Disclaimer - I own nothing you recognise.
Challenges listed at the bottom.
Word Count: 4607
Warnings: Suicidal thoughts / wishing for death / character death / murder
wrong or right (please prove me right)
The ground was scorched, the dead splayed out, the victors cheering. The war was over, and the Dark Side had prevailed.
Harry found that he didn't care. He was exhausted, tired down to his very soul.
He'd tried his best and been found wanting; he'd been bested by the more experienced, the more powerful, and now he was just glad it was over.
Harry knew that he wouldn't be allowed a quick death. He'd be played with first, used as a symbol of the Dark's victory, but eventually, he'd be sent into the welcoming arms of death.
He looked forward to it.
…
Voldemort surveyed the room, his eyes resting on each of their captives before they finally came to rest on Potter.
The boy—young man now, he supposed—had been the quietest. He sat in the corner, his arms and legs bound, his head resting back against the wall behind him.
He looked like he'd given up.
The sight should be satisfying after so many years fighting the brat, but it wasn't. Potter had been a worthy adversary; it seemed wrong to see him so… empty.
"My Lord, what would you have us do with them?" Rodolphus asked, nodding to the captives.
Voldemort glanced his way and then smiled. "Have them taken to the dungeons at Malfoy Manor. I'll see to them later."
"And Potter?"
"Him too. And Rodolphus?"
"Yes, My Lord?"
"I do not want him harmed. Once he's in a cell, untie him, allow him some comfort and feed the boy. He looks like he hasn't had a meal in months."
…
Harry could see the remaining Weasleys in the cells close by. Kingsley and Tonks were in the ones across from him. McGonagall sat primly in the cell in the far corner, her eyes stern and unyielding in the same way they'd always been.
Harry didn't know how she was doing it.
Molly was crying, leaning against the bars she shared with Arthur. The sound grated on Harry's ears. What good was crying going to do now?
Their death sentences were as good as passed already; crying wouldn't change them. Voldemort wouldn't be moved by her tears or her grief.
The other cells were filled with others, many of them crying, a few of them screaming, and fewer still emulating McGonagall.
A few of them asked him for help and he felt an odd amusement rise in him. Hadn't they just watched him fail? Hadn't he tried and tried and tried?
He didn't know what else they could possibly want from him; he'd given all he could.
Oddly, Harry had been unbound as soon as the cell doors had been spelled shut. The others were still tied, but Harry had been freed, and delivered food and blankets, and a bottle of water.
Kingsley's voice, still calm even now, had carried over the cells, warning Harry not to eat or drink.
He hadn't planned on it, but the warning rankled. Harry wasn't a child and he wasn't stupid. He almost wanted to eat and drink if only because he'd been told not to.
Instead, he'd ignored the tray and kicked the blankets into the corner, curling up on the stone ground instead. He wouldn't sleep, he knew. He hadn't slept for days, but exhaustion didn't mean that he would get any rest.
He just waited, silently, for the pain to be renewed.
…
One by one, the prisoners were brought to Voldemort's feet. He sat in his throne-like chair, his wand twirling almost absently between his long fingers as he told each of them the same thing.
"The war is done. Conform to the new world, or die."
It was a simple choice; he'd learned long ago that giving people a simple choice was often the path of least resistance, and despite the beliefs of the people being brought in front of him, Voldemort didn't want to kill them all.
Magic was precious, and the people that were gifted with it deserved the chance to live.
Many of them did not take it.
Minerva McGonagall was the first to choose life, and she was gifted for her choice with her job. Severus was gone, and Voldemort knew that Minerva McGonagall was the most competent choice for Headmistress of his beloved school.
She would be monitored; but he thought that perhaps, she was more reasonable than most of those on the losing side.
Kingsley Shacklebolt was another who chose to conform, and he was returned to the Auror office. A pureblood, his magic strong—he would have been a waste of a death, and Voldemort was pleased.
Others were not so smart.
Molly Weasley tried to appeal to his sense of compassion; an unfortunate choice for her given he didn't have one. His only kindness was the swiftness of the spell that took the air from her lungs.
Her husband and youngest children followed soon after.
Percy Weasley chose to conform, as Lucius had informed Voldemort that he would; the boy's ambition had long outstripped his attachment to family, after all. William and Charles had requested leave to return to their chosen homes in other countries, and Voldemort had accepted their vow to never return to England and let them on their way.
The last remaining, one half of a twin set that had already been destroyed, had simply stared at him with empty eyes until green light stole the life from his body and he slumped to the ground, relief in every crease of his features.
It was a kindness.
On and on it went, and when only Potter was left, Voldemort decided that he didn't want that confrontation yet.
"Take him more food and ensure his comfort," were his only orders when asked if he'd like the boy brought to him.
"My Lord, he hasn't eaten a single thing since he's been here, and the blankets have been ignored in favour of the ground."
Voldemort barely bit back a sigh. Were these idiots wizards or not?
"Then spell the food into his stomach, and the ground soft. I have not come this far only for him to succumb to dehydration or illness."
…
Harry was left for three days, if the sun through the tiny windows could be believed. The ground he'd curled up on had been cushioned, blankets charmed to slide over him whenever he moved.
He didn't fight them.
He had no idea why this was happening, why he hadn't yet been murdered, but he didn't particularly care. He'd die eventually, even if they left him here to rot. Harry was good at waiting; he'd had plenty of practice.
A clatter signalled the arrival of whichever Death Eater had been sent to check on him, and Harry didn't bother looking up to see who it was. It didn't matter in the long run—they didn't speak to him, and he didn't speak to them.
There were footsteps and then silence, and still Harry didn't move. After a long pause, Harry heard the bars sliding, opening the cell to his visitor. Was it finally time for his death?
He found himself hoping so.
A surprisingly gentle hand manipulated his body until he was looking up into the vibrant red eyes of the Dark Lord.
Voldemort was frowning down at him.
"You weren't supposed to give up, Potter."
…
Voldemort found himself distracted. He'd finally won, the country was his to own, his to run, and yet, the victory felt strangely hollow.
His Horcruxes, almost all of them, had been destroyed. Only one remained, and ironically, it was one he never intended on at all.
And now, in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor, Potter lay in his cell, the light gone from his eyes as he stared unseeing at the wall. It rankled.
Was it really a victory if his biggest enemy simply rolled over and accepted the loss like it meant nothing? Was it really a victory when Tom now knew that he needed the boy to survive?
Voldemort had seen more life in the victims of the Dementor's kiss.
While he'd planned Potter's death for so long as a point of pride in the war, now he was forced to change all of his plans.
To what, he didn't know yet.
…
Harry was moved from the dungeons to a tastefully decorated bedroom. He didn't really care beyond a brief curiosity at the change. It didn't make much of a difference in the long run.
It was one cell for another, no matter the decor.
The bathroom was a welcome addition though, and he did enjoy the long shower he took once he'd been left alone.
Dressed in fresh clothes, Harry curled up in the armchair by the window of the room. He didn't trust the view, of course—window charms weren't uncommon—but it was still nicer than the dungeons.
He ignored the food brought to him by the elves, staying where he was as the sky outside slowly darkened.
Instead of testing the bed, Harry remained in the chairs, his eyes on the stars. If only wishes upon them worked, his life wouldn't be what it was now.
His friends would all be okay, his godfather happy and laughing, his school the bright place it had been when he was eleven years old and seeing it for the first time.
The Dark Lord wouldn't be… or perhaps he would; Tom Riddle could have been an exceptional beacon for the world. Harry couldn't help but remember the young Tom he'd met in the diary, the intelligent, ambitious boy that could have changed the world for the better.
And he could have, Harry didn't doubt that.
It is our choices that show who we really are.
Dumbledore had never been more correct.
…
Voldemort stood in the doorway, watching the boy. He'd been sitting in the chair for hours, according to the monitoring charms placed on the room.
Stepping inside, he let the door fall closed behind him, and sat down on the bed. Slowly, Potter turned to look at him.
"Why am I here?"
Voldemort almost chuckled. "Is that an existential question, Potter? I'd rather thought we'd work our way up to such interesting conversation topics."
Potter merely sighed and didn't reply.
"Did you truly believe I'd kill you, when I learned the truth?" Voldemort asked softly, his voice carrying in the silence.
Potter arched an eyebrow. "The truth?"
"You house my soul, Potter. You've gotten rid of almost all of them—yes, I know all about your adventures—but not the one inside yourself. No, only I could rid you of that one."
…
Harry knew Voldemort knew of the others; hadn't he seen the man finding his hiding places empty? He was surprised though, that Voldemort knew of the one in Harry's scar.
Dumbledore hadn't believed he'd been aware.
Or perhaps it was a new awareness. Harry didn't know. Nor did it make much of a difference because the bottom line was now that Harry wouldn't be allowed the freedom of death.
"So I'm to be caged for eternity?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. "Caged so that you can live forever?"
Voldemort regarded him for a long moment and then sighed. "That's the question, isn't it, Potter? What to do with a living Horcrux?"
Harry didn't have an answer. How long would it be before he went utterly insane, locked in a room? Voldemort would never trust him with any amount of freedom—objectively not a terrible idea on his part—and Harry wouldn't be allowed to die.
It was a conundrum, but Harry couldn't help but regard it with an absent curiosity. He felt numb to the fact that it was his own situation.
Actually, he just felt numb in general.
…
"For now, you will remain here," Voldemort said eventually. "If you would like company, I will ensure you are provided for."
"Who's left?" Potter asked, his face blank of emotion. It was such an odd contrast to the once passionate boy who'd do anything to save anyone.
"Miss Granger chose life," Voldemort said eventually.
Potter's eyes widened slightly. "You gave people a choice?"
"Of course. I am merciful."
There was a choking sound, and Voldemort realised Potter was trying to bite back a laugh.
"You're not serious," Potter muttered. "The day you show mercy to anyone is the day pigs fly unaided by a spell."
"And yet, here we are. Minerva McGonagall is back at Hogwarts, Kingsley Shacklebolt in his place at the Ministry. I do not intend to waste magic, Potter."
"The Weasleys?"
Most of them had chosen death, of course. "William, Charles and Percy are all still amongst the living."
"Ron and Ginny?"
"Chose to die."
Potter nodded, running a hand through his hair. "Right. I. Yeah. I suppose I expected as much."
Voldemort nodded and then stood. He'd given Potter enough to think about, and he supposed he should send someone to track down Miss Granger.
…
"Harry?"
Harry didn't have time to even turn before arms were wrapping around him, tight enough to compress his lungs.
Harry hugged Hermione back for a long time, feeling her tears soak into the t-shirt he was wearing, until she pulled back.
Unable to conjure a second chair for her, he tugged her onto his lap, his hand playing with the ends of her hair.
"I thought you were dead," she whispered.
"I thought I would be too," he agreed. "They didn't hurt you?"
She shook her head. "No. I was planning to go to Australia. Find mum and dad, you know? Maybe stay there. I didn't think there was anything left for me here."
"You should still go," Harry told her. "If anyone deserves a fresh start, it's you."
"I can't just leave you here!"
"I'll never be allowed to leave," Harry replied softly. "He figured out that his last Horcrux is in me. He'll never let me leave now."
"He can't just keep you locked up in this room," she said, frowning. "Harry… you'll go mad."
"I can't fight him," Harry replied. "Even practically, I'd have no chance. I have no wand, but more than that… I can't fight anymore. I tried, Hermione. I tried so goddamn hard, for so long, and I just… I can't fight anymore."
"I know," she told him, stroking her hand through his hair. "I know. I was there, Harry, I saw you give it your all. And hey, we did well, didn't we? We managed to stay alive for nearly a year with half of the Wizarding community after us."
Harry chuckled. "Yeah, I guess we did. I just want peace now. I just want to be left alone. Forgotten about."
She stared at him for a long moment. "You wanted him to kill you."
Harry shrugged. "I thought he would. Death didn't sound so bad."
She bit her lip. "They said I can stay with you. For as long as—"
"No," Harry said, shaking his head. "I'm glad to see you, and you have no idea how happy I am that you're alive, but you can't stay here, Hermione. I need you to go to Australia and find your parents, and then live your life. Do something amazing, have lots of incredible babies that will change the world, have some fun. But you can't stay here, Hermione."
"I can't just leave you."
Harry nodded. "You can and you will. Maybe they'll let you write to me. Tell me about the world, about what you end up doing. I'd like that. I… Don't make me be responsible for you being held captive, Hermione. Please."
"Maybe I can visit a little? Maybe once a year?"
"Maybe. I… I guess I could ask for that. He said I could have company if I wanted it so… maybe it'll be allowed."
"I can stay for a while now though?" she asked then. "My flight isn't for a few days, Harry. I can stay with you until then."
He smiled, squeezing her hip. "Okay."
…
Voldemort expected them to ask for a guest room for Granger, and when they didn't, he found himself checking in on them. Granger was curled up on the bed, fast asleep, but Potter was still in the chair.
"She's staying?" Voldemort asked quietly.
Potter shook his head. "Not for long. Just until her flight to Australia."
"She didn't want to stay, even knowing you're alive?" Voldemort asked, admittedly confused. He'd watched the girl stand by Potter for years, why would this be different?
Potter smiled, her eyes on her. "She wanted to, but I told her no. I'm trapped here, but she isn't. She's got so much to offer the world; she deserves more than a caged existence."
His words didn't settle well with Voldemort.
"I could make her stay."
"You could," Potter agreed. "But I don't think you will."
"Oh? So sure you know my motivations, Potter?"
"Definitely not," Potter replied. "But I can only go by your own words. You offered her a choice. You don't want to waste magic. To keep her here would be against my choice, and it would be an absolute waste of one of the brightest minds of the current generation. So, no. I don't think you'll force her to stay."
"And what about you, Potter?"
"What do you mean?"
"If I allowed you a choice. What would you do?"
Potter sighed. "I'd go back to the Muggle World. Travel perhaps. Anything that didn't include more fighting."
"You wouldn't try and kill me?"
"No. No, I wouldn't. But it's all a moot point. You won't endanger me because I'm part of you, and the world is inherently dangerous, even without a war."
Voldemort couldn't argue. He left the room feeling unsettled. As he closed the door, he saw Potter finally abandon his chair for the bed, not to get in it, but to sit beside Granger and stroke her hair.
He tried to ignore the tears on the boy's face.
…
Hermione had sobbed when they were parted, but Harry smiled, promising her he'd be okay. Made her promise to live her life for herself, and maybe write to him occasionally.
He was expecting her to write the first letter hours after her flight landed, if he was honest.
She was led from the room by a house-elf, and Harry flopped onto the bed, staring up at the canopy above. Alone again.
At least alone meant she was okay. And she would be, he had no doubt about that. Hermione had always been destined for amazing things.
The door to his room opened, and when he looked up, it was to see Draco standing in the doorway. Harry arched his eyebrow as he sat up, eyeing his school rival carefully.
Draco rolled his eyes. "Come with me, Potter."
Curious despite himself, Harry followed him from the room, down a long corridor until they reached a set of double doors.
Draco opened one and slipped through, clearly expecting Harry to follow, which he did.
He found them in a library, high walls stacked with books, and a small table and chairs in the middle, by a fireplace.
"The Dark Lord has instructed that you are to have open access to the library. If you need anything, Anabel is the elf assigned here. She'll be able to guide you to any specific books, or get you parchment, quills and ink if you've a mind."
Harry nodded, glancing around. "Wanna point me in the direction of the Quidditch books?"
Draco snorted, but pointed to the left hand side of the library. "Third shelf up from the bottom."
Harry nodded. "I—Thanks. Tell him thanks, too, I guess."
"... You're welcome, Potter."
Draco left him alone, and Harry moved slowly around the library, looking at the many books on offer.
A vague plan began in the back of his mind.
It was a long shot, he knew, but perhaps not impossible.
For the first time since he'd been bound, Harry felt a stirring of hope in his chest. Maybe all wasn't quite lost. Not yet.
…
"He appears to be searching for something specific, if his book choices are anything to go by," Lucius said, handing over the parchment that automatically recorded the books lifted from the shelves in the library.
Voldemort scanned the books and chuckled. Potter was searching for books on Horcruxes, that much was evident, though to what end, Voldemort could only guess.
It couldn't be to get rid of it; Potter knew the few substances that could destroy a Horcrux, and he knew he wouldn't be able to access any of them in the Manor.
Perhaps it was to move the Horcrux to a new home; a long shot, but not completely impossible, though the reasoning was beyond Voldemort if that was what the boy was searching for.
Should he find something, he would literally be giving Voldemort the means to kill him.
Unless that was what he wanted.
Standing up, Voldemort swept from the room and went in search of Potter.
…
Harry was taking notes when the doors were opened with a bang. Voldemort walked inside, his eyes glowing with what Harry suspected was anger.
"It won't work."
Harry glanced down at his parchment. "It might."
"I won't take the risk," Voldemort told him firmly. "This isn't a regular Horcrux, Potter. I didn't do the rituals, I didn't split my soul intentionally at Godric's Hollow. Even if you found a foolproof way to move a Horcrux, that does not mean it would work in this situation."
Harry stared at him for a long moment and then dropped his quill, slumping back in his seat.
"There's really no way out."
It was a sinking realisation, one he'd already had multiple times, and yet this time, it seemed to hit with more finality.
Voldemort stared at him for a long moment and then sat down in one of the seats facing Harry.
"I find myself unwilling to leave you so… unhappy," he said, looking rather perturbed by the thought. "I can give you everything but freedom."
Harry stared at him for a long moment. "Are the grounds warded?"
Voldemort nodded slowly.
"Then can I go for a walk? You can come, or send someone else with me. I just… I'd like to be outside for a while."
There was a long pause, and then Voldemort stood. "Come."
…
The new routine was… oddly settling.
Voldemort spent the morning doing paperwork—being a Dark Lord came with a surprising amount, particularly now he'd won—before he'd find Potter in the library. The two of them would take a walk on the grounds, mostly in silence, before Voldemort's meetings.
After his meetings, Voldemort would once more seek Potter out, usually in the library again, and spend a few companionable hours with him.
Of course, there were times when the routine was interrupted, and Voldemort found himself getting more and more irritable when that happened.
Curses flew much easier when he hadn't spent some time with Potter before his meetings, and his Death Eaters began to dread the days that something came up.
He considered whether it was a weakness, his newfound companionship, but decided it didn't matter in the long run. Potter, as home to his soul, was already his biggest weakness.
Now though, three days into a disaster at the Ministry, and Voldemort was considering murdering his whole following if it meant he got half an hour's peace.
…
"Potter?"
Harry looked up from his book to see Lucius in the doorway of the library.
"Is he okay?" he asked. He hated that he felt the need to ask, that he even cared when every single part of him knew that it was ridiculous, but he couldn't help it. Voldemort was his only constant.
Lucius' eyes widened. "He is… agitated."
"Can I do anything to help?"
"I… think so. But this is a risk, Potter. You should be forewarned of that."
Harry put the book down. "He won't hurt me. You should be warning yourself. If anyone is going to take the brunt of your plan going wrong, it will be you."
Lucius paused and then nodded. "It will be worth it. If you're sure, come with me."
Harry stood up and followed Lucius from the library. He didn't know what he was walking into, but it was different, and… Harry wanted to be useful.
Even if it was to Voldemort.
Perhaps especially because it was Voldemort.
He didn't know anymore.
…
Voldemort was only aware of Harry's presence when he saw his messy hair moving amongst the cloaks of his gathered followers. He watched in barely concealed disbelief as Potter sat down at the foot of Voldemort's throne, leaning back against the leg of it, as though it was something they did every day.
There was silence in the room, as though every single person was holding their breath for the explosion that was sure to come.
And yet.
Voldemort felt himself calming a little, and his hand slipped into Potter's hair, playing with the strands that were in perfect reaching distance.
"Avery, continue with your report," he ordered, turning his attention back to the meeting.
As Avery spoke, Voldemort twirled his wand almost absently, conjuring a comfortable pillow beneath Harry. They were going to be there for a while, it wouldn't do for the boy to be uncomfortable.
…
Harry stayed until the end of the meeting, watching the Death Eaters trail out, only a few of them brave enough to look back at Voldemort with Harry at his feet.
"Lucius, I presume?" Voldemort asked, when they were alone.
Harry nodded. "He felt that perhaps I would be able to ease your… agitation."
"You've been stuck inside for three days now," Voldemort pointed out.
"I have. I… I'm glad you're okay. I was… concerned."
Harry ducked his head slightly, so he wouldn't have to see whatever Voldemort thought of Harry's concern.
There was silence for a long moment, and then Voldemort stood and held his hand out for Harry.
"Come, Harry. Let us take a walk, you must have energy to spare."
Harry took the offered hand and let Voldemort pull him to his feet.
Their hands didn't part as Voldemort led to the doors.
…
"What… why do you have that?" Harry asked, frowning at Voldemort.
Voldemort handed the object over to Harry and hoped that the boy understood. Harry accepted his wand with wide eyes, staring at Voldemort for a long moment.
"You're letting me go."
Voldemort nodded once. "In the hopes that when you're ready, you'll come back to me."
"Why?"
"Because I believe if I keep you locked up here, you will be content, perhaps, but never happy. I… would like you to be happy."
"You trust me?" Harry asked.
"More than I trust anyone else," Voldemort admitted. "Perhaps it is folly on my part, perhaps not. Only you can prove me wrong or right, Harry."
Harry stood, pocketing his wand, and reached out to cup Voldemort's cheek. Voldemort leant into the touch, unable to help himself.
"I'll come back."
And then he was gone.
Voldemort could only wait, and hope that he hadn't just made a mistake.
…
"My Lord?"
Voldemort looked up to see Lucius standing in the doorway to his office, a smile on his face that hadn't been present for a while.
"What is it, Lucius?"
"You have a visitor, my Lord. Should I show him in?"
Voldemort nodded silently, waiting impatiently. He didn't have time for interruptions and he'd ensure that whoever it was—
Harry stepped into the room, a small smile on his face. "I told you I'd come back."
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