Never again.
Those two words echoed, taunting him endlessly in the black belly of the privateers' brigantine. The air was dank in the small hold serving as his cell, and he was almost certain a storm brewed.
Sweat clung to his skin. His leather coat was musty and damp, the chains on his wrists pulled tight, wearing away at his festering skin where he'd uselessly attempted to pry himself loose. His feet had swelled in his boots, and he couldn't have yanked them off if he tried.
He supposed his one consolation was that he wasn't trapped in the bowels of a Royal Navy ship. From what he'd overheard before being locked away, Albus Dumbledore had hired privateers to thwart him. The navy could not be negotiated with, but privateers? Perhaps.
He had no notion of time in the blackness but for the distant bells and occasional delivery of brackish water and scraps of food. Harry's screams of agony echoed in his mind.
Why the devil had he wasted so much time keeping Harry at bay? He should have kissed him every moment he could. Now he never would again, and it tore at him with razor teeth.
Did Harry live? He prayed uselessly to any god listening that he'd survived. That he hadn't died to save his sorry life.
It played out again and again in his memory: Harry hurling himself in front of that blade, accepting its grievous wound without a second thought.
He hadn't believed he could love again, and in that moment he'd known how wrong he'd been. How deeply love could truly gash, crippling him. He offered bargain after bargain to the universe, promising up anything… everything… in return for Harry's safety.
To not know Harry's fate was torture, the misery waking him from fitful bouts of sleep, his heart seizing, lungs frozen. Of course, he'd asked for news, and of course he was denied. He hadn't even been told where he was being taken for trial.
And what of the men? He'd drawn the attention of the privateers with explosions and mayhem so Snape and the others who'd survived the battle could escape. He'd stayed with his ship as long as he could, and would have remained to the end if he hadn't been beaten into submission by too many men to fight. The Death Eater might sail again, but without Lord Voldemort.
He laughed harshly, rats scurrying at the burst of sound. Lord Voldemort was dead, at least in spirit, with his body soon to follow. His ending had been inevitable, and he only wished it had not come at Harry's expense. All that for a ransom that meant nothing now.
He should have left Harry aboard that merchant ship with his sister, should have left him to his safe, comfortable future. Stifling and unfulfilling as it might have been.
One night… or day… he awoke hard, craving Harry. In his dream, Harry had reached for him, entreating him to come to bed. Yet he had been unable to move. Now he ached…
He yearned to hear Harry's cries of pleasure. To bring him bliss with mouth and hands and cock. Then to hold him as they slept, breathe him in, close and safe and warm.
He yearned to kiss him.
The loss should have been like an arm or leg destroyed in battle and then excised. Over the years, several of his men had suffered this fate, the mangled, useless limb sawed off before it could cause any more damage. An infection could spread to the bloodstream.
That ruined flesh and bone was tossed overboard, abandoned in the ship's wake to be devoured by the creatures of the deep.
Yet Harry refused to be left behind. The loss of him was more than a phantom ache or a hollowed-out chasm. No, it filled him to his very limits, unyielding pressure against his skin, expanding with every breath, choking him.
He wished his own soft, useless flesh would dissolve and leave him made of only pitiless bone.
To love could only be madness.
He'd been so certain he'd learned that lesson, but locked away with only rats for company, it was clear he was a glutton for punishment. That Harry had thrown himself into harm's way for his sake clawed at him, the guilt a living, pulsing creature. He would give anything to change it, to take the pain away and keep Harry unharmed.
He clenched his empty hands. It was foolishness to yearn for a memento he could touch, some token or scrap of cloth or jewellery, Harry's plain-handled dagger, even. He had tucked it in his boot, but it had been confiscated, lost to him now.
There was nothing tangible left of Harry. Even the scratches on his chest… the marks Harry had made when he'd insisted their relationship was real… were gone, his traitorous flesh mending.
Real.
As the days passed in perpetual darkness, Voldemort did wonder if it had all been a feverish dream. He knew distantly that his captivity could have been worse. He wasn't tortured, and they shoved in enough water and hard biscuits to keep him alive.
Torment wasn't being trapped in the stinking bowels of the brig, knowing he would soon die. That he could accept. That fate he'd expected for years. It was the idea of living the rest of his miserable life without Harry that was utterly loathsome.
True hell was to love.
When the storm hit he wasn't surprised, the portent thick even in the scant air that reached the filth of his cell. He hated not being at the helm, and could only hope the men in charge were able. He had no reason to think they weren't, but as he was tossed from side to side like a child's plaything, he wasn't so sure.
The shackles around his wrists were attached to the wall, and his shoulders burned as he was thrown about. He feared they might be wrenched from their sockets, which of course conjured memories of Harry racing up into the rigging to rescue Lestrange. Fearless and brave and beautiful.
The yearning would have brought him to his knees if he hadn't already been sprawled, powerless in the heaving waves. Squeezing his eyes shut even though he was in darkness, he allowed himself the luxury of pretending he was back in the cabin that had been his only home for so long.
Returned to his bed, Harry sweet and sighing in his arms, their lips meeting endlessly, no words needed.
They'd survived.
And judging by the ship's speed and tell tale noises echoing along the hull, they were nearing a harbour and making to drop anchor. Sure enough, sailors came soon to drag him from his cell, pulling and shoving him like an animal. Wrists still shackled, he was barely able to get his feet under him.
The captain, a tall, older man named Kingsley who'd styled his graying hair as if it were a wig with curls over his ears, approached belowdecks, scowling. He buttoned his waistcoat,
"This is your final port of call, scum. I can't decide which is the worse offense… the piracy or desertion. Suppose it doesn't much matter, given you'll hang regardless. Shame you won't have a bigger audience."
To the crew nearby, he announced,
"I'm taking him ashore with the vanguard. As soon as we have our money, we're leaving this godforsaken place."
Blinking in the harsh glare, refusing to bow his head, Voldemort shuffled onto the main deck and saw Godric's Hollow by the light of day,
"Where the hell's the rest of it?"
