Chapter 5

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Hermione, as expected, was waiting for him.

When Harry pushed the door open, he saw her pacing in front of his fireplace. She turned at once to face him.

"I know I'm late, I'm sorry," Harry said, dropping his bag by the door and taking off his shoes.

When he made it to the sofa, he slumped down onto it heavily and stared up at his best friend, still at a loss as to what he was going to say.

"You look much better today," Hermione noted, sitting down beside him. "Are you still working on the super-secret assignment?"

Harry nodded, preparing himself for a long evening.

"Have you spoken to Ginny?"

Harry nodded again and wondered if he could get away with this as the sum of his communication tonight.

"Is she upset with you?" Another nod. "Are you planning on speaking to me or are you a toddler again?"

Harry rolled his eyes.

"I'm still tired, 'Mione. Can we do this another night?"

"No. We can do this now. I hate seeing you like this. You know sharing your burden will help. Please, let me help you."

Harry was grateful for friends like her. Truly. But he already felt better after sleeping and eating a few bites today— even though he felt guilty knowing Voldemort was downstairs, starving— so he wasn't as desperate for advice as he had been yesterday. So what if he'd had a horrifying epiphany about the cause of his twelve-year-long bout of apathy and found the cure to be his murderous enemy who was currently secretly imprisoned and viciously abused daily, sanctioned cheerily by the Minister himself?

Fuck.

Harry face-planted into his sofa cushion and mumbled against the fabric.

"I don't know what to do."

He felt Hermione's hand gently stroke his hair.

"I know. That's why I'm here. Tell me."

Harry groaned and pushed his face deeper into the material.

"I'm not supposed to."

He heard Hermione scoff.

"Don't insult me, Harry."

She continued to pet him and Harry relaxed into the feeling for a few minutes, his conscience battling his desperation.

He could hold out, it's true. He could keep a secret for a man he was losing respect for, at the expense of a man who needed his help. But was that really the best course of action? Was it morally correct to be faithful to his job over his own convictions? His own sense of justice? He knew for sure what Hermione would answer and Harry reluctantly submitted to that logic.

With his face still pressed firmly into the cushions, fully aware that he was acting like the toddler Hermione had accused him of being moments ago, Harry spoke.

"Voldemort is alive."

Hermione's fingers twisted in his hair and yanked his head up. He hissed in pain, but she just pushed her hands against his chest and pinned him to the sofa.

"What? Tell me I misheard you, Harry!" Hermione almost shrieked, her fingers tightening, fisting his shirt.

Harry appreciated this reaction. It was how he had felt, too: Panic. Fear. Shock. Everyone else who knew about Voldemort was used to it by now. But it was not something that was meant to be absorbed with dignity. This fact was devastating.

Hermione shook him, and Harry replied, "It's true," before she actually did some damage.

She let him go and just stared at him, utterly flabbergasted. He took a second to savour the novelty of being able to shock his brilliant friend.

"Oh, Harry," she whispered, shaking her head, her eyes wide with terror. "It can't be true. How can it be?"

"He's at the Ministry. Kingsley lied to me about executing him. He lied to us all. Hermione, you won't like what I'm about to tell you, but you have to promise not to get involved. I'm handling it, but I won't tell you any more until you give me your word that you'll trust me to take care of things."

"Alone, Harry? You honestly think I'm going to let you take on Voldemort alone? Did that little speech work for you in our Seventh Year?"

Harry smiled.

"It's different now. He… he has no magic."

Hermione gasped.

"How can that be? Wizards don't just lose their magic. It can't even be taken away unless they break a Vow and, with a wizard as powerful as Voldemort, I doubt that would properly work. I don't even think power like his could be contained."

"It is, though. When I brought him to the Ministry, he was unconscious, remember? They must have snapped the collar on him then."

"The collar?" Hermione interrupted him. "Do you mean, a magic inhibiting one, like they used over a hundred years ago?"

She frowned in distaste, apparently disliking the idea. He nodded, trying not to let his mind linger on that sodding band of black metal.

"But I still can't imagine that working on a wizard like him," Hermione argued, pulling Harry away from his thoughts. "He's too powerful."

Harry nodded and then grabbed her hands, looking at her levelly.

"This is the part you're not going to like. I don't like it either, but I'm in the middle of figuring it out. Hermione, I can't tell you unless you promise me not to get involved."

She studied him suspiciously.

"How can I promise that without knowing what you're hiding? Would you be able to just sit idly by if something was anathema to you?"

Anathema?

"Look, if you mean would I be able to ignore injustice, then no, of course not. That's why I'm telling you that I am handling it."

"So let me help you!"

"No, Hermione, you can't. Not with this. And it's different because in my case no one is currently fighting for justice, but you can take comfort knowing that I am."

Hermione frowned, clearly not convinced. After a few tense beats of a motionless staring contest, though, she huffed out a breath and said in exasperation, "Oh, you know I can't leave here without learning the full story. And I do trust you to handle it, Harry. But you're not the only person who can fight. You don't have to martyr yourself every time."

"I know," Harry lied solemnly.

Hermione sighed in frustration.

"Fine. You have my word." She squeezed his hands tightly. "Now tell me everything."

Harry exhaled a long breath, releasing her and leaning back into the sofa.

"I don't even know where to start."

"Start with why the collar is keeping Voldemort from his magic."

Harry nodded.

"Kreacher?"

The house-elf appeared beside him with a crack.

"Yes, Master Harry?"

"Can you please bring us some drinks?" He turned to Hermione. "Tea, or something stronger?"

"I think I'll need my wits about me. Just tea, please, Kreacher."

"Okay, two teas, thanks," Harry said.

The house-elf disappeared and Harry let out a deep breath, staring at his fingers.

"The collar," Hermione reminded him, impatiently.

Harry flashed her an exasperated look, but she just continued to stare at him. Waiting.

"They're hurting him," he blurted out, before he lost his nerve. "Starving him, torturing him. And... worse. Kingsley says it's to stop him from focusing on the collar. Otherwise he would have figured it out and gotten free already."

"Why didn't they execute him like they said they would?"

He reached over and took her hands.

"He can't die, Hermione." He heard her inhale sharply, her hands tightening on his. "I've seen it. The first day I saw him, the guards… one of them strangled him until he had no pulse. He was dead. And then minutes later, he just came back to life. Kingsley said it's his magic saving him, overcoming the collar's suppression."

"So not Horcruxes, then," Hermione whispered. "Something else."

She looked scared but also contemplative. Harry knew her mind was running through book titles, trying to remember any instances of this.

Kreacher reappeared with their drinks, placed them on the table, and then Disapparated. Harry picked up his cup, just to give himself something to do with his hands. Remembering that scene was horrifying. He would have never believed that the man could be so vulnerable.

"There's more," he said lowly, clenching his fists. "One of the ways they keep him distracted is… they rape him."

Hermione had been in the process of picking up her teacup, but it clattered back onto the saucer.

"No," she breathed, aghast. "Who?"

"The guards. There are three of them, all under an Unbreakable Vow. Kingsley is letting them… sexually assault him. Violently. For the same purpose."

Harry stopped himself from mentioning why they were doing that. It didn't feel right revealing that secret.

Hermione was shaking her head.

"I can't believe it. That's barbarous. Grossly unethical."

She was silent, thinking. Harry's mind tortured him with images of what Voldemort was likely enduring at this very moment.

"How do they know he can't die?" Hermione interrupted. "There have been cases of powerful wizards who can only be killed by burning alive, or separating limbs from the body, or— why are you nodding?"

"They've done all that and way more. Voldemort seems to think I alone can kill him because of the prophecy, but I don't even want to. The only way I would— and I've already asked him— is if he wanted me to. Because if he's immortal and this is their plan… it's too much, even for him."

Hermione rubbed his back soothingly with her hand, her face still pinched in concentration.

"You talked to him. About killing him, Harry? You go down and visit with him? How is that?"

Harry frowned.

"What do you mean?"

Hermione tucked one of her legs under her body and turned to face him.

"How are you doing with all of this? Voldemort being back. That must have been a shock. Then you find out he's being abused in the worst possible way. So I'm sure you felt bad for him and then I'm positive you felt guilty and conflicted for feeling bad. But if he can't die, he's still a threat so we have to figure out what to do with him that's ethical but effective."

Hermione nodded encouragingly when Harry just stared at her.

"So. How are you?"

Harry had planned to say, I'm fine, but something else tumbled out.

"I'm scared."

Hermione gave him a sympathetic look and grabbed his hand again.

"Of course you are, Harry, that's perfectly—"

"No," Harry cut in, biting his cheek until he could think clearly. "That's not what I mean." He put down his teacup. "We talk. That's true. And… I like it. It feels good, being near him."

Harry felt his face getting hot and he wanted to stop, but he had come this far and he had to get this off his chest. His voice was barely audible.

"He said… Hermione. He said the reason I've been… like I've been the past twelve years is because of him. Because of the missing Horcrux in me. He said my soul and his found harmony together for all those years and now that it's gone… I'm drawn to him."

Harry felt dizzy, his words no longer discernible. His lips hardly parting.

"And it's true."

"Merlin," Hermione whispered, and Harry wished she would touch his hair again for reassurance, because he felt filthy, sick, traitorous—

"Harry, you're shaking," Hermione said, alarmed, and Harry felt it, knew he was trembling all over.

He twisted to place both feet firmly on the ground and bent over his knees, lowering his head. He closed his eyes, taking deep breaths, and tried to calm his panic, tried to remember that none of this changed who he was, didn't make him impure, or a monster for wanting to be near the man, didn't make him perverted for wanting to touch him, to be close, to—

"Harry, you've got to clear your mind," Hermione said, nearby somewhere. "Breathe deeply, you've got this. I'm right here."

He sucked in deep lungfuls of air, his fingers twisting in his trouser legs, his teeth biting into his tongue. Pain always grounded him, brought him back to the present, away from his churning thoughts. He tasted blood and focused on that. I can breathe, I'm in control.

A glass of cold water was pressed up against his knuckles and Harry concentrated on it, on getting calm enough to sit up and drink. It would be so cool, so refreshing. He counted to ten. Opened his eyes.

He sat up, took the glass, and downed it in one go.

Hermione retrieved it when he was done and then pulled him into a tight hug. Harry accepted her embrace, closing his eyes and pressing his right ear into her shoulder. His nose burrowed against her neck, inhaling. She was rubbing his back, gently rocking him, and it felt so good.

"Whatever you're feeling is okay, Harry. We can talk about the Horcrux idea another time—"

"I want to talk about it now," Harry insisted, pulling away. "What do you think?"

Hermione eyed him suspiciously but eventually relented. She sighed.

"I think… I mean, I'm not thrilled to be agreeing with Voldemort, and I'll need to do a ton more research, but," she examined him cautiously before saying, "It could be possible. How do you feel about that?"

Harry rubbed his hand over his face, gathering his thoughts.

"I don't know. Relieved? It feels…. right. It fits with everything." Harry snorted. "And then obviously, I feel absolutely horrified."

Hermione smiled.

"You mentioned wanting to be near him. You spend time with him. What's he like now?"

Harry took a sip of tea while he searched for words that could possibly answer that.

"He's… different," Harry whispered, looking away and remembering that intimidating figure keening and rasping out, Please! "There's something about seeing him—Lord Voldemort— naked and trembling… His skinny thighs, they're so small, Hermione. His concave belly. He had always seemed so big, but he's so damn small. So… weak, so… human. In a way he's never been before."

Harry remembered suddenly what he had felt seeing that collar fixed around his elegant neck.

"All that power," he said quietly, thinking about how it would feel to touch… "I know what he is capable of, and when I look into his eyes I can see it still, he's there, the Dark Lord is still there. But then I look down and take in the terrible scars. The wrists so delicate, the bones I can tell have been broken repeatedly and never healed properly…"

Harry took a bracing sip of tea, trying to master his feelings.

"And that collar." Fuck, the collar… "It's all that power inside, Dark magic poised and hungry to be released, but it's withheld. Restrained. He can't be Lord Voldemort while naked and cowering on the floor."

"Jesus," Hermione breathed, thumping her head back onto the sofa.

Harry laughed, releasing the tension that had crept in while he'd spoken.

"And you said Kingsley is allowing these guards to rape him?"

Harry nodded, wincing at the memories.

"That's what I'm working on. He has no plan other than keeping Voldemort in pain so he doesn't work out that collar."

"That's really disappointing," Hermione replied. "Well, I can help you think of some alternate ideas. There has to be something."

"Literally anything is better," Harry said, rubbing his eyes.

"You must still be exhausted, Harry."

Hermione pulled him into another hug before he could answer. He breathed in her familiar, comforting scent, and then released her as she stood.

"I'll do some research, I've got a couple of ideas on where to start."

Harry smiled, so grateful for her friendship.

"Thank you, Hermione."

She squeezed his hand gently.

"Get some sleep."

.

.

Voldemort refused to struggle against the shackles binding him to his table. He stared straight up at the ceiling, body as relaxed as he could will it to be with the demon Harris slicing a knife into his chest.

Breathe.

Voldemort clenched his teeth and denied his body a reaction. He would not flinch. He would not whimper.

Gone were the days of weakness. Before, it had been easier to retreat into his mind and allow his body's reflexes to respond to his torture, but he would no longer allow it. He could admit to himself that for many years now, he had given up hope. This nightmare was relentless and he had no longer managed to summon the will to fight against it.

But then, Harry Potter.

The boy would be his escape. The siren call of his soul was already compelling Potter to protect him and it would not take much cunning on Voldemort's part to manipulate the boy's natural penchant for self-sacrifice. There was a clear path, finally, after endless impasse.

"I'm going to write my name, so you know you who you belong to, Tom," the cur drawled, but Voldemort was impenetrable.

Superior.

Let them amuse themselves; he could easily replace the skin if it scarred. And he would take his own soon, in recompense.

The knife cut and dragged in designs upon his merger chest and shoulders. It hurt, the acute sting of air touching his muscles ached, but it would not break him.

A sharp slap to his face roused him and Voldemort blinked up at the maggot sneering down at him.

"I asked you a question."

Had he?

"Who do you belong to?"

Harry Potter.

No!

Voldemort threw his head to the side, denying that insanity, that lie. His brutal torture had commandeered his tongue. He belonged to no one.

"Don't want to say it, huh?" the vermin inquired, but Voldemort was focused on reorganizing his thoughts.

The blade was suddenly plunged deep into his abdomen and he felt his body freeze in terror. The agony, the suffocating panic— it did not matter how many times they killed him, this elemental aversion would remain his cardinal axiom.

He did not want to die.

He stared down at his stomach, watching the blood pour out of the wound. The knife was still embedded and the fiend was twisting it. He then yanked it out and began to stab him repeatedly in his abdomen.

Voldemort's hands shook in the restraints, determined to pull free and grasp at the blade, but it was futile. The pain was blinding. He had no breath, he was shuddering uncontrollably, his heart battering against his ribs, his vision beginning to flutter and blur, and Voldemort recognized all the signs of fatal blood loss right before his head thumped back against the table and he blacked out.

.

.

He came to with a gasp, pain slamming into his consciousness, and he almost succumbed again to oblivion.

His guard, his perpetual murderer, smiled viciously down at him. Voldemort felt the brute idly running his fingers through the blood pooled in the wounds carved into his abdomen. His magic would heal him enough to keep him alive, but never any more than that. He was still gravely injured, still close to the precipice.

"I love watching you come back," the flea crooned, tracing that slick, bloody digit up his neck, over his collar, and onto his face.

He pushed his finger into Voldemort's mouth and flicked it around, smiling cruelly.

"Lick it clean."

Voldemort growled, but the action made him cough and that was sheer agony, such that his vision swam again and he fell back into darkness.

.

.

The next time he awoke, Potter was there.

"Don't try and move," the boy said, placing a warm, slick hand on his chest that somehow did not make him panic.

He watched the boy, feeling disoriented, as Potter rubbed something into his skin. It smelled like… a healing salve. Surely not.

"I can't believe the state I found you in this morning," the boy was grumbling. "You were …unresponsive, the guard was actually…"

Voldemort felt a flash of fear, of shame, until his lethargic, buoyant condition smoothed everything out.

"I cursed him." The boy laughed nervously. "I know I shouldn't have, Kingsley is going to have my head."

Voldemort hummed to indicate that he had heard the words, but he was no closer to grasping their meaning.

Potter looked down at him, smirking.

"You're probably feeling the effects of the healing and pain potions I gave you. You'd needed a lot. That's why you must feel so… out of it. Do you?"

Voldemort nodded, content to listen to the boy ramble.

Healing potions. That was important. He was not allowed those. But Potter was still gently touching his skin and the contact made Voldemort close his eyes and release a low moan.

The fingers stopped. He missed them, but he was more interested in following the potion's somnolent call.

.

.

"You cursed one of his guards, Harry?" Kingsley shouted, the moment Harry put a foot inside his office.

Harry sighed and closed the door behind him, leaning against it.

"He was literally raping a dead body," Harry argued, trying not to relive that scene. "He carved his name into the man's flesh. And I warned you that I would not stand by as he was abused."

"As Voldemort is abused. You won't stand by," Kingsley deadpanned, which Harry did not appreciate. "So instead, you hit a fellow Ministry employee with a curse— you didn't just Stun him! You hurt him— in defence of Voldemort."

Harry nodded.

"Yup, seems so."

Kingsley lowered his head into his hands, rubbing his brow.

"Harry. You have a lot of political capital. The public likes you. I like you." The Minister looked up and speared Harry with a stern expression. "But even you cannot continue this defiance without me having to do something about it. What am I supposed to tell Harris?"

"Who?"

"The man you cursed, Harry! Do I just shrug and say, that's Harry Potter, like everyone else does? Just let you do whatever you want because we're all so very grateful to you?"

Harry felt bad, he really did, but he wasn't about to back down.

"I really don't know what you should do. But if it were me, I'd fire those assholes and hire some guards that actually guard the man. That's, you know, their job."

"Their job is to keep Voldemort safe at the Ministry. Safe for us, not safe for him, Harry. His personal safety is inconsequential. He made his own bed."

"I thought you were willing to work with me to curb this abuse," Harry said, allowing his disappointment to colour his voice.

If not, they would be having a very different conversation. Kingsley huffed out a breath and sat on the top of his desk, considering Harry.

"I am. But you have to understand that to everyone else, this is still the Dark Lord Voldemort. You're going to have a hard time convincing people to empathize with him."

Harry frowned.

"I don't have to convince everyone. It's three guards and I shouldn't have to even try. They should be following orders."

The Minister hummed and crossed his arms.

"Harry, how well do you think you know this man?"

Harry cocked an eyebrow.

"Well," he said slowly, annoyed that he had to explain this, "I was locked in a brutal life-or death-battle with him for seven years, able to hear his thoughts and share his emotions. I got to experience memories of him as a baby through to adulthood via Pensieve— oh, and lately I've been spending my free time trying to protect him from the Ministry of Magic. So, you know, rather well, I'd say."

Kingsley was giving him an exhaustedly amused look.

"Excellent. So you're familiar with how he is infamous for using delicate and effective manipulation against people? Have you considered that he may be using you?"

Harry scoffed… and then thought about it.

He remembered the innocent Sixth Year who somehow managed to convince everyone at Hogwarts that a spider was killing and Petrifying students. Or the young Borgin and Burkes employee who was able to charm a covetous, rich woman into showing him her most valued possessions. Or how easily he got Slughorn to open up about Horcruxes, simply with some dried fruit and careful flattery. How he even managed to coax the Grey Lady into believing him empathetic enough to give him the location of her mother's lost diadem.

And then there was his diary self, which had been able to seduce both Harry and Ginny into trusting him.

Truly, the evidence was stacked against him. Voldemort was an accomplished manipulator.

But Harry also had a sixth sense for bullshit.

…Most of the time.

Sometimes.

Either way, he was sure Voldemort was being sincere, because—

"How would he be using me?" Harry asked.

"As a ticket out of here? For over a decade no one has been friendly with him or tried to talk to him. Merlin, in all that time, I think I've had a dozen conversations with the man— and they weren't even that. More, me talking, and him either ignoring me or raging back."

Harry shook his head. That just proved his point.

"You said it yourself, no one has tried with him. So obviously he hasn't either. I know he's Lord Voldemort, but he's also just a person."

"A murderer. A dangerous criminal, a masochist, a child-abuser—"

"What?"

"He's never balked at killing children. He recruited some kids, then tortured a few of them." Kingsley paused, eyeing Harry's expression. "I didn't mean sexual abuse."

Why was that a tremendous relief?

"Harry, anything he says that you like, that makes you feel good, or makes you feel pity for him— remember who he is. What he is capable of. He is using you. Don't let him. You're an easy target because you have a compassionate heart. But you also have a job to do here and that is to protect the public. Can you do that if Voldemort gets free? How would you feel if Ginny got hurt because you gave him pain potions and nursed him back to health, despite knowing pain is the only thing keeping that collar on?"

Damn it. He knew he'd be in trouble for that too.

"I told you I wouldn't stand by for this. Your guard was raping a dead man. Do you understand? That goes above and beyond keeping him in pain. That is sick. That is illegal. And if you stand behind that, I can't stand behind you."

Kingsley laced his hands together and dropped them neatly in his lap.

"Okay. So what do you suggest?"

Harry blew out a breath and began to pace.

"I don't really know. I haven't had much time to research this, but I was thinking— what about if we induced sleep for half the day? Made it dreamless so he was just… out?"

He paused to glance at the Minister, who was frowning. Harry ploughed on.

"That way he won't have too much time to think. We can interrupt his day with sleep so he can't anticipate when it will happen. But—" Harry faced the man fully and met his eyes. "He cannot be abused while he's unconscious. At all. Or the deal is off."

"What deal?"

"I'll help you and keep your secret if you treat him ethically."

Kingsley rubbed his stubbled cheek, staring at Harry, but his eyes were looking through him.

"I don't know if that will be enough. We don't have room for error, here. One mistake and he's gone."

"I think it will work," Harry said with more confidence than he felt. "Then maybe, constant surveillance with charms that go off if he does certain things, like try and open the cell door, or if magic suddenly occurs in the cell."

"If magic occurs in that cell from him, we are already too late."

Kingsley tapped his fingers against his desk, thinking.

"Let me consider your proposal, Harry. Give me a few days."

Harry nodded and turned to leave when Kingsley stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"I want you to take the rest of the day off. Go take Ginny out for dinner, get a hotel somewhere for the weekend. I don't want to see you until Monday morning."

A flash of pale skin turned towards the wall, bloodied and chained, arrested his thoughts. He couldn't leave Voldemort that long, not until he could be sure the new system was in place and he was safe.

"With all due respect, sir, Robards will have my head if I take any more time off. We're at a pivotal point with some of the BDE and—"

"I'll speak with him."

Harry's mouth was still open, so he closed it. Crossed his arms.

"Why?"

"Clear your head. Get some distance from this."

Harry continued to stare. Kingsley sighed.

"Fine. Also, I want you to remember why we need to keep Voldemort locked up. Who we have to risk."

Harry definitely didn't internally scoff at the idea that Ginny was more important to him than Voldemort.

"Robards is going to fire me," Harry muttered.

"I'll handle Robards. You… go and have good weekend. Get laid."

Harry smiled uncomfortably. Kingsley patted his back and then waved him off. Harry took the cue and left.