Chapter 4

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Harry awoke to the warm, comfortable feeling of the sun on his face.

The sun— shit!

He jumped out of bed and checked his watch.

1:14 pm.

Shit shit shit!

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been late for work. He must have forgotten to set an alarm and his body took whatever it could get.

Was there time for a shower? He lifted his left arm and smelled— ugh, yes, take the time. But first, Harry sent an apologetic Patronus to Robards and then spent the next twenty minutes tearing around his flat, getting ready.

When he got to the Ministry, all he wanted to do was check on Voldemort, but he knew he had some work to do first. He'd basically been absent the last two days and he was in the middle of an important investigation with the mad lot of wannabe Death Eaters.

"Potter?" Robards poked his head out of his office as Harry was hurrying past. "Everything alright?"

"Yes, sir," Harry said, stopping and trying to seem more put-together than he felt. "Everything is fine, I just forgot my alarm today. I'm sorry, it won't happen again."

Harry bowed his head and was about to head over to his office when Robards continued.

"Kingsley has just been to see me."

And that said it all, didn't it? Crap.

"Can you come into my office for a moment?"

Harry nodded, following him, and tried to keep his face open and innocent. Meanwhile possibilities of why he was being called inside were swimming through his mind. Was he about to be fired? No, surely not, he hadn't done anything wrong. Unless feeding Voldemort really was a punishable offence? Did Robards even know about Voldemort?

Harry sat down in the chair across from his boss, still hopefully maintaining that guiltless expression. Robards sat down behind his desk.

"I'm in a bit of a tricky situation, Potter." The older man was leaning back and regarding Harry sternly. "Kingsley told me he has given you a special assignment." Those eyes scoured Harry's face for information and Harry bent all his will towards shielding his mind and controlling his reactions. "He also said, suspiciously, that I am not allowed to ask you about it. I am not even permitted to inquire where you have been the last two days while our team continues to deal with the BDE."

Harry tried not to flinch.

"Yes. I'm sorry about that, sir. Something… came up and I've been… busy dealing with it."

"In the Ministry?"

Harry frowned, but had to add, "I don't think I'm allowed to say, sir. I'm sorry."

I sound like those damn guards.

Robards continued to stare at him, calculating and intense. Harry met his eyes and held them. If Robards found out about Voldemort it would probably be bad for the imprisoned wizard. The Dark Lord was in enough danger as it was; Harry had to pro—

Protect him?

Merlin.

He really was in trouble.

"Alright, Potter, I can't say I'm not disappointed, but so long as you're still committed to my team— and since the Minister himself continues to interfere on your behalf— my hands are tied."

Harry willed away his mortifying flush at the thought of hands being tied.

He was so very, very fucked.

"Back to work, then. Dismissed."

Harry got up, nodded his head, and escaped to his office.

.

.

Voldemort was on his hands and knees, having just managed to drag himself off of the floor, before the curse hit him again. He heard himself scream as the inferno blazed through his nerves, agony pulsing like his skin was being shredded, as if acid was being applied to his every pore— it hurt, it was unbearable, he could not see, but somehow he continued to scream, his back arching off the floor, his fingers clenching, plunging his nails into his own flesh—

And then it was lifted and Voldemort collapsed. He drew in deep breaths, eyes closed, loathing this man. He longed to respond in kind, respond with his teeth into that soft, well-fed face. To be rendered thus by an incompetent, pustule of a man was an insult he was determined not to bear.

Raising his eyes, he fed all of the violent fury that fuelled him into his gaze. Walker stepped back, and that unconscious action was a balm on Voldemort's tattered pride.

The corpulent man regained his confidence fast and sneered down at him.

"You've a temper today, Tom." His tone was daringly chiding. "I can't even remember the last time you fought back. Maybe it's Potter that's got you all worked up."

The vermin knelt down and struck Voldemort in the face before he could protect himself. He took the blow on his left side, the tender side, and fell back to lay supine.

He tried to master himself, breathing as deeply as he was able. It was just pain, merely more of that curse he himself had enjoyed casting many times. Familiar. Bearable.

A finger suddenly pinched and yanked his left nipple. Voldemort inhaled sharply, eyes flashing open, his hand and torso instinctively stretching up to strike the coward— and then the electricity from his collar immediately aborted that action. He fell back, astounded, and was rendered completely limp.

No.

A surge of terror seized his chest and sent frigid tidal waves through his limbs.

It had been months since this had occurred.

Raucous laughter caused his skin to prickle in fear.

"Oh, a treat!" the cretin enthused excitedly. "You really are angry today."

His jailer continued to laugh, wiping his filthy hand roughly up Voldemort's face, insensitively digging a finger inside his nostril slit and forcing the cavity as wide as it would go.

"Did you think you could hurt me, Tom?"

Regret thrummed dully with his pulse. The unconscious action had been a fatal mistake. He had known better.

He resigned himself to what he had purchased with his impulsivity.

Walker unbuckled his belt and Voldemort was grateful that his habitual flinch and attempt to flee had been suppressed. He marshalled his resolve.

"I love it when you fight back. I hadn't planned to fuck you today, Tom. My shift is almost up, but when I see you go all floppy, it just makes my dick so hard."

The insect had pulled off his pants and was kneeling down beside Voldemort, who could do nothing, nothing, as the maggot intimately caressed Voldemort's chest.

"I prefer you like this. You're so loose and bendable. I can have you any way I want." The ogre yanked on Voldemort's wrist and pulled him against his fat body. "I can make you wrap yourself around me like we're lovers."

Voldemort was hoisted up and settled onto those fetid thighs, his arms dragged along the sweaty skin and posed around that adipose neck. His head lolling helplessly against the revolting skin. A parody of an embrace.

His body was lifted with those dirty hands and then dropped abruptly onto a thick, hard appendage. Voldemort wanted to yell, to sink his nails into that skin in repayment, to bite that face that was so close, so close, but he was impotent. He watched, with horrified detachment, as he was raised and lowered distastefully onto that odious phallus. His body was loose but, without any fluid to ease the friction, the operation was brutal.

He let it happen. Endured. It could not last forever and he was strong. Sacrosanct.

A deep grunt recaptured his attention and Voldemort was suddenly sprawled back onto the floor. The jailer stayed inside of him, raising Voldemort's lifeless legs into the air, undignified and open, and continued to pound into him. He could feel the skin on his head abrade against the floor and his spine scraped along with it, yet any point of focus was preferable to acknowledging what his lower half was enduring.

The crude machine continued and Voldemort drew up images of that oceanic storm to calm himself. He imagined throwing this bovine body into the tumult. Watching it writhe and then disappear.

As a drop of the brute's perspiration fell onto his lips, Voldemort remembered standing in the middle of a circle of his trembling Death Eaters. Commanding their terrified attention. He remembered flying without a broom, kept aloft by his own prowess; remembered the puerile appellations the entire wizarding world used for him because they feared to speak his name, how even his own followers dared not address him by his true moniker.

He remembered superiority. Pride. Infamy. Power.

A deep, guttural growl brought him cruelly back to reality as the elephantine creature collapsed atop him, knocking the wind out of his abdomen. Voldemort felt a pulsing inside and finally allowed his eyes to close.

At last.

He yearned to shove the weight off of him— he could not breathe— but then the body rolled over and Voldemort was left thrown haphazardly on the floor, his arms splayed wide, his legs open and outstretched. He could feel that offensive fluid leak out from him, tickling as it meandered down. Voldemort commanded his consciousness to ignore it.

The sound of footsteps in the hall seized his immediate attention. His eyes snapped open. Mercifully he had been positioned so that he could see the door.

"Merlin, what the fuck is happening here?"

Harry Potter.

Voldemort viciously attacked the part of himself that instantly relaxed and drew comfort from his presence. He tried to glare, but forgot he was currently debilitated.

Potter entered the cell as his jailer stood and began to dress.

"Mr Potter, how are you?"

Potter gave the vermin an incredulous look.

"How am I? A whole lot better than the man you've just been raping."

Voldemort would have flinched at that, but fortunately he was unable. His nakedness had never bothered him as much as when Potter was present.

"What have you done to him?" the boy asked, his tone accusatory. "He looks like he's asleep with his eyes open. Why isn't he moving?"

The swine dared to laugh.

"He tried to attack me, Mr Potter." When the mule saw that that explanation was not sufficient, he continued. "That activates the failsafe on his collar. He's hit with enough electricity to completely terminate all his functions. And he becomes like a living corpse."

Potter looked sickened.

"Which you, obviously, found attractive. A dead body."

The flea hunched his shoulders and looked away.

"I have my orders, Mr Potter."

"Just get out."

Potter put one hand over his eyes, as if completely disgusted.

"I—"

"I said, get out!" the boy roared, and something in Voldemort tightened at hearing it.

He crushed it ruthlessly.

The jailer stayed frozen for a moment and then sidled past Potter and left. Voldemort watched him go, hating how safe he suddenly felt. He despised the boy. He trusted no one.

"Hey," Potter said moronically.

Voldemort tried to sneer, but nothing obeyed him. Instead, he studied the cause of his ruin.

Potter had matured. He had to be… thirty now. His body was no longer awkward and puerile, but neither did he seem in his prime, as he should. He looked too thin, his face more lined than would be expected for his young age. Rougher. There was something fragile about him, something broken that was slightly compelling—

Voldemort strangled that thought.

The boy moved towards him cautiously and crouched down. Voldemort instinctively held his breath at the proximity.

"Are you okay?"

Potter's eyes travelled the length of Voldemort's body and then winced when he must have noticed the semen dripping from him. Voldemort desperately marshalled all his will to bring his legs together, to shield his immense shame, but it was not be accomplished.

He closed his eyes, defeated, waiting for the derision to commence. It was not to be borne. Over a decade in this cell and none of it was as difficult as having Potter witness his degradation.

The boy cursed and Voldemort looked up.

"I hate this. I'm so sorry."

Potter's voice was hoarse, earnest. Voldemort tore his eyes away, refusing to find pity or glee there.

"Can I…?" the boy asked quietly, and then, "Here."

A soft, warm weight draped over his body and Voldemort looked up again, shocked.

A blanket.

"Is this okay?"

Voldemort was astonished. In the many years spent in this prison, he had never been granted so much as a ragged sheet. The material atop him now was a lush, light cotton and instantly reminded him of the linen he had once used on his own bed back at his manor. It evoked memories of independence. Privacy.

Freedom.

The boy watched him, clearly waiting for a reaction, but thankfully the collar forbade that. Voldemort closed his eyes, allowing himself a moment of weakness, to luxuriate, before this too would be taken away from him. He was not foolish enough to believe he would be permitted to keep it.

"So, I guess you can't speak either, right? Can you blink?"

Voldemort paused for a moment, still lost in his memories— pleasant ones, for a change. Then, he did as the boy asked, finding that he had complete control of his eyelids. Potter smiled.

"At least we have that. Look, I can't stay long, I just had to see you."

He fought the bizarre impulse to feel touched by that.

The boy looked down at him and seemed to become lost in thought. Voldemort waited for him to speak, watching the way those furtive eyes got caught on his collar.

"How long will this last?" Potter asked, still staring at his neck. "You, not being able to move?"

He felt a twinge of trepidation at the question, but dismissed it. The boy was laughably honourable. Instead, Voldemort regretted that he could not scoff at the idiotic query. Potter seemed to catch up and met his gaze.

"Oh. I guess you can't answer that." He smiled. "Okay, blink once for soon and twice for ages."

That was hardly any way to convey the situation, but it was probably the best he could manage. He blinked once. It lasted an hour and the imbecile Walker had spent most of that.

Potter nodded.

"Good. Okay." The boy stood and leaned against the cell door. "I wanted to talk about the Horcrux. About what you'd said last time."

Voldemort felt his pulse abruptly spike and he devoured the boy's expression.

Yes.

This was what he wanted to discuss. He cursed the collar, wanting to drain the boy of information, to find out just how affected he was.

Find out what power he had over Harry Potter.

The young man watched him, clearly noticing the effect those words had.

"Maybe I should just wait until you can talk again." The boy looked down at his watch. "Crap, it's already almost four, Hermione is coming over tonight— that doesn't matter. Look."

Potter crossed his arms and regarded him levelly. Mild apprehension trickled down Voldemort's spine.

"I just wanted to tell you… You're right. About me. About how… I'm affected. I feel better, being around you. When I'm away…"

The boy looked down and Voldemort burned to have access to his battering Legilimency. He knew he was only receiving a fraction of the thoughts passing through that mind and he wanted them all.

"I don't like being away from you."

Voldemort basked in that statement, revelling in the power and the rightness of it. The boy was nothing without him.

"And that's messed up, right?" Potter looked back at him and Voldemort consumed the flush upon the boy's cheeks, the hesitance, the turmoil. "You're my enemy. You've tried to kill me my whole life. I know you hate me and I should leave you alone but I can't. This damn... hole you cut out of me when you destroyed your Horcrux is to blame. Not me. And not you."

The boy tapped his fingers anxiously against the cell bars, his expression distraught.

"But now what? What does this mean for me? For us? Do you feel it too?"

Voldemort savoured the quiet agitation in that question. The uneasiness of being alone in a strange situation.

Of course, the boy need not know that he was unaffected by the loss. He did not feel a similar pull towards Potter. That fact was gratifying.

The boy's eyes were trained on his own, searching them desperately.

"Blink once if you feel it too."

Voldemort considered this. The truth would be satisfying. Admitting that he was above such dependence. Yet convincing the boy they were together in this would secure Potter's interest. Would lower his guard. It would strengthen the power that Voldemort already had over him.

He blinked once.

Potter closed his eyes and thumped his head back against the bars, exposing his neck. Voldemort stared at the revealed skin and idly wondered just how much influence he had garnered here.

The boy sighed out a breath and stood straighter. His gaze was calm now. Assured.

"I'll speak to Kingsley again today about what is going on here." Potter hesitated, his eyes flicking away. "I'm sorry. About all this."

Voldemort wanted to frown at the apology. It certainly was not the boy's fault, any of this. More than that, Potter had involved himself in attempting to ameliorate the conditions Voldemort faced. If anything, a thank you would be in order. Naturally, he had no intention of debasing himself.

"I guess I'll see you later," the boy said, and actually smiled down at him.

Voldemort paused and then blinked once, which somehow earned him a soft exhale. Without another word, Potter turned and left.

.

.

Harry waited outside the Minister's office, drumming his fingers impatiently on his knee. Percy was eyeing him suspiciously, but Harry did his best to ignore him.

When the door finally opened, Harry stood and waited for the unfamiliar witch to leave before he stepped right inside the office. He only had an hour until Hermione would invade his flat again to interrogate him and he needed some time before that to try and figure out what the hell he was going to say to her.

"Hello, Harry," Kingsley said, with a touch of foreboding as he put up a privacy ward. "I'm seeing a lot more of you lately."

Harry nodded, quirking his lips a bit.

"Yeah, that's what happens when you secretly lock up the Dark Lord and attempt to hide it from me."

Kingsley smiled thinly and gestured to a chair in front of his desk. Harry sat.

"What can I do for you? I'm assuming this has to do with the aforementioned Dark Lord?"

Harry nodded and tried to organize his thoughts.

"I know you said your plan is to keep him in pain to distract him from working out that collar. But surely there's a better way."

"We've discussed this," the Minister said wearily, sitting back into the chair behind him. "It's not that I have a plan per se. It's just that pain is all that has worked so far. We have no choice."

"Okay. Let's say I accept that. Some of that. Maybe pain makes sense until we can figure out a better plan. But starvation? Torture? Rape? If it's simply pain that you need, why do you have to go to such extremes? What about if we set up a charm on the cell where every hour it sets off a Crucio?"

Kingsley was shaking his head.

"He would just anticipate that. He would acclimatize and learn to ignore it. We need to keep him guessing."

Harry didn't like that, but he didn't have a lot of time to argue.

"Okay, then. Not that exactly, but you get my point. Why does it have to be so brutal?"

"Harry," the Minister replied slowly. "This is the Dark Lord Voldemort. He deserves this. Surely you can agree?"

Harry felt his gaze darken.

"Actually, I don't. Have you seen what they do? It's sick. It's wrong. We're supposed to be better than that."

"We need to keep him distracted—"

"But why make it sexual?" Harry interrupted, coming to his main point at last. "If you're just trying to keep him in pain, why rape him?"

Kingsley sighed.

"I suppose there are a few answers for that. One reason is— and I feel a bit uncomfortable about this— but rape is an easy way to humble someone. To make them feel powerless. Humiliated. To put them in their place, and so on. So there's that. Then, the obvious fact that rape will certainly hurt, which fulfils our goals. But, to be honest, the guards hadn't really done anything overtly sexual until we had a master use Legilemency on him. Without his magic, he can't really Occlude so his mind is much easier to access now. I mean, easier for a master, I couldn't see a darn thing."

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"I thought Voldemort being alive was super-secret?"

"It is. This man told us what he saw, gave us the memories, and then consented to be Obliviated."

"Okay. What did he see?"

The Minister cleared his throat, his eyes sparkling strangely.

"We were looking for weaknesses we could threaten him with. It was actually one of the guards, Grayson, who came up with the idea to see if he had ever… cared for anyone. Had a partner. Even a friend, that kind of thing."

Harry was momentarily distracted by the idea. Voldemort with a girlfriend. A wife. Was Bellatrix…?

"Did you find anything?"

Kingsley smirked.

"Yes, but it was not what we had expected. This may shock you, but we found no evidence of sexual fraternization with women."

Harry pushed away the troubling squirm of relief he felt at that.

"That's actually not very surprising," Harry admitted. "I mean, we always assumed Voldemort could not feel love. We know he was arrogant and ambitious and mistrustful. Those aren't exactly the best qualities in a boyfriend."

The Minister chuckled.

"True, yet if a person has enough power, some people will overlook any shortcomings. But that's not what was so shocking."

Kingsley widened his eyes, his expression telling Harry that he had a delectable tidbit to deliver.

"You're killing me here," Harry muttered, with nervous excitement.

"We have reason to believe that he's a homosexual!" Kingsley said with derisive delight, as disbelief spread through Harry. "The Legilimens saw two memories of Voldemort getting fellated by a male Death Eater and a few other memories of him watching— and masturbating to— men having sex!"

Kingsley thew his head back and roared with laughter. The sound made Harry flinch and in that moment he hated the man before him. He saw a flash of Dudley sneering, Who's Cedric— your boyfriend?

"I mean," Kingsley went on, with tears in his eyes, "who would have imagined that the big, bad Dark Lord was a poof! I wish I could leak it to the Daily Prophet. Think of how well that would sell!"

Harry stared at Kingsley, a leaden weight in his stomach. He plastered a smile onto his face and even managed a few chuckles, but inside he was angry and disappointed about this reaction. His friend had never seemed homophobic. Sure, the Ministry, as anywhere, was rife with gay jokes and slurs, but Harry had never seen the Minister himself laughing at or saying one.

"Harry? Are you alright?"

Kingsley's expression had become vaguely concerned.

"Yeah, of course," Harry said, hitching up his grin. "It's just a shock, as you say."

Kingsley hummed in amused agreement.

"I know. You should have seen him when we found those memories. Merlin. I still think about it. He was apoplectic. Truly, he may have no magic, but sometimes that man can still strike me down with fear when he goes into a rage. You can't imagine, he's mellowed a lot in twelve years."

Harry gritted his teeth.

"Yeah, believe it or not, I do have some experience with a livid Voldemort."

Kingsley snorted, wiping his eyes and shaking his head amicably.

"That's true enough, I forgot who I was talking to."

Harry pinched the webbing between his fingers, letting the sting ground him. He was still stuck on the thought of Voldemort's fury and humiliation at the revelation of those memories.

To have that exposed after a lifetime of secrecy... To be ridiculed for it, while at the mercy of one's tormentors… Harry ached for the Dark Lord in that moment. It didn't matter how powerful or dangerous a person was; if they were revealed to be gay, they would be condemned for it.

"So, to answer your question," Kingsley continued, in a light, dismissive tone, "the guards do what they do to keep him under our control. And also because, well, I suppose that they find it funny that he's a homosexual and so they try to… you know. Give him what he wants, in a way. Perhaps they're punishing him for his deviancy."

Kingsley raised his eyebrows as if to say, who knows.

Harry felt sick.

Voldemort was being raped because of his sexual preferences. The guards were taking something that Voldemort might have found pleasurable if it had been consensual and almost conditioning him to fear it. To loathe it. It was like a twisted, Muggle conversion camp.

This was perverse. By working here, by standing by, he was advocating for this behaviour. Yet, what could he do? He was an Auror, with a professional commitment that had nothing to do with Voldemort. And this wasn't Harry's fault. He hadn't killed the man, even though it had been his right, even though many had expected him to do so. Wanted him to, even. He had done better by Voldemort than the man deserved.

…Which lead to the inescapable fact that Voldemort was evil and surely had this coming to him. He shouldn't get comfort and peace after all he'd done. Maybe not even legal justice. He would have never granted his own enemies that.

But Harry just wasn't built that way. He thought wryly about Ron, who had laughed his arse off over what he had called Harry's new signature move after the war: bringing criminals to the Ministry for sentencing instead of taking his own rightful vengeance on them. He had ruthlessly compared how Harry had dealt with Wormtail in their Third Year to what he'd done with Voldemort and some of his remaining Death Eaters.

Which made him sound like a naïve idiot. But he'd seen enough death, enough blood and torn apart families. He didn't want any more guilt laid at his feet.

"Perhaps you should consider that this may be too murky for you, Harry," Kingsley suddenly said into the silence, as the older man watched him. "This sort of thing is not for everyone and, like I said, you really don't need to be involved. In fact," Kingsley gave him an apologetic look, "the guards have even suggested that you may be making their jobs harder. They say you're feeding him? And spending a lot of time down there talking with him? Apparently Tom— Voldemort— has been fighting back a lot more again. Boasting about who he was, trying to intimidate them again, when he hasn't done that for years. They said it's like they've lost all the progress they'd made in only a few days."

Harry felt a furious flush warm his face, but he willed it down. How dare they?

"I make their jobs hard?" Harry drawled with venom. "Lost their progress? Kingsley. They're raping him. That's sick. And since when is feeding someone who is literally starving a bad thing?"

"Like I said, Harry, this job is not for everyone."

Harry stood, fuming.

"How can you say that? I'm not going to apologize for trying to protect someone who is being tortured. That's why I took this job. If that's no longer a goal of ours then maybe I need to rethink my career choices."

The tension that followed his statement made Harry realize exactly what he had said. But he wasn't about to back down. He thought about Voldemort frozen and cowering half under the table, trapped in his living nightmare, and Harry firmed his spine.

"That's the second time you've said something like that, Harry," Kingsley said quietly. "Should we perhaps discuss what it means?"

Harry glared at the Minister.

"It means I know a secret you don't want to become public. It means I may have a power over someone you have no control of. But if you want my help and my silence then you're going to have to start treating that man like the human being he is."

"Do you think he would have treated you that way if your positions were reversed?" Kingsley asked, still seated, an eyebrow raised.

Harry crossed his arms.

"That doesn't matter. I don't work for him or expect civility from him. I work for you and I expect better. Are our standards really as low as asking what would Voldemort do?"

The Minister's expression hardened and Harry wondered if he'd gone too far. He looked down at his watch and realized he was already running late. Hermione would be waiting for him, irate, in his flat by now.

"Anyway, I should—"

"You are a valued member of the Auror department," Kingsley interrupted in a determinedly calm voice, as if reminding himself, "a respected war hero, and personally, a good friend, Harry. I don't want to lose you, and certainly not over the treatment of a prisoner. You have a good heart. Compassionate. Maybe I've become jaded in my years here."

Kingsley shrugged and his face softened.

"I don't want to lose you, do you hear me? Let's work on a plan for him, I'd be glad for your input. Perhaps you have some fresh ideas that we haven't thought of. After all, he's kind of your area of expertise."

Harry smiled reluctantly. He used to really like this man. Maybe they could actually work something out.

"Go home," Kingsley said, getting up and walking around the desk to stand beside him. He placed a hand on Harry's arm. "Sleep. Come to my office tomorrow and we'll see what we can think of together."

"And the guards?" Harry asked, unwilling to be so easily placated. "Will you speak to them?"

The Minister paused, his face contemplative.

"Not yet."

Harry made to protest, but Kingsley removed the hand touching Harry and held it up.

"Let's talk again tomorrow and make a plan. For now, I think it best if we continue on as usual. He's survived this long, nothing can kill him. He'll survive a few more days while we get things sorted."

"I can't concentrate at work when I know he's downstairs being brutalized, Kingsley."

"Think of it as justice for those he would have done the same to."

Harry smacked his hand down on the desk.

"It's not justice! It's—"

"I know, I know," Kingsley interjected in exasperation.

"—disgusting what they're doing to him! It's wrong, it doesn't matter who he is!"

"Okay, Harry, we've been through this. I still can't believe that you're defending him, but—"

"I'm defending this Ministry and our justice system!" he shouted. "It's not about him, it's about our standards and our morals! We are better than this! If I allow this to happen then who was I to judge him?"

Kingsley raised his eyebrows and his mouth pursed in a small 'o' of understanding.

"I see."

Harry knew he'd said too much. He felt embarrassed, but at least it seemed that Kingsley had finally understood.

Harry ran a hand through his hair unconsciously, trying to flatten it.

He refused to be a hypocrite. He had many failings, but at least he could take pride in how he treated others. He would never behave like the people he had sworn to fight against. If he became like the Death Eaters, or worse, like Voldemort, then what right had he to be free while Voldemort was imprisoned?

"I have to go," Harry muttered.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Kingsley replied.

Harry turned and hasted from the office, fighting the powerful compulsion to venture downstairs before he left, but he knew he was in trouble with Hermione already. He sent a mental apology to Voldemort, hoping the man was resting, unmolested, and Apparated home.