When they came back to themselves, the night was still pitch black. Fortunately, the faint light of the pool was enough to illuminate their surroundings. While Harry scrambled out of the water, flopping down on a makeshift towel, he had transformed his shirt into. Voldemort dove for the cup they had lost during the ritual. Curiously, the younger wizard took off the locket but kept the ring. Somehow it felt right to keep this one as a memento of the occasion. Also, his mother might be right that there was more to this jewellery than it being a family heirloom. Voldemort looked like a drowned rat when he sank on the fabric beside him. Harry could not help but start laughing, full, amused, belly-aching laughs. He did not know how, but he felt more alive and happy right this second than ever felt before. A handsome wizard in his mid-thirties, soaking wet, hair stuck to his head, had scrambled out of a pool; holding a cup, carrying a tiara crooked on is head, shaking himself like a wet dog. It was all so very absurd! After a few moments, the Dark Lord studied him for several moments, but then the night was filled with their laughter.