacing the length of the fireplace. His eyes watching the hand of the clock.
“7:58”, he hissed, trying to ignore the cold that was returning and desperately trying to push down the tiny thrill that tickled his gut. He would rather be alone and even drown in the sadness of loneliness than to look forward to this. He could fix it, remove the temptation, but he doesn’t. Most were now compliant and boring. But she-
The chime from the clock dings. A familiar tune from years past. As the last note goes silent a soft knock on the door echoes through the quiet room. Voldemort once again sits in his chair and accepts, like every night, a few minutes of companionship.
“Enter,” he said, the small creak of the door and the familiar sound of footsteps approaching excited him. Voldemort watched from the corner of his eye until the young woman came into full view. She stood in front of him holding a tray, her eyes dark, but the cinnamon shade glimmered from the movement of the flames. Her hair was bushy and brown, a few shades darker than her eyes. It stopped slightly past her shoulders and was held out of her face by two silver clips on each side of her head. Her expression is neutral, except for the tightness in her jaw that she tries to hide. He contemplated entering her mind many times, but swallowed down that thought.
“Your tea,” she said, her eyes not looking at him. He watched her for a moment before motioning his hand to the table next to his chair.
Her delicate hands gently placed the tray on the table to prepare his tea to his liking. The sound of the sugar bowl opening and the spoon stirring provided him an odd satisfaction. It was the precursor to what came next. The hand over.
The young lady raised the cup and saucer from the tray holding it towards him. His fingers brushed against hers as he accepted the offering. It only lasted seconds, but to him it felt endless and it had been years since she had shuddered from his touch. Only the tightness in her face showcased her emotions.
With tea in his hand, she turned on her heel and headed towards the door without uttering a word. He had never tried before, but tonight something triggered him to speak to the girl after three years of the same nightly ritual.
“Thank you, Ms. Granger,” he said, and he heard her breath catch in her throat before stepping out the door and closing it behind her.
He was once again alone.