Chapter 2

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"Harry, please, come in," the Minister said with a smile, gesturing to one of the chairs in front of his desk. The older man paused, a worried look crossing his face. "You look terrible. Did you sleep at all last night?"

Harry grimaced, shrugging, and took a seat.

He hadn't. At all. He had stayed with Voldemort, lying on the floor. Had remained there all bloody night until he'd had to leave for this meeting.

He hadn't been able to go. He'd tried. He must have said he was leaving ten times last night and this morning and each time, the silence that met the pronouncement stilled him. Voldemort had not told him to go. Granted, he had not told him to stay either, but surely if the man had wanted him to clear out he would have said that.

"Did you have another panic attack when you got home?"

Damnit. Now the Minister would think he was frail, or mental, or Merlin knew what.

"No, nothing like that. I just got to thinking, that's all. I'm fine." Harry flashed him his best, brightest smile. "Really."

Kingsley considered him for a few more moments and then relaxed.

"If you say so." The older man gestured to a side table. "Coffee? Tea?"

Harry shook his head. The Minster raised his wand, cast a privacy ward, and then folded his hands on his desk.

"Alright, then," Kingsley sighed. "Let's talk about Voldemort."

Harry tensed and tried to keep his face blank as he began.

"I can understand why you didn't seek me out and tell me he was alive, but why did you lie to me when I asked about him? I hate when people keep secrets from me, especially about Voldemort. Hasn't anyone learned that that never ends well? Why keep me in the dark like Dumbledore always did? I'm an Auror, for Merlin's sake, and I managed to capture the man once before, why not let me help?"

Kingsley eyed him.

"Harry, it's true that I didn't want to bother you with this. But beyond that, this is a very delicate matter that cannot become public knowledge."

"You know, I've kept many secrets throughout my life, I think I could have handled—"

"You would have told Hermione and Ron. And your fiancée. That's three people that I can't control knowing this."

Harry scoffed.

"Those three guards know, they were no one special."

"Those three guards are under a very strict Unbreakable Vow."

"You could have asked me to take one," Harry said quietly. Sullenly.

Kingsley sighed.

"Which brings me back to not wanting to bother you with this. You don't need a Vow hanging over you that will kill you if you accidentally let this slip. You deserve a full life, a happy life."

"Is that what I have now?"

Shit.

Kingsley frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing. You should have told me."

Kingsley watched him for a few moments while Harry tried not to fidget.

"Well, what can I say? I'm sorry I never told you. I still think it was the right choice, there is nothing you can do anyways, and it can only complicate your life, but—" he said, putting up his hands to forestall Harry's obvious impending objection, "I can see that you disagree, so I will simply apologize again. I'm sorry."

The Minister rubbed his nose and leaned back in his chair.

"So what now? Are you getting yourself involved?"

Harry grimaced.

He'd been involved even before he'd known this was a thing. He'd always been involved. In a disturbing way Harry felt mildly possessive. Voldemort was his. His life and his death and everything in between. It had always been just them, pitted against each other, forced to fight either by a prophecy Voldemort had felt compelled to heed to ensure his future, or by the Headmaster's not-so-subtle setups that had pushed them into confrontations almost every year of his schooling.

They were so interdependent that it was laughable to deny it. He had been miraculously responsible for ending Voldemort's first rein of terror, he had been chosen by Voldemort personally as his equal and his enemy, they had shared an unprecedented mental link, an ability to communicate in an ancient language no one else living spoke, and Harry had even sheltered the man's soul for sixteen years.

Not to mention, Voldemort's very body had been painstakingly created using Harry's own blood.

So yes. He was pretty involved.

"I trusted you," Harry whispered. "I surrendered him to you and you said that he would get a trial. That was a lie. Then, you said you'd executed him. That was a lie, too. Can I trust you at all? Is he really as powerful as you say? Or are you just manipulating me to try and kill him this time because you say it can't be done?"

"He is as powerful as I told you. I can show you memories—"

"Memories can be faked."

"Yes, of course, but you know the difference. Or, I can take you to him and prove it."

"You mean, kill him in front of me."

"He. Won't. Die," Kingsley said, emphasizing each word harshly with a fist on his leg. "Believe me, Harry. No matter what I do, he won't die."

Harry looked away and blew out a breath.

"I don't know what to believe anymore."

.

.

Harry impatiently waited for the lift to open and then walked down the corridor to the metal door. There was a guard sitting in a chair just outside, writing something on parchment. He was one of the men Harry had seen yesterday. The day before? Who knew.

"Mr Potter. The Minister said you could go in, but you're—" Harry opened the door, completely ignoring the man, and walked down to the last cell. "You're not allowed inside anymore! Mr Potter!"

"Does that rule apply to you, too?" Harry muttered quietly to himself, and opened Voldemort's cell.

The man was standing up, chained by the wrists to the table, naked and dripping wet.

He must have just been brought back or the guards had dried the floor. Voldemort looked like he'd been hosed or… waterboarded. He was panting, eyes struggling to keep open and focused on Harry. His ribs quivered with each staggered breath and his whole body was trembling. The fresh, blood-red scrape he had seen on his left cheekbone earlier now looked swollen and painful.

"Merlin, are you okay?"

Harry walked to him and conjured a blanket. He threw it over Voldemort's shoulders, but the man flinched away violently, clashing his chained wrists against the metal hoops in the table top. Harry watched him fall to his knees, which was as far as the restraints would allow him to go.

"Fuck, sorry—"

He reached out to try and help him up, but Voldemort keened and rasped, "Please!"

Harry froze, lifting his hands to show he was stepping away. Voldemort had his eyes slammed shut, hunched against the table, crouching and trying to get as much of his body underneath it as he could.

Harry could only stare. He felt like the worst kind of voyeur, trespassing on a private moment that the Dark Lord would never want him to see. He knew the man would be mortified by his actions. Was Voldemort so broken that he had lost his pride? His shame?

It was almost embarrassing, but then Harry remembered that, without that collar, Voldemort would kneel and tremble before no one. It must be agony for the brilliant Lord Voldemort to be forced to cower like this. Was he somewhere, locked safely in his mind, watching himself and cringing? Or, was this perhaps all that was left of the once untouchable Dark Lord after twelve years of torture and separation from his magic?

"Voldemort? It's Harry. Can you hear me? I'm not going to hurt you."

Harry bent down and tried to catch the man's eyes, but they were shut tight.

"Hey, look at me. I didn't hurt you all last night and this morning, did I? I told you, I don't want to hurt you— I won't. Come on, stand up, that must be painful on your wrists— Jesus!"

Harry had stood and peered down at the manacles only to see the man's bones twisted at an unnatural angle and clearly fractured.

"They're broken, aren't they? Did you do that just now? Fuck, Voldemort, get up. Come on, stand up, you're going to rip yourself apart."

Harry slowly brought his hand out and pressed it gently under the man's armpit to support him, but Voldemort once again keened and flinched away, further straining his injured wrists.

Merlin. Would a healing spell work on him with that collar? Only one way to find out.

"Episkey!" Harry incanted, hoping that would do something— bugger, he needed to refresh his healing spells if he was going to become a regular visitor here.

Voldemort gasped and was forced to shift towards Harry as the bones reset. The limbs looked straighter now, but far from perfect.

"Please," Voldemort begged, his eyes slammed shut, his expression pained. "No more, I cannot—"

"Shh," Harry soothed, moving as close as he dared, but not touching him.

Voldemort was clearly trapped in his head.

"It's Harry," he said gently, feeling like he was trying to get a wild Hippogriff to trust him. "Harry Potter. Your nemesis, remember? I'm here in your cell and you are cold and wet, but there is no one else here and you are safe."

Harry did not tack on the for now that he felt was more honest.Merlin. This was way above his pay grade.

Voldemort was still panting, paper-thin eyelids squeezed shut, but his breath seemed to be evening out a bit. Harry found his eyes helplessly drawn to that collar; how it reflected the low light, what it meant, what it was holding at bay, all that power so close…

His fingers flexed, itching to touch it, but more than that, he wanted to see if it could be removed. Harry knew that that thought was absolutely mental and it would lose him his job and certainly his life, but the pull of it was unimaginable.

He shook his head and rubbed his tired eyes. Back to the problem at hand. What the hell could he do here? There was a slim possibility that if he bared some of his own weakness, maybe that would distract and placate Voldemort.

Worth a try.

"Want to know something hilarious?" Harry attempted with a smile. "When I was in my second year at Hogwarts, I found your diary— well, your Horcrux, I suppose, but the funny part is that when I met Tom Riddle I became obsessed with him. Hermione, my friend— you remember her? Probably Undesirable Number Two? Your girlfriend tortured her?"

Harry saw a vivid flash of a knife pressed to Hermione's throat and swallowed down his anger.

"But anyway. Your diary. Tom Riddle. I had the biggest crush on him. Well, on you, I guess."

Harry paused, hoping to see a reaction in Voldemort and the man did stop breathing for a second. After a moment, though, he continued, but Harry was sure he had heard and understood what Harry had said.

"It's true. You were so handsome and smart… I remember staying up late to write to you, and imagining what it would be like if you could come out of the pages and hang out with me. And you sounded so sincere, I totally bought your story about saving the school."

Harry chuckled quietly.

"What an idiot, I know. But once I found out who you were— who you actually were— I felt so betrayed. Not to the cause or whatever, but to me, personally. I liked you. I wanted to believe that you were a hero."

Harry ran a hand through his hair and pushed back to sit cross-legged on the floor.

"I never forgave you for that. You made me want to believe in you and that… It never really went away."

So much for a happy memory. There could be none of those between them.

Voldemort had gotten his breathing under control and had opened his vividly red eyes, but they stayed downcast, not meeting Harry's. A slight frown pressed on his hairless brow.

"You met my Horcrux." Voldemort spoke slowly, the crease between his eyes deepening. "I did not know they could be so sentient. It was my intention to possess a student and free my basilisk, but it sounds like he was able to do more than that."

Harry nodded.

"Yup. He was almost able to get his body back. What would have happened then? Would there have been two of you? One young and one old? Would you have worked together?" Harry laughed, trying to picture it. "I can't imagine you treating someone as an equal."

A dark emotion flashed across the man's face and he closed his eyes.

"I suspect you will find me very changed, then," Voldemort muttered in his eerily high voice.

Harry's eyes slid unbidden to Voldemort's neck. He cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the man's tone, but then… trying to accept that Voldemort was mastered was so laughable that Harry felt a small smile tug at his lips.

"Yeah, maybe. But it's not really you, is it? It's what they've reduced you to. That doesn't count. What you do to survive… it's not who you are. They're piss terrified of you, by the way. All of them, even the Minister. They have no bloody clue what to do with you."

Voldemort met his eyes searchingly for a moment and Harry saw a flash of life, of pride enter that gaze finally. A glimpse of the man he knew.

Harry tried to suppress a smirk and failed. He shouldn't be rooting for Voldemort to regain his arrogance. Oh well, too late now.

"Come on, you must be in agony like that. Can I help you stand?"

Voldemort froze, regarding Harry with his face lowered, and slowly flexed his fingers. He winced.

"Let me help you," Harry said, exasperated, and got to his feet.

When he stood over Voldemort, the older man looked up and flinched drastically, pulling back and sucking in a breath with tight lips.

"Easy," Harry soothed, backing up a pace. "It's okay. I won't hurt you, remember? It's just boring Harry Potter who had a crush on you."

Voldemort was not making eye contact and his ribs were expanding and compressing like a bellows.

"I loathe this," Voldemort whispered, his eyes falling closed as he obviously tried to regain his composure.

"I know," Harry answered. "I bet. Let me know if there is anything I can do to stop startling you. I know touching you is off and it looks like standing over you is, too. What else should I avoid?"

"You should avoid me, Potter."

Harry blinked, astounded to hear that defeated response. He had never thought that the Dark Lord could sound so self-deprecating. Surely Voldemort would never seek to distance himself from something useful. He'd had no problem with getting Wormtail to carry him like an infant and feed him snake venom, for Merlin's sake.

"I won't force you," Harry said, trying to keep his voice unaffected, "but you should get the pressure off your wrists. I reset the broken bones, though they are nowhere near healed. Can you stand? There are no chairs, but can I conjure one for you? Or help you lay on the table?"

"No," Voldemort said quickly.

Harry frowned.

"Was that no to the standing or the table?"

"It was no to everything, Potter!" Voldemort hissed, anger and humiliation clear in his voice, as his red eyes burned into Harry's. "This whole situation is unbearable! If I were able to emancipate myself, do you not think I would?"

Harry found himself taking another step back.

"Okay. I understand. I just want to help."

"Why, Potter? Why does the Golden Boy want to help his enemy? You are here to kill me, do not forget. I have not. Perhaps it upsets your delicate sensibilities to actually use some of that power available to you. But do not lie to me."

"I'm not," Harry assured him. "I told you, I do not want to kill you."

"Do not want," Voldemort quoted darkly.

Harry frowned in confusion, then caught on.

"Won't," he amended, almost like a promise. "I won't kill you. Do you think they could make me? You know personally that I am difficult to control. I can throw off even your Imperious Curse so I think I can handle anyone's."

Harry dragged his palm down over his face— Merlin, he was beat. He thought about just cutting his losses and going home, but he couldn't leave knowing Voldemort was suffering.

He shook his head incredulously as he reviewed that statement. His overactive Gryffindor sense of justice would not even allow the Dark Lord Voldemort to be hurt without sparking his protection.

"Look, do me a favour," he said, rubbing his eyes. "I'm trying not to think too hard about why I'm helping you. And it's difficult to do that when you keep questioning me. So, can we just accept that I am helping you and not get bogged down by why?"

Voldemort continued to scour Harry with his penetrating gaze, clearly weighing his words.

"I do not trust you."

Harry shrugged.

"I know. I guess you don't have to trust me. But I am going to keep trying to help you and you'll soon find, after extensive research on your part, that I am sincere. Plus, I don't scare easy, you'll remember, so stop trying."

Harry shifted, stifling a yawn.

"Alright. What if I levitate you up and conjure a chair?"

Voldemort's eyes flashed to his, fury and fear burning in them.

"You will not point you wand at me, Potter, if you wish me to entertain trusting you."

Harry held up his empty hands.

"Gotcha. Okay. So, where does that leave us?"

Voldemort dragged his legs together, obviously trying to stand on his own. He was trembling, his skin still like gooseflesh.

"Maybe I could conjure you a blanket and then, once you're warm, you could try again?"

The other man shook his head, his eyes haunted.

"I am not a fool," Voldemort muttered, his voice toneless and hollow. "I have been conditioned for twelve years to know that when help is offered, it is a trick at my expense. If I accept even a threadbare sheet, it will animate and strangle me or wrap around my wrists and ankles restraining me so that… so that…"

His eyes lost focus and drifted to just over Harry's left shoulder. He was obviously caught in a memory or a nightmare— perhaps they were the same thing.

"Okay—hey."

Harry shifted his stance so that his body would be in Voldemort's line of sight again. Those lost, snake-like eyes jerked and then focused back on him.

"What about if I brought you some potions? Healing potions, pain relief, maybe some calming draughts?"

Voldemort studied Harry with calculating intensity.

"This fallacy has also been employed before. If I admit I would benefit from something, or dare to ask, I am taunted with it and then harshly denied."

"That's… I'm sorry, that's messed up." Harry tried to bring forth an encouraging smile. "But I'm the one asking you, not the other way around. How about I go grab some now and you can decide if you want to take them?"

Voldemort gave no response to that, but watched him with his piercing gaze. Harry lingered, eyebrows raised, waiting for his approval, but then he realized that Voldemort was not going to ask for help.

Harry nodded.

"I'll just go grab them, then. They're in my office, I won't be a minute."

Without another word, Harry left.

He'd needed to pop down to the potions lab at the Ministry to grab a pain relief draught, as his office had been out. He had taken longer than he'd meant to and a knot of worry had formed in his stomach.

The blond guard that had been there when Harry had left was now missing, so Harry walked right through the door and down the hall of cells. He heard voices and stopped to listen.

"You're such a pathetic liar, Tom," the guard's voice sneered, and Harry was astonished to hear him use that name.

He supposed it was common enough knowledge now, but damn. Voldemort must hate that.

"Now tell me what you were talking about or I'll keep going."

What? Why did the guard care what he and Voldemort had been talking about?

Before Harry could react, the unmistakable whistle of air and the loud cracking sound of a whip making contact with skin broke through the silence. Harry charged forward and shoved the door open to find Voldemort standing naked and cuffed to the wall, his back facing Harry, and blood dripping from crisscrossing lash marks down his pale skin.

At the sound of the door opening, both men had turned to look at him. Harry could not tear his eyes away from the scene. The vicious welts were shocking, but it was the lack of hair on the man's head, exposing his slender neck that distracted him. In all their years of confrontations, Harry had never seen the back of Voldemort's head.

Harry crossed his arms over his chest.

"What's going on here?"

The blond guard lowered the whip, but did not put it down nor otherwise tuck it away. He faced Harry with deference, yet there was a confidence in the set of his shoulders and in his gaze— which did not drop— that revealed a lack of remorse or shame. This act has been approved.

"Mr Potter, I thought you had left," the guard commented mildly.

Harry's eyes flicked to meet those red ones briefly, trying not to be sidetracked by the exhaustion and pain he saw reflected there.

"So you decided to torture him for information?"

The guard did not flinch.

"I have my orders."

Ah.

"Is it the Minister again?"

"Yes, sir."

Harry hummed in acknowledgment.

"What are your orders regarding this man?"

The blond finally looked away and down.

"I'm not sure if I am allowed to disclose that, I'm sorry." He looked back up, seeming eager to please. "But I'm sure the Minister will tell you if you ask."

Harry nodded.

"And I will, of course, but now I'm worried to leave."

The guard frowned.

"Worried? He can't hurt me, I've been handling him for twelve years. He hardly even fights anymore."

Harry laughed, perhaps cruelly, but that couldn't be helped.

"I'm hardly going to be worried about you. You have your magic and can call for backup."

Before Harry could figure out how the rest of his thoughts should be phrased, the guard spoke.

"You're worried about… Tom?"

Harry inwardly cringed at that name on those ignorant lips.

"Stop calling him that, he won't like it," Harry demanded.

The guard made an incredulous sound, almost laughing.

"Forgive me, Mr Potter, but who bleeding cares what he thinks? He's just a worthless failure anyway."

The man was chortling now and Harry watched him, his anger growing.

"Sorry, sorry," the man grinned, getting himself under control once he'd made eye contact with Harry.

Harry waited until he could unclench his fists before he spoke.

"You're coming with me to speak to the Minister."

"I can't, I'm not allowed to leave him unattended," the man said, pointing at Voldemort with the butt of his whip.

Harry pursed his lips and considered this.

"Fine. I'm going to give him some healing potions and then you will leave his cell and stay out until—"

"Forgive me, Mr Potter," the guard interrupted in alarm, and Harry caught a glimpse of Voldemort closing his eyes in defeat, "but you're not allowed to give him any healing potions! That's a strict rule, it would go against everything we're doing here!"

Harry stared at the back of Voldemort's head, thinking.

"You want him in pain."

"Yes," the guard confirmed.

"Why?"

Harry turned his attention back to the blond, who shook his head.

"I'm really not allowed to answer that, I'm sorry. But the Minister—"

"Right. I'm going to go have a word with Kingsley, then," Harry said, and Voldemort turned his head once more so he was in profile, watching Harry.

"I'll be back," he told the Dark Lord, who merely gave a slow, cat-like blink and turned away.

Harry grabbed the guard around his arm and brought him out of the cell.

"You are to stay out until I return. No more hurting him. Is that allowed with your orders? You've bloodied him already and I'm sure he's in pain."

The guard was watching him with a strange, uncomfortable expression.

"Yes, sir."

Harry nodded and then turned to leave.

.

.

Most days, Harry could tolerate Percy Weasley, the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic, but today was not one of those days.

When Harry walked past his desk outside of Kingsley's office, Percy immediately stood and interrupted him.

"The Minister is busy, Mr Potter."

Harry paused, wanting to roll his eyes at the obnoxious formality. Merlin, Harry was basically family and had grown up at the Burrow.

"I just want a quick word," Harry said, biting his lip before he could tack on the Weatherby.

"I can let him know you dropped by—"

He was too tired for this shit.

Ignoring Percy, he strode to Kingsley's door, knocked once, then just walked right in. The older man was seated behind his desk, a piece of parchment in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. The remains of his lunch sat before him on his desk.

"Harry?" the Minister said in concern, putting down the items in his hands. "What's wrong?"

Harry shut the door, walked over to Kingsley, and stood in front of his desk. The older man stood too.

"What are your orders for Voldemort?" Harry asked, too drained to banter.

Kingsley's eyebrows raised as his brown eyes dipped to scan Harry's body.

"Have you not slept yet? I told you to go home this morning."

"Your orders, Kingsley," Harry gritted out, his patience gone, as half of his mind was back in that cell wondering if Voldemort was still being whipped.

"What's happened?"

"I've just spent all morning trying to figure out what the fuck is going on in this place," Harry replied, his voice raising. "I don't quite know how you did it, but you actually managed to make me feel bad for the bastard."

"Who? Voldemort?"

Harry nodded, feeling his pulse quicken.

"When I got back to him after our meeting this morning," he began slowly, trying to keep his temper in check, "he was soaking wet and looking as if he'd been drowned. He was so messed up from it, he didn't even know who I was. He's likely suffering hypothermia right now in that cell because you keep him naked— naked!— without anything for warmth."

He paused, uncomfortable with how sick saying these words out loud made him feel.

I don't want anyone to suffer, it's not personal.

"And then," Harry went on, "when I went to go fetch him a healing potion, he was interrogated and whipped under orders from you. So I'm asking again, what are these orders that you've given to the guards? Because I refuse to believe what I was told, that you support what is being done to him. That you're ordering him to be whipped and raped. Raped, Kingsley."

He was furious. Kingsley's looked resigned, not horrified like he should be, so Harry knew none of this was news to the man. Harry wanted to punch something. He was panting, eyes glaring at his friend until the older man sighed and lowered himself into one of his chairs.

"I don't have a choice, Harry," he said softly, with what might have been regret. Harry was ready to argue, but Kingsley held up a hand to silence him. "You want to know what my orders are for him? They're simple: keep him here, in that collar. It all comes back to that, because Voldemort's power is such that when he finds out a way of getting it off, we will be back to where we were twelve years ago. Any peace we've achieved will be lost."

"So that justifies torturing him relentlessly? I thought we were the moral ones. We were supposed to be better than him. Than his Death Eaters."

Kingsley leaned forwards, an earnest, beseeching expression on his face.

"We are. This is not a normal circumstance. You're an Auror, you can attest to that. He's…well, he's a special case. The only chance we have of restraining him is with that collar and the only way that collar can stay on is if he's distracted. Yes, Harry, with pain, with hunger. With fear or cold or whatever it takes to keep him from focusing his mind upon getting it off."

"This can't be a long-term solution. Merlin." Harry sat down too, now facing the other man. "So we're no closer to defeating him than we were twelve years ago."

Kingsley shook his head.

"We are not. I am barely restraining a Dark Lord that is capable of wiping out our world as we know it— and he cannot die! I don't think you appreciate that, Harry. It's been twelve years, but that is nothing against his immortality! In twelve years we are no closer to finishing him— and this is with daily study and testing. How long will I be Minister? Not forever, so there will either be a host of people tackling this same problem— and I'm not sure I'd trust just anyone to handle Voldemort— or what? Do I take him with me when I go? Do I bring him to the top of the Earth and try to keep him contained until I die?"

Kingsley rubbed his fingers over his face and blew out a breath.

"And then what, Harry? Do I will him to someone? And— as laughable as that is— who? He needs to be kept in pain and distracted, that is essential. We can't even bury him in cement and tunnel him deep into the bottom of the Mariana Trench because with nothing to distract him, he will break out. And neither suffocation, extreme water pressure, nor a bloody shark eating him will make any difference!"

The older man laughed hollowly and then sobered, his eyes going to his window and gazing outside.

"What is clear and terrifying to me, I'm not ashamed to admit, is that it's only a matter of time until he figures out how to remove that collar."

Harry tried, and failed, to wrap his mind around that.

"But how can he take it off without his magic?"

"Nothing is out of reach to this man," Kingsley said, turning back to face Harry. "Understand, he will get that collar off and when he does…"

He trailed off, his gaze darkening, and then shook his head. Harry didn't know what to say. While talking to Voldemort earlier, it had been hard to remember how dangerous the man still was. He had certainly seemed more victim than adversary.

"So the plan is to keep raping and torturing him?" Harry asked, thoroughly demoralized. "There has to be another way."

"There's not," Kingsley said with finality, and Harry's heart sunk. "He can't be trusted with his magic. He can't be controlled without that collar. And he will figure out how to get it off if given an opportunity. We have no choice."

Harry leaned back in his chair, searching for another option.

"Has anyone ever tried reasoning with him?" he asked. "He's an intelligent man. What if we told him the situation and see if he wouldn't rather cooperate?"

Kingsley gaped at him for a few moments and then burst into laughter.

"Cooperate? Harry, this is the Dark Lord Voldemort! He's known for his manipulation and lies. We can't trust a word he says and we can't bind him with an Unbreakable Vow because he can't be killed."

Kingsley looked up, his smile fading from his face when he took in Harry's.

"Harry. You don't trust him, do you?"

Do I?

"I don't know. He's not the man I fought against for years anymore. He's almost… humbled. Self-deprecating. Sometimes he even sounds depressed. Is it so unreasonable to think that twelve years of torture could change him?"

Kingsley frowned, looking skeptical.

"His attitude, maybe. His arrogance and his pride, but not his blood lust. His ambitions for power and control. Can you honestly tell me you think he would fade quietly into the night? Especially after all we've done here?"

Harry rubbed his eyes, sighing.

"I don't know. But I don't like this, Kingsley. It's wrong what we're doing to him. He's still a person, he feels pain and fear and hunger… It's not right."

Kingsley considered Harry.

"We have no other option, unless you can come up with one. That's not—" he added, smiling slightly, which raised Harry's hackles, "asking him nicely to please be good."

Harry stood, ready to leave.

"I won't stand for this. I don't like the man, but this isn't justice. We're better than this. I… can't allow this."

The Minister regarded him and then stood as well, fixing Harry with his heavy gaze.

"What are you saying then, Harry? Do you intend to stand against us? Against the Ministry?"

Harry paused. Was that what he was saying? It wasn't just the Ministry he'd be defying, but his friends, his colleagues, anyone who opposed Voldemort... and wasn't that everyone? What would he say to Ron? To Hermione? I really need to talk to them, maybe they can help sort this out.

"Harry." Kingsley's hand reached out and gently squeezed his arm, drawing his attention back. "Go home. You've been at the Ministry for thirty-six hours without sleep. Have you even eaten in that time?"

The older man let him go and then crossed his arms, leaning back against the desk. Harry stared at him blankly, no idea what expression he had on his face. He felt like he was free falling.

"I hear what you're saying," Kingsley said, bringing him back, "but I need to make sure you're well-rested and have some sustenance in you before I listen to your plans of rebellion against the Ministry."

Kingsley smiled, but it was a weak effort. Harry nodded and then left the room.