Chapter 3

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Before he went home, however, he had to make sure that Voldemort was alright.

Harry exited the lift and saw a different one of the three guards outside the cell doors.

"Mr Potter, the Minister spoke with me just a moment ago. He said you were to go home."

Harry continued walking past him, pushing the door wide and starting down the hall. The man's voice was urgent and Harry could hear him stand up and follow.

"He said you were not allowed down here anymore today! Mr Potter, the Minister said—"

Harry turned, just as he'd reached Voldemort's cell.

"I really don't care what the Minster said, I'm not going anywhere until I make sure this man is alright."

Harry waited for a reply, eyebrows raised, but the guard simply stared at him so Harry turned and opened the door to the cell.

Voldemort was sitting on his cot, naked and awkward without his intimidating black robes. His red eyes seized Harry's immediately. Harry felt a swoop in his stomach at the attention. Voldemort always had a singular ability to remove him from reality when their eyes met. That deep scrape on his left cheekbone still looked angry and red.

Harry conjured a chair, sat down, and pulled out one of the veggie pasties he had nicked from the lunchroom on the way down. He was so tired he didn't even know what it tasted like, he just followed his instincts and forced it down to quell some of the pain in his stomach and hopefully clear his head a bit.

Voldemort watched him eat in silence. Harry pulled out the other pastie and held it out to Voldemort.

"Don't glare at me like that. I brought you one too."

Voldemort's scowl deepened, but Harry guessed it was more for being caught out than any actual anger.

"Here."

Harry moved forward and placed the wrapped food into the man's naked lap.

He tried very hard to avert his eyes from the man's exposed genitals as he handed the food over. He actually managed to succeed, which was both a relief and an uncomfortable disappointment.

Voldemort placed a hand over the pastie without a thank you, but that was not surprising in the least. The man glanced at Harry again, a cautious look in his red eyes.

"Have you contaminated this?"

"What?" Harry asked, caught off guard by the stupid question. Before Voldemort could call him on it, Harry continued. "Of course not, it's just a snack. I thought you'd be hungry. I sure am."

Harry took another bite.

Voldemort continued to stare at him so Harry sighed and reached forward, taking the pastie out from under the other man's hands. Voldemort looked murderous, but Harry simply peeled back the wrapper and took a bite while staring at Voldemort. He caught the man's eyes following the movement of his lips.

Harry handed it back, trying not to read anything into that.

"See? Not contaminated."

Voldemort continued to frown, but evidently his hunger outweighed his caution. He studied Harry for only a few more moments until he raised the pastie and took a bite.

Seeing Lord Voldemort eat a greasy, flaky pastie did something to Harry's insides, making them squirm. He watched as those pallid lips closed around the spot where Harry had placed his own mouth. It was an intimate act and Harry watched avidly as that tongue snuck out to capture the yellow flakes that had escaped.

"The Minister won't like that you fed him," a man's voice said over his shoulder, and Harry promptly jumped, whipping around to face the shocked guard who had evidently not left.

"Blimey," Harry breathed, his hand over his mouth. "You're lucky I wasn't chewing or you'd be giving me the Heimlich right now."

"The what?"

Harry lowered his hand and considered the guard.

"Never mind. Why can't I feed him? Do you feed him?"

"We have a strict schedule, Mr Potter. He is only allowed to eat every three days."

"Three days? You've got to be kidding me."

The guard didn't flinch.

"That's the rules."

Harry looked back at Voldemort who'd stopped eating. His long, white fingers were curled tightly around his food. Protectively. Harry pulled his eyes away.

"This is insane. I've already spoken to the Minister. There will be some changes now that I have been made aware of the situation." Harry stood up and walked to the cell door, his hand on the bars. "You may leave."

The guard didn't move.

"I have my orders."

Harry raised an eyebrow, incredulous.

"Surely you're not intending to make him vomit up his lunch?"

The guard's gaze flicked to Voldemort and so did Harry's. The older wizard was frozen, but Harry swore he saw his chin tilt up the smallest fraction.

"Of course not," the guard said. "I meant about you staying. The Minister wanted you to go home."

"I don't obey the Minister quite like you do," Harry replied.

"He ordered me not to let you stay. I'm sorry."

Harry glared at the man. What could he really do to make Harry leave?

"Give us ten more minutes while he finishes his meal. You have my word, I will go after that."

Harry turned to look at Voldemort, who met his eyes with an unreadable expression. Harry shrugged at the other wizard.

"I have to sleep. I think I may be acting erratically."

Those red eyes continued to just watch him so Harry turned back to the guard.

"Ten minutes. You can do that for us, can't you?"

He tried his best, winning smile, but he was sure the utter exhaustion he was feeling detracted from it somewhat.

The guard sighed.

"I'm a pretty big fan of yours, Mr Potter. That's part of the reason why I took this job." The man looked briefly away at Voldemort and then focused back on Harry. "You defeated this murdering lunatic and, well, working with him made me realize how lucky we are that you caught him."

Harry was just about to ask what all this had to do with anything when the guard walked out of the cell before closing it behind him.

"I'll give you fifteen minutes, but then I have to tell the Minister. I'm sorry, Mr Potter. Enjoy your lunch."

The sound of footsteps faded and then disappeared. Harry turned back to Voldemort.

The dim light emphasized Voldemort's flaws, like the bones protruding all over his body from starvation and the heavy lines and purple bags around his eyes from sleep deprivation. He looked old, defeated, weak.

Human.

Harry walked back to his seat and collapsed into it. Picking up what was left of his pastie, he signalled with his fingers for Voldemort to do the same and they ate in silence for a few moments.

"You are a senior Auror," Voldemort said abruptly, in a quiet, contemplative voice. "My three jailers, they enjoy talking about you. You are engaged to a Ginny Weasley."

Harry felt a sudden shock of fear go through him at hearing Voldemort say her name. He was instantly on alert.

"And? Are you threatening me?"

Harry wanted to laugh, but in truth, he wouldn't doubt Voldemort's ability to endanger her, even imprisoned and with no magic.

The Dark Lord was silent for a few moments and Harry was sure he was enjoying the anxiety he'd heard in Harry's question.

Voldemort shook his head and Harry's eyes fell, powerless, to that lithe column of ivory.

"I am simply curious," the high, cold voice said, drawing him back. "They have mentioned certain details, yet I find myself wondering about the full picture."

"Such as?" Harry asked, knowing he shouldn't.

"I wonder many things, but I confess the question that intrigues me most is..." Voldemort paused and Harry had to wait, trying to fill in that sentence. "Yesterday, you had mentioned feeling different. Elaborate."

Why were they still talking about this?

"What's it to you?"

Voldemort gave him a scathing look.

"Do not mistake me. I am not making idle conversation. You were my Horcrux. I unintentionally murdered that piece of my soul inside you— but that soul piece had sixteen years to grow with you. To merge with your own soul. To find harmony."

Harry felt like he'd been punched in the chest, the last bites of his pastie falling to the floor. Jesus, why hadn't he thought of this before?

"I am therefore curious to know how that loss has affected you. How, Potter, not if. And do not lie. There is no other explanation as for why my mortal enemy, the boy prophesied to kill me, has been loitering in my cell every waking hour he has to spend. Forsaking his fiancée, his Auror job, his tightly-held morals, and even his body's vital requirements of sleep and nourishment."

Harry was unable to take in anymore. He stood abruptly and then promptly forgot what he had intended to do. He was caught, staring into those red, snake-like eyes, watching his enemy bask in his horror.

"You are here because you need me," the Dark Lord continued. "You are here because my soul calls to you."

Harry felt a jolt go through his body and he gasped through his teeth. He stumbled a few steps back, putting some distance between them as he grabbed onto the bars for support. But it wasn't enough so Harry turned around and opened the cell door. He didn't stop moving away until he threw open the door at the end of the hall and ran to the stairs to get the hell out of the building.

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Harry Apparated to his place and stumbled up the steps to his flat on the second floor. He shut the door and collapsed against it, sliding down until he was on the carpet, head cradled in his hands.

It all made sense.

Ever since Harry had delivered Voldemort to the Ministry after the final battle, Harry had felt… off. Different. Sure, he'd just won a war, just buried friends and adoptive family, and was once again celebrated and slandered in the papers, so things were bound to be rocky at first.

But it never stopped. Ginny had unofficially moved in with him to try and keep him above water for the first year or so. He'd been a mess. His magic had been destructive, limitless. He would try and light a candle and set the room on fire or say an innocuous spell only to have a deadly curse come out.

He'd had to swear off magic for months. That had been challenging. People had been clamouring to see him, to praise and award and grab him— quite literally. He stopped going outside after that man had cast a full body-bind on him and, wandless, Harry had almost been kidnapped for who knows what purposes. Well, they had discovered that the culprit had intended to trap him in their house.I'll keep you safe, the man had whispered to him as he'd leaned over Harry on the pavement. You protected us and now I will protect you.

Merlin.

It had all been so overwhelming. Ginny had done her best and Ron and Hermione had come over all the time— Harry had even began to feel better after a few years.

Better. Not all better.

His friends said it was PTSD, that he needed to give himself more time to adjust. Hermione said he may never go back to normal and she insisted that that was okay.

I need a drink.

He pushed his back against the wall, slowly sliding up to stand. In the kitchen, he took out his favourite glass and poured some Firewhisky into it.

While the liquid pleasantly burned his throat, he allowed the memories of the past twelve years to surround him for a moment. He remembered graduating from the Auror Program, his pride and relief as he'd hugged a crying Ginny, but he also remembered Kingsley Obliviating a few of the other recruits that had seen Harry perform… unsavoury magic that he couldn't control. He had been given special treatment, again, as always, but his friends had just been sure that if he achieved the job he'd always wanted then he would get better. When Harry had protested that he hated special treatment because of his fame, they had just reiterated that he deserved some compensation after his hard work.

He thought about the long years spent with Ginny. Trying so hard to be normal, to act in love and happy and complete— but why did he have to try so bloody hard for something that everyone else seemed to do effortlessly? Ginny swore she loved him, broken or not, but how could she? They hardly had sex, they could barely talk without fighting, and most of the time Harry just wanted to escape. Yet how do you break up with someone you owed your life to?

You don't. You give them what you owe, what they deserve. Never mind what it takes from you.

And as for his extracurricular evening activities with Muggle men? They didn't mean anything. Even Ginny accepted that it was just something he had to do, something she couldn't offer him: the pain, the release, the revitalizing surrender of control. And he was indebted to her, so if she could accept that, then it didn't have to mean a goddamn thing.

Harry rubbed his eyes, exhaustion hanging off of him like a physical weight. He knew he should sleep, but Voldemort's words kept hissing through his brain.

That soul piece had sixteen years to grow with you. To merge with your own soul.

It was so obvious. He'd lived with that soul piece for half his life, it was… a part of him. So when Voldemort murdered it, the loss unbalanced him. Harry hated that Voldemort's soul had become part of who he was, that he had harboured something so evil for years and found harmony with it, as Voldemort suggested.

But now what? If he accepted that this was the reason why his life was a complete shit show, what did that mean going forward? Was he going to be compelled to be near Voldemort from now on? Had he been going through twelve years of withdrawal?

You need me.

Harry placed the empty glass into the sink and looked at the clock. It was only ten past five, but Harry knew he had to sleep. Everything hurt. He so seldom felt headaches anymore since the Horcrux had been destroyed so when he got one, he could be a bit of a baby about it. Normally, he'd take a pain potion, but since he was just going to collapse in bed, he left it.

Pushing off from the counter, Harry made his way to his bedroom when suddenly a whooshing sound alerted him that he was receiving a Floo call. He ran to the sitting room and saw Hermione's head poking out of the green flames.

"Hey, Harry," she greeted pleasantly, but immediately her face fell when she took him in. "What's happened? Harry, you look terrible, are you alright?"

Harry nodded and moved to sit on the ground by the hearth.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he lied, his head pounding from the adrenaline that had rushed through him. "Are you? Shouldn't you be at work?"

Hermione always worked late so she could spend the morning with her kids. She frowned at him.

"Did you forget? We have a double date tonight, I got off early so I could talk to Luna about Rose's ankle. I was going to ask you if you'd bring that book I'd leant you about German curses when you came." Hermione looked around his sitting room. "Where's Ginny?"

Oh fuck.

Harry had completely forgotten. He closed his eyes and pushed the palms of his hands into his face, groaning. Ginny must be waiting at her flat. She's going to be so pissed.

"I forgot, I'll get ready now," Harry muttered, making to stand, but pausing until the vertigo released him. "I'll see you soon, I've got to call Ginny before she thinks I've forgotten about her."

Harry was about to throw some Floo Powder into the fire to call Ginny when he realized Hermione's head was still there. She looked worried and somehow also exasperated.

"Harry, what's wrong. You look like you haven't slept or eaten in days."

"I'm fine," Harry repeated, "but I won't be if you don't let me call Ginny to apologize."

"Ron will contact her now, we'll reschedule for another day," Hermione said, and Harry panicked.

"No, it's okay, I can do it, just give me a minute to change."

Hermione pursed her lips and her eyebrows lowered.

"You know, you're allowed to not be okay, Harry."

Harry hated that word, okay. He was plenty okay, he just had to get through this date and then he could come home and collapse. It's not like he was locked in a cell being tortured relentlessly.

"I'll see you soon," Harry replied, trying to swallow his frustration. "Now please, get lost so I can call Ginny."

"Wait one second," Hermione said, then disappeared.

Harry exhaled, relived, and picked up the Floo Powder again, but Hermione's head suddenly reappeared.

"Hermione!" Harry shouted in annoyance.

Hermione just talked right over him.

"Ron's calling her now to reschedule. Move out of the way, Harry, I'm coming through."

"What? Hermione, no, I'm fine—"

But Hermione ignored him and soon her torso and legs were emerging from his fireplace.

"Gods, Hermione, why are you so—"

"Because I know you, Harry Potter," Hermione said, poking him hard in the chest, her expression unyielding and her other hand firmly planted on her hip. "When you say you're fine, that's when you're the farthest from it. Combine that with how dreadful you look and how you're suddenly forgetting plans with us—"

"Oh, come on, I've forgotten loads of things before!"

"Yes, but when you do, it's always because you're hiding something."

Hermione grabbed his arm and dragged him backwards until they both sat down heavily onto his sofa. She turned to him, her fingers sliding from his arm to his hand, and she grasped it.

"Now, spill."

"I told you—"

"So help me, if I have to curse you, I will." Harry glared at her, but Hermione continued. "And remember that I am an excellent Legilimens so if you don't tell me, I can just take it from your mind."

"Gah!" Harry pulled his hand back and broke her gaze. "Hermione! Have you considered that I can't tell you what's wrong? Remember that time when I was an Auror? That time is now."

Hermione gave a scoffing laugh and Harry turned back to glare at her once again.

"You always tell me," Hermione insisted. "We don't keep secrets, remember?"

"My job—"

"Fuck your job," Hermione spat, and Harry actually gasped when she swore.

"Hermione!" Harry said, both scandalized and impressed.

"I'm serious, Harry. Don't think I don't recognize that look you've got. It's the same one you had when you thought Voldemort was possessing you in our Fifth Year." Harry was, as always, in awe of how close to the mark Hermione was able to hit. "You look like you're about to make a terrible mistake. Like you're going to take on the whole world alone again."

Harry shook his head, but had nothing to say. He couldn't tell her. Kingsley would be furious, this was exactly what the Minister had said Harry would do. Harry tightened his resolve. He could keep a secret.

"It's nothing, Hermione— And if it's not," Harry added quickly, watching Hermione open her mouth, "I can't tell you. I'm sworn to secrecy."

Which was, of course, not true, but close enough.

"Sworn, you say? Did you take a Vow?"

Bollocks. Damn that woman's brain.

"No."

"An Oath? Did you swear on your magic or employ any other magical means that would physically bar you from telling me? Or are you just unwilling."

Hermione managed to look both defiant and hurt.

"That's not fair. Kingsley told me not to tell anyone. And I can handle this."

"Oh really? Is this you handling it? When was the last time you slept?" Harry just glared at her and Hermione hummed darkly. "And I'm sure you're eating regularly too?" Harry crossed his arms. "Be honest, please at least tell me that."

Harry sighed.

"I ate lunch a few hours ago, but before that… I honestly don't remember. And I last slept Monday night."

Hermione gasped.

"But that's almost forty-eight hours ago, Harry!" She grabbed his hand back. "That's unconscionable, what Kingsley is thinking..."

She looked away and began to rub his hand gently, comfortingly.

"You know that job is not worth your life, right? You're more than just everyone's Saviour."

Harry hated that name. He sighed and leaned back into the cushions.

"I know."

But he didn't, really.

"Were you really just going to go out with us tonight?" Her voice was quiet, almost sad. "After not sleeping and not eating for days?" Harry didn't answer and Hermione growled lowly. "I hate that you think you don't matter, Harry. You're so willing to give anyone everything of yourself until there's nothing left."

Harry closed his eyes, utterly spent.

"Just leave it, Hermione. Please."

Harry felt movement and then Hermione's bushy hair tickled his face as she curled up against his side. They sat peacefully together for ages until Hermione broke the silence with a whisper.

"I'm worried about you."

"Don't be," Harry replied, his words slurred with imminent sleep.

He was so comfortable and relaxed, certain he had actually won this round.

He felt Hermione shift and then Harry was being pulled to his feet.

"Get to bed— no arguing," Hermione said sternly, pushing him towards his bedroom. "I'll see you tomorrow when you're rested. I can wait until then."

Harry barely knew how he'd made it to his bed, but soon he was falling face-first into his pillow and he knew no more.

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Lord Voldemort lay on his back, on his table, his eyes open and staring sightlessly up at the grey, dirty, cracked ceiling. His legs, so recently vacated, lay sprawled wide where they had been abandoned, a disgusting, familiar fluid leaking from between them.

He loathed this act most out of them all. Certainly, having his limbs and head torn off had not been pleasant, nor being slowly burnt alive, but the humiliation and intimacy of this act tended to leave him gratingly embarrassed.

In truth, before his imprisonment, he had never demeaned himself in such a way. Opportunity had not been the barrier, it was rather that people disgusted him and their sweating, grasping bodies even more so.

He detested himself for allowing this. Even after twelve years of being relentlessly overcome, twelve years of conditioning that was slowly trying to convince him that he was powerless, he dreaded the moment his muscles ceased fighting. It always came, now. And he despised it.

Closing his eyes, he attempted to will away the constant sting of his wounds, the ache of his broken bones, yet this was futile. Everything hurt, ceaselessly.

Pain was something he had never gotten used to. At the height of his power, his own discomfort had been almost theoretical. Even in battle, if injured, his Death Eaters would attend to him immediately with potions or healing, but even without that, his potent magic would surround and protect him. He had been untouchable.

He licked his lip and tasted blood, unsurprised that it had been split again by that imbecile Grayson. The presence of pain in his life now kept him awake and aware when all he wanted was to drift. Currently, his left arm was searing with agony, broken and twisted as it was, and his chest ached from the two fractured ribs he had acquired weeks ago. This was today. Yesterday, it had been his left cheekbone, grated bloody by being dragged along the stone wall while he was violated, then later he had been plunged into water repeatedly until he had finally succumbed to his false deaths. And tomorrow, it would be some fresh horror.

He felt his pulse increasing and forced his breathing to slow. Mercifully, although he could no longer Occlude, he was able to meditate and organize his mind. He conjured an image of an ocean, cold and crashing with waves. It was into this chaos that he threw his invasive feelings, like his pain, his gnawing hunger, his terror, his loneliness— those things that were born here in this prison and had nothing to do with who he was and what he wanted.

It was into this tempest that he had been recently hurtling his interactions with Harry Potter, his accidental Horcrux. Before that name and the myriad complications that always went with him could claw him under, Voldemort flung it too into the waves and took pride in how it was savagely drowned.

He alone had power here.

These imbeciles could try and break him, but he would always have his mind to retreat into. When he broke free, his body could be repaired or replaced effortlessly, yet his mind was invaluable. They could hinder him with flashbacks and trick his body to respond with fight or flight reactions to repeated stimulus. The key to surviving this was retaining his sanity.

Some days were harder than others.

Starvation led to fatigue and hallucinations. His pain could make him delirious and it was often difficult to remember who he was and who he was fighting. Occasionally, he saw his father. Albus. Even Billy Stubbs had once forced him into a corner of his cell and urinated on him. Sometimes he would startle to find himself idly pulling back his own eyelids to hear them snap against his eyeball.

Some days he feared he was losing his mind completely.

Years bled into each other and terror and humiliation were all he knew. But when he could, when his mind was able to focus, he retreated into it, creating vast landscapes and scenarios where the asinine torments of his jailers could not touch him.

And the collar, of course.

That occupied much of his thoughts. With no access to his rightful magic, he had begun developing the ability to see magic others used or residual spell traces. He was now able to feel the components of his collar, which was a huge achievement. He was no closer to disabling or breaking it, but understanding what immense power went into stealing his own would aid him when he eventually worked it out.

Because he would work it out. The alternative was unthinkable.

His mind was the crux of it all. He was immortal and they could not hold him forever. When he walked out of here it would be with his full cognitive brilliance. And then he would raze the world to ashes, starting with his three expired jailers.