He shifted his gaze to stare at the man’s hands. His long fingers were softly turning the pages, stroking the spine of the book. There was something gentle, and caring in the gesture — Harry couldn’t have imagined this man in such a casual setting before. He had denied anything human in Voldemort, picturing him as a monster that spent every living second in anger and rage, plotting his evil schemes and scaring others into submission. And yet...there were moments like this? When he ate, when he drank when he simply looked out of the window or turned the pages of a book, trying his best not to damage the fragile paper. Sometimes he rolled his eyes in frustration, sometimes he sighed, sometimes he rubbed the bridge of his nose or his temples to drive away the exhaustion...