Chapter 9

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The whistle of the barbed whip through the air was all the warning he got before it struck him again, hard across the side, curling around to bite into his chest. Voldemort tried to master his gasp as he hysterically counted one hundred ninety-two. His back, shoulders, stomach, and buttocks were searing with molten fire, as if submerged in boiling water, as if bound in red-hot forged iron.

Another strike on his ruined back had him screaming.

Breathe— breathe— breathe—

The blood was pooling at his feet; his torso and legs saturated. His mind was numb with pain, and his consciousness had reached the point where it was as if he was floating, outside of himself, caught in an agonized nightmare.

Another, the barbs gouging under his left nipple, and Voldemort keened.

He just wanted to it stop. He knew his skin was shredded, knew bone protruded and meagre muscle ribboned. His fingers had long since torn deep gouges into his palms, his lips gnawed raw and bloody, his body quaking uncontrollably as it tried to ready for the next hit.

It came, relentless, and Voldemort cried out, his head collapsing onto the stone wall. Everything shook. He tried to master it, but the metal shrapnel slashed too deeply into the wounds already made. His breathing was rapid, shallow, and contributing to his lightheadedness.

"You'll talk eventually."

Another brand of fire struck across his abdomen.

"Won't you, Tom?"

Another, and Voldemort sobbed brokenly.

"You didn't heal this on your own."

He was beyond begging, beyond words at this point. He was unable to do more than exist, throat burning, face stained with tears and discharge.

The cell door opened and Voldemort could think of nothing but the naïve hope that it was Harry, here to save him at last. Please, Harry, help me—

"Merlin, Grayson, that's enough, don't you think?"

Harris, he distantly noted with despair.

Voldemort waited, eyes squeezed shut, for the whip to strike again. One hundred ninety-seven. His breathing was rapid and rough, his skin quaking violently.

"He hasn't talked yet," the devil rasped, out of breath. "He will, though. I'll make sure of it."

"Come on, you know he won't. Why can't you believe that his magic healed him?"

"Because it was too much!" his torturer shrieked, incensed. "His magic only heals him enough to keep him alive. He was almost perfect again when we found him. That wasn't his magic, I know it. Someone came to see him last night."

"Imposible, we—"

"It was Potter," Grayson said, like the fall of an axe. Confident. Final. "And this faggot is going to tell me."

There was silence and then the cretin stepped closer to Voldemort. He flinched, the shackles chaining his arms above him rattled, and he cried out with the movement.

"Doesn't look like he'll be able to say much of anything for a while. Gary," the voice paused, got softer, "I really don't think—"

"It was Potter!"

A blunt object was suddenly slammed into his rectum, coated with his tacky blood no doubt, and forced his face against the wall. Voldemort screamed, fingers scratching against the stone, legs trying desperately to close, but that instrument just pushed deeper, spearing him.

"Gary—"

"Harry Potter was in here last night, I know it." The words drifted past Voldemort as he drowned in and out of consciousness. "He healed this piece of shit. I'm going to make them both pay."

The brute brought his lips up against Voldemort's ear, twisting the handle of the whip inside of him. Voldemort groaned, his head thumping hard against the wall.

Oh gods, too much—

"You're the fucking Dark Lord," the villain rasped, "you deserve every second of pain you get." Lips touched his ear, whispering. "You killed Colin Creevey. He was innocent. He was my nephew."

A distant part of his brain collected this last piece of Gary Grayson and his eyes slid closed in understanding.

"Whatever… hope or… fucking gay shit Potter brings you," the demon breathed in his ear, "I will crush it. You will suffer here. If Potter gives you happiness I will personally ensure you never see him again."

Voldemort was almost gone, his eyes growing heavy, his body sagging in his restraints. His last dazed thought was that maybe death would not be so terrible.

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Harry picked up the teacups on his desk from Ginny's awkward visit and moved them to the table by the wall.

She had dropped by unexpectedly, though Harry had known she would come soon regardless. Really, he ought to have gone to her, but his Gryffindor bravery was sorely lacking lately.

She wanted to stay together.

She'd apologized.

Merlin. He didn't deserve her. Harry had sat and mostly stared in disbelief while she'd explained that she would wait until Harry was ready to move in.

Part of him wished she would grow a spine. The way he treated her was unconscionable and if she just realized that and left him… He'd be fucked, surely, but at least the guilt would lesson. Well, the guilt from that particular section of his life.

He also bizarrely wished she would call him on his bullshit. Hold him accountable. Make him grovel, if she still wanted him. He deserved to grovel a bit. Okay, a lot. But she just kept understanding.

He really wished she wouldn't.

Harry was an arse. He was well aware. It wasn't okay to treat someone badly just because they would take it. He was better than that.

In all honesty, if there was a spell he could incant to make himself normal, to make him desire her as she deserved to be desired, to forget about Dark Lords who snogged him breathless, he would cast it right away. All his life, he'd just wanted to be ordinary. But that had never been an option for him.

And the fact remained that he needed her. She had been his constant after the war and if Voldemort balanced him, then Ginny kept him alive. Because Harry had no doubt that whatever was happening with Voldemort was suicidal, unhealthy, and vile. He needed Ginny to keep him safe while he attempted to throw his whole body into the deep end.

Harry glanced at his watch and saw that he had only eight minutes until his meeting with the Minister.

Harry was pissed. Kingsley had tortured Voldemort. It was one thing to sanction it as necessary, but quite another to engage in it. He hadn't really had time to think more about how to keep Voldemort's collar on in a way that was more ethical, but he supposed he could try and sell the sleep idea again. Unconsciousness was better than rape, surely.

Harry locked his office and headed downstairs to meet the Minister. He knocked on the door, one minute early. It opened and Kingsley's smiling face was revealed.

"Hey Harry, take a seat. I'm just finishing up with something."

Harry walked in and watched as Kingsley said a few last words to someone in his Floo and then the person was gone with a flash of green flame.

"Sorry about that," Kingsley said, coming over with a cup of tea for Harry.

Harry took it and sipped it slowly. Kingsley sat beside him and not behind his desk, so they could talk as equals.

"I've been thinking about what you said this morning."

Kingsley's face was serious.

"Oh yeah?"

The Minister nodded.

"Your friendship with Voldemort is not breaking any laws. You cannot lose your job for it. But you will lose your friends. No one is going to understand this, Harry. He killed your parents."

"Yup," Harry said, barely moving his mouth. "I'm aware."

Kingsley sighed, looking away and sipping his own tea.

"It's not right."

Harry seethed, having had just about enough of the hypocritical judgement.

"You know what else isn't right? Torture. And that's what you did to Voldemort while I was gone. Is that why you wanted me away?" Harry glared at him, sneering. "You actually tortured someone. And then you try and talk to me about what's right."

Harry put his cup down and stood.

"Harry, wait," Kingsley said, getting up as well, but Harry turned to face him.

"I supported you," Harry spat. "I backed you, sold you to people. I thought you were better than what we were fighting against." Harry laughed cruelly. "You know, your rule is rather similar to how his was."

"Except that I only hurt people who deserve it."

"You don't think Voldemort thought we'd deserved it? And we did, in his eyes. It's perspective, Kingsley, come on, you're not an idiot."

"What would you have me do, Harry? I didn't want you involved in this at all— I still don't! He's a manipulator, look what he's done to you."

"He hasn't done anything to me," Harry denied, frustrated.

"The Harry I know wouldn't lay on the floor and cheer up the person who had been trying to kill him since he was a baby. Or heal him. Or feed him. He would remember that Voldemort killed Sirius, and Mad-Eye, and Tonks, and Remus, and Fred Weasley, and so many others. He would honour those deaths by allowing justice to come to the man responsible for it all."

Harry turned his back on Kingsley and rubbed his face. Hearing those names… He closed his eyes, fingers pressing into his sockets. The pain helped, but not enough.

Sirius. Remus. Fred. His heart beat with every name and his mind took him back to the carnage and the anguish and the… hopelessness. He saw Sirius fall gracefully through the Veil, saw Fred blown apart by an explosion an arm's-length away… Snape. Killed so needlessly, for a misunderstanding. So many had died for him that day. So many lives he was responsible for.

A hand on his shoulder shocked him, reminding him he was not alone.

He was also on his knees.

"Justice," Harry whispered, opening his eyes, grateful that they were not tunnelling. "You call it justice."

Harry lifted his hand and removed Kingsley's from his shoulder. He stood, as did the Minister.

"Yes, I sit with him," Harry continued. "And feed him. I even heal him. But I don't feel shame or guilt for doing so. I can live with my treatment of the Dark Lord. I made a pledge as an Auror to protect those who needed it. To be better than those I fought against. You talk about what is right. Do you think what we're doing to him is right?"

"For the Dark Lord? Yes, I do."

Harry shook his head.

"You wouldn't treat an animal like this."

"Animals are innocent. He is not."

Harry growled in frustration, having had just about enough of this bullshit.

"I won't allow you to continue brutalizing him, Kingsley!" Harry shouted, turning to face his once-friend, head on.

The Minister studied him for several minutes in silence. Harry stared right back. Finally, with a weary sigh, Kingsley seated himself again.

"Alright, Harry. I've given your idea a lot of thought since you'd mentioned it. I'm willing to try it out, but I have some alterations."

Harry snorted.

"Let's hear it, then."

"First, you still don't visit him— I obviously can't stop you," the Minister said louder, seeing Harry about to protest, "but I hope you will listen to me when I tell you that this can only end badly. For everyone."

"I don't agree to that. My reasons are my own, but if you're no longer abusing him, my visits won't interfere with the guards' duties."

Kingsley eyed him, clearly disappointed.

"I also require a Vow from you, so you can't blackmail me again."

At the mention of blackmail, Harry remembered that he had to tell the Minister about the guards.

"Lastly," Kingsley said, "I believe the only way that this sleep method will be effective is if we keep him asleep for the whole day. Forever. Indefinitely. I will support this plan under these conditions."

"No," Harry rejected, horrified.

"Harry, don't dismiss this so fast. We wouldn't need three guards. We could control him effortlessly, the rapes would stop, the torture—"

"No way."

"It's the only way I will agree to this."

"It's no better, Kingsley! You want to trap him in his own mind! He may as well be dead!"

"He should be dead, Harry! That's what you agreed to when you brought him to me after the war. He was to be executed."

"I wanted him imprisoned, not killed!"

"You said—"

Harry growled.

"Yes, I know, I said you could do what you had to. I told you what I wanted, though. I never wanted him dead."

"He deserves to die for what he's done. Besides, this is better than he would have received from the Wizengamot. They would have killed him. Here, even asleep, he still has his life."

"What life? That's not a life!"

"It's the only way I'm agreeing to this. If he sleeps, he will remain unmolested."

Harry tried to process that. Was that a valid compromise? Which of them would Voldemort prefer? Was one really better than the other? Voldemort would be forced to sleep forever. His mind trapped and his body vulnerable.

"Let me speak to him," Harry said. "It shouldn't be up to you or I."

"And I suppose you think Voldemort should decide his fate? Do you really trust him so much?"

"It's his life. He should have a say in how he's tortured."

Harry made to leave, to go tell Voldemort about his other option, but then he remembered that he wasn't allowed near those cells.

He turned, his righteous anger evaporating. He had to inform the Minister. With the threat of blackmail hanging over him, this scenario would never work. Harry could never agree to this plan if he was barred from checking on him.

An image of Voldemort permanently sleeping brought Harry such a stab of longing, of loneliness and loss. To never be able to speak to him, never hear that voice. He would never dare touch him because that would be akin to assault, to touch without consent. To have to look upon that silhouette and know he was right there, trapped just under his consciousness, but unable to surface…

"There is something I have to tell you," Harry muttered, turning back to face his superior, his friend.

Kingsley's eyebrows rose, but he simply nodded and moved back to sit in the chair he had vacated. Harry returned as well and sat beside him.

He closed his eyes briefly and saw Voldemort's dead body jerking limply as he was fucked into the table, saw his bloody chest, his broken wrists, his agonized face and Harry could do nothing because he was forbidden. He had to watch it all, had to pretend it didn't kill him, didn't concern him, while those guards taunted him, mocking his inability to save Voldemort who was being raped—

"I kissed him," Harry blurted out, his eyes flashing open, desperate to escape those images.

Kingsley's eyebrows rose almost to his hairline. He looked utterly floored.

"Why?"

Harry winced and looked away, hating himself.

"I wanted to."

He could feel his heartbeat in his throat while he waited for the Minister's judgement.

"I don't understand," Kingsley said slowly, sounding embarrassed and confused. "You're... gay? Since when? What about Ginny?"

Harry struggled with what to say. He looked back at Kingsley in time to see his eyebrows lower and narrow.

"You betrayed her," he said with distaste. "You lost her. For him."

"She doesn't know," Harry whispered.

Kingsley laughed, derisively.

"So. You want me to keep a secret for you now. You realize, with this tidbit I could easily blackmail you and force you to accept my previous conditions? I could forbid you to see Voldemort, or force you to quit, or—"

"Yes," Harry said, interrupting him, "but I could then still go to the press. And anyways, I'm telling you this because I am currently in that exact situation, but I will agree to nothing with you until you call off your dogs."

"My dogs? Who— the guards? Did they catch you?"

The Minister must have caught the look on Harry's face and he laughed again, sounding amazed.

"Not so pure and honourable after all, are you, Potter?"

Harry grimaced. Unsure if this would lead him into further trouble, but unable to be slandered in such a way, Harry countered.

"I assure you, unlike with your guards, our kiss was consensual."

Kingsley's face contorted.

"That's— Merlin, Harry!"

Kingsley stood and walked to his liquor table and poured himself a drink. He necked it back, cringing and then looked at Harry with disgust in his eyes.

"That is worse, far worse. That is sick. So what, do you…" The older man made a gesture with his hand and seemed to falter, without words. "So you… what? Fancy the man? The murderer?"

He laughed and then stopped abruptly when Harry didn't deny it.

"No. Harry, you cannot. Tell me I'm misunderstanding this."

"I'm not in love with him, Kingsley."

"So what? You just kissed him for a laugh? Merlin, Harry, I know you're a thrill-seeker, but snogging the bloody Dark Lord is over the top, even for you!"

Kingsley laughed thinly, shrilly, and walked back, falling into his chair, head thrown back, eyes staring up at the ceiling.

"You fancy him."

Harry said nothing. He should deny it, but he couldn't seem to get it out.

"Merlin."

They sat in silence for ages, longer than Harry could bear. Every now and then Kingsley would laugh quietly to himself and Harry would flinch, but he was completely powerless.

The Minister for Magic now knew he was gay. Or, at least, gay for Voldemort. He literally held Harry's life in his hands.

"So Ginny. Your fiancée." Kingsley's tone was scathing as he looked up and speared Harry with a displeased glare. "What about her?"

"We're still together. I still intend to marry her."

"How can you—?"

"Look, my relationship with my fiancée is really none of your business. I told you about… the kiss, because your guards forced me to stay away from him or they would expose me. Now you know. If I am to agree to these new terms you're setting, or rather to negotiate them, because I still feel complete unconsciousness is no better than what he is suffering now, I need you to speak to the guards. Tell them I will be visiting again."

"Does your fiancée know you're visiting?" Kingsley quipped, mockingly.

"As per our previous agreement, neither she, nor anyone else, knows about Voldemort. Should I change that? Just so you know, my fiancée is very understanding."

"Merlin, Harry," Kingsley groaned, thumping his head back on the sofa. "I wish you would have told me this at the end of the day. How am I supposed to continue to work while picturing you snogging Voldemort? Ugh, even saying it…"

"Look. Talk to the guards. Now, if you please. I have one more thing I have to finish for a BDE report and then I'm going down to ask him about the induced sleep."

"How will it look that the Minister is considering what a prisoner— this prisoner— wants for punishment? He'll see it as weak, Harry. He'll use it."

"I don't care. You've got enough to ruin me and I have enough to get you kicked out of office. I don't want to resort to that. Let's work together."

Harry stood up. He looked down at his friend who was still reclining on his chair, head back.

"I'll be heading down in about half an hour. It will be better for everyone if I don't meet resistance down there."

Kingsley stared at him for a long moment, face unreadable. Then, he gave a minute nod, which Harry returned.

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Voldemort woke with a gasp, eyes snapping open, his awareness immediately seized by the fire burning his body. He looked down to see his ruined torso and bloody legs. He could not imagine what his back looked like, but the agony radiating in waves with his pulse was answer enough.

He was still chained to the ceiling, but his legs were no longer taking his weight and he hung limply from his wrists.

He bit back a cry, instead lowering his head and burrowing it into his damp armpit.

Breathe.

He had not been broken. That was reason enough to celebrate. Voldemort knew it was not for Harry that he had protected the secret of his healing, but rather due to self-preservation. Right now, they only had suspicions and Grayson alone believed them. If Potter was discovered to be helping him then that help would surely be blocked.

He must retreat into his mind, he knew this from experience. He had to ruminate on other matters to force the agony into a part of his consciousness where it could be controlled. Mastered. Not ignored, this was too much to disregard, but at least managed.

He closed his eyes, pushing down the anguish of the air touching his ravaged skin.

Freedom. It was possible in a tangible way for the first time since he had learned of the extent to which the Ministry had bound him. He had never been captured before, had never even worried about such an absurdity. As if Azkaban could hold him. As if anyone could.

His eyes flashed open as a drop of blood began to wend its way down his spine, each wound it encountered igniting his pain, the saline-absorbed bead like a scalpel slicing through his flesh.

He slammed his eyes closed again, determined, and exhaled deeply.

Focus.

And then he had awoken, after his capture, to the incomprehensible reality of being separated from his magic. The agony of vulnerability and the shock of being caught had almost drowned him.

Voldemort hissed as his legs trembled. No more morose memories. Something lighter.

He was close now. To freedom, to vengeance. To his robes and his wand and his magic. His magic was what drove him, what forced him to endure. The promise of it. The knowledge that, with it coiled around him once more, he would cower before no one. Fear nothing.

He would again be Master.

And he would demonstrate to his trio of guards what proficient torture looked like.

Voldemort winced. This was not enough to distract him. His arms had lost circulation and the concerning paralyzed sensation forced him to attempt to take some of his weight with his legs. He pushed his body against the wall, his cheek scraping the stone, and pulled his legs straight. His feet were unresponsive, but he was able to support his body better and the uncomfortable paresthesia as blood pumped back into his limbs was, at least, distracting.

But not enough. He needed a better focus.

Harry Potter.

That cursed boy.

His supposed downfall— and perhaps he was. For nothing could be more dangerous and foolish right now than to allow himself to react instinctively. Instincts were human, fallible, asinine. He must forsake these base and vulgar impulses and allow his mind to lead.

Potter was simply a tool. Voldemort had always been impeccable at placing his own desires above all else. And what he wanted most was freedom. Anything with the boy, any feelings, must be extinguished ruthlessly lest they engulf his entire will.

For that is what it had felt like last night. His will being commandeered. It was like possession. His body had rebelled against his mind, had attacked the boy, had used his mouth and his hands to incite pleasure in someone— an action that he had never done without intent. He had used unfamiliar, impassioned words that had overtaken him without his consent.

Touching him had been a mistake.

Twice, without regard for self-preservation or caution, he had mauled the boy, in full-view of his captors. He had put his own safety at risk, and for what? Biology? He had felt hunger and lust and greed in such quantities that it had almost undone him.

It was dangerous.

He was stronger than this. He was worth more. Whatever the boy's pull towards him, he could not allow it to affect himself. He would use it, as he had always done, when a fool dared to desire him. He would exploit their emotions and remain untouched, callously garnering their support and offerings.

He must resist. He could do that.

I will.

The metal door to the cells crashed open, startling him out of his thoughts.

And back came the agony.

His knees buckled and he sank his teeth into his wasted cheek to stifle the cry that broke out of him. He closed his eyes. No more, please, I will die, I cannot—

"Voldemort!"

That voice.

Voldemort spun, his eyes darting out to find that boy, that man who strode into his cell with all the confidence and authority his blasted name foretold.

"My god, fuck—"

Harry's voice was outraged, distressed.

Voldemort allowed his body to sink, to surrender, his eyes closing. It was too much; the extensive lacerations, the starvation and dehydration, the despair. The relief.

He felt his eyes close, his head falling forward, and he knew no more.