Chapter 11

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The crack of Apparition brought Harry to his favourite gay pub in Muggle London, The Eagle. It was dinner time, but only Monday, so the place was pretty quiet.

Harry stumbled inside, still reeling, still lost, and collapsed into an empty seat at the bar.

"What can I get you, love?"

Harry didn't even look up.

"Martin. Is he working tonight?"

The man gave an apologetic groan.

"Nah, he's off today."

"Fuck."

The man laughed, but not unkindly.

"Hey, if you're lonely, I know there are a couple blokes in the booth at the back who'd mentioned being on the pull."

Harry nodded and gave his drink order, then the man retreated.

Harry didn't normally see the same person twice, but tonight, he was desperate to forget. Martin had been clean, he'd smelled nice, and had been open to casual encounters. He'd called Harry, Papi chulo, which Harry had liked the sound of, even if he hadn't known what it meant.

Harry turned to look in the direction the bartender had indicated and saw a group of four men, fairly attractive and stylish. Harry stood up and walked towards them before his drink had even been poured.

He wasn't here for the alcohol.

The first man to make eye contact smiled and Harry picked him. Harry crossed his arms and pressed his hip against the table.

"I want you to fuck me," Harry said boldly, to the outraged cries of the other men.

"Steady on! Buy the man a drink first, won't you?"

"Baxter! Lucky dog!"

"Have you seen Hopper, buddy? He's the one you should be asking!"

Harry ignored them all, his eyes locked onto the man he'd spoken to who had yet to react except to raise his eyebrows.

"Yeah sure, why not," the man said casually, with a roguish grin while his friends went mental.

"Follow me," Harry said, and walked to the back of the pub.

Harry heard the man, Baxter, trailing him, his friends still wolf-whistling, and he tried to control his panic.

Voldemort doesn't want me, he couldn't even bear touching me, I can do whatever I want, he doesn't want me anyway.

"What's your name?" the man asked, when they emerged outside and Harry began to walk towards the alleyway a few shops down.

"Harry."

"Are you okay?" the man asked with an incredulous chuckle, still following as Harry led them down the mouth of the path and into the shadows.

"I mean, this is pretty ballsy, just walking up and asking for sex. Do you do this a lot?"

Harry turned and pushed the taller man against the wall, kissing him. Baxter let out a surprised laugh and then wrapped his arms around Harry.

"Bite me," Harry growled, and let out a cry when the man obliged, sinking his teeth into Harry's shoulder.

"Did you bring a condom?" Baxter asked, twisting and pushing Harry's back against the wall.

His hands began to work at pulling down Harry's trousers and pants.

"Hey, what's this stick you're carrying?"

Baxter had pulled out Harry's wand, an amused expression on his face.

Harry froze for a moment and then simply took it off of him and put it back in the pocket of his trousers, which were around his ankles.

"I moonlight as a magician."

Baxter laughed and Harry shut him up by grabbing him roughly by his hard cock.

"So are you going to fuck me, or what?" Harry asked, so very done with all the talking.

Crack!

Harry spun, pushing the man behind him, and faced the unmistakable sounds of Apparition.

Three cloaked figures stood there, looking as shocked as Harry was to see them.

"Potter?" one said, and Harry realized it was Gregory Goyle, who was now a paroled criminal rumoured to be working for the BDE.

Bugger.

Harry forlornly wished he had kept his wand in hand and tried diving for it, but it was too late. A stunning spell hit him straight in the side and he fell hard to the ground.

"The— fuck?" Baxter shouted, and Harry could hear him attempt to run, but a burst of green light told him that Harry's impulsive decision had cost an innocent person their life.

Goyle burst out laughing; mocking, derisive laughter that made Harry's face heat.

"You're a fucking ponce, Potter? Merlin's tits, did you know, Pans?"

A shrill laugh revealed Pansy Parkinson was also present.

"I most certainly did not! And I do wonder if his dear wifey will be as surprised!"

"The Boy Who Lived to Bend Over!"

"The Chosen Hole!"

The trio laughed harder than ever, and Harry let the words waft over him.

Harry was floating, aware that his world was about to end, aware that he was about to be exposed as a homosexual and maybe even killed, but all he could see was Baxter falling, confused and guiltless, dead because Harry was horny.

He had killed a man. Did he have a family? His friends inside, they had no idea. Harry closed his eyes. He was selfish and weak and people that got near to him just kept dying.

"What d'ya reckon?" Goyle asked. "Should we bring him in? I bet the Mistress would want to see him."

A voice Harry did not recognize answered.

"We're here to a job, let's do that first. He's not going anywhere."

"I shudder to think about what will happen if she finds out we had Potter and didn't bring him in," Pansy said. "Think of what he could do for us."

"All we were doing is torching a few of these tosser pubs anyway," Goyle said. "We can do it again tomorrow night, no harm done."

Silence, and then Harry felt hands haul him up and, with an uncomfortable jolt to his navel, he was Apparated away.

.

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You are not alone in this any longer.

You are mine, Harry Potter.

Mine.

M—

Harry woke with gasp, his hands jolting up to protect himself from the next blow, but they just flailed against the restraints and Harry received the second hit directly to his already broken cheekbone.

"Fuck!" Harry choked, head snapping to the side.

He stayed there, panting, wishing with everything he had that he was still in his dream.

"Wakey wakey, Potter," said a voice Harry did not recognize.

He looked up and saw an older man, late fifties maybe, leering down at him, fist still tight and ready.

"I'm awake," Harry said, unnecessarily, because he didn't want another punch. He looked back at the man, licking his dry, cracked lips. "How about some food?"

He had been here for maybe two days and they had yet to feed him. He couldn't help feeling— a slightly hysterical— bond of shared experience with Voldemort. They were both currently chained up and hungry in the enemy's camp.

Merlin, how he missed that man.

The stranger just laughed.

"You'll get fed once the Mistress decides what to do with you."

"See, you keep saying the Mistress, like I'm supposed to know who the hell that is."

The man came closer, conjuring a glass of water, and Harry felt his dry throat attempt to swallow at the desire for it.

"Oh, you know her. She'll certainly have much to say to you."

The man held out the water and took a sip, smirking as Harry watched the action with his mouth open.

"Please," Harry begged, so desperately thirsty.

His head pounded. He was weak and lightheaded and that water looked like Amortentia.

"Will you answer my questions yet?"

Harry groaned.

"I already told you, I don't have the addresses of those people. I could get them, if you let me go back to the Ministry, but I don't know anyone's addresses off the top of my head."

Sure, it wasn't the most convincing lie, but it was the best he could do right now.

"I find that hard to believe. You're a top Auror—"

"I'm an Auror."

"—you're friends with the Minister for Magic—"

"I told you, I can get those addresses, but I just don't—"

"—you're friends with many Blood Traitors, surely you've visited Neville Longbottom's house?"

"Yeah, fine, but I don't actually know his address."

The man made a tch tch sound in exaggerated disappointment.

"Pity."

He stepped closer and took out his wand. Harry pushed his body back into the wall, trying to get away, but it was impossible.

"Where does Minerva McGonagall live?"

"I don't know, but—"

"Crucio!"

Harry's legs went slack and his body caught fire, every nerve screaming along with him in agony, his vision turning white then black and Harry thrashed and cried out, make it stop, let it stop, Merlin, gods, help me—

The spell released him much sooner than it usually would have. Harry looked up and saw the man was staring at the doorway to the room. He tried to peer around him to see what it was, but his body was trembling too hard to obey and there wasn't enough slack in the restraints anyway.

"Little baby, Potter," crooned a voice that made the hair on his body stand on end, his teeth clench in murderous rage. "Perhaps not a baby anymore, hmm?"

Bellatrix Lestrange stepped into his line of vision and Harry forced his legs to take his weight. He would not tremble before this madwoman. Merlin, was everyone he thought dead still alive? Why couldn't the Order have people come back from the dead, too? Harry had been told she'd been killed once the remaining Death Eaters had stormed the castle after Harry had Disapparated with Voldemort.

"Gordon. Leave us."

The man nodded once and swept out, closing the door behind him.

Bellatrix was smiling menacingly at him.

"I've thought about this moment a lot over the past twelve years," Bellatrix said musingly, walking up to Harry and then leaning against the wall beside him, close enough that Harry could feel her breath on his face. "What I would do if I got to play with you. This, you here, was not my plan. Our organization had bigger concerns than kidnapping an incompetent false Saviour."

Harry watched as Bellatrix's wand appeared suddenly and traced the slope of his nose with its tip. Her eyes were avid and locked onto his face.

"But I admit, I had hoped one day to bring you here."

Bellatrix traced her wand down his face, over his lips, his chin, down his neck, and then slowly down his clothed chest, stopping at his belly. Harry felt the fear that warred with his hatred of her triumph. He watched her warily, understanding the inevitability of her violence.

Bellatrix leaned in closer, her nose touching Harry's, her lips lightly pressing against his. Harry was too shocked to react. It was not a kiss, it felt more like she was scenting his breath.

Her eyes were an inch from his.

"It's been twelve years since you took him from me."

Harry felt her wand press harder into his stomach.

"You took him. You… dared to touch him." Her voice was trembling with emotion, her eyes fixed on his. "You took him."

Harry felt Bellatrix's other hand slide up and touch his exposed neck, her fingernails flexing and then sinking into his skin.

"For that, you will pay, Harry Potter. I will make you feel every moment of agony that I have felt these twelve long years."

Harry rapidly considered his options.

Obviously, she thought Voldemort dead, like everyone else in the wizarding world, so if he told her the truth, he would either be tortured for keeping her Master or released so she could organize and attempt to break him free.

But then, Voldemort would be free. With an army and hell-bent on vengeance.

Or, Harry could take the punishment, keep the Ministry's secret, and assume she was going to force him to do something for the BDE and send him home. Voldemort would stay imprisoned, Harry could get a lot of information the Aurors were seriously lacking on the BDE and hopefully be in a position to finally take them down.

It all came down to whose side Harry was on.

Of course, the other possibility, was that he could be killed here no matter what he said because it was Bellatrix, so all bets were off.

Before he could come to a decision, Bellatrix smiled widely and the Cruciatus slammed into him, knocking him off his feet, every nerve in his body alight with molten fire, his head dragging against the wall as his body shook and it was pain beyond imaging, beyond understanding, he tried to breathe, but his lungs were turning to ash, his heart—

Harry felt the curse lift and hung limply by his wrists as he tried to catch his breath. Fuck, he hated that curse. He would never get used to it.

The mad bitch began to laugh and Harry realized with dismay, that this was going to be a long fucking day.

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Voldemort laid supine on his cot and stared, unseeingly, up at the ceiling.

It was critically obvious now that his food was being tampered with. It answered for his recent licentious behaviour, the crushing anxiety regarding the current whereabouts of the boy, and his own fallacious, inexplicable feelings.

Amortentia. Or a lust philtre, perhaps combined with a mild Confundus or Extermia. There were rituals, certainly, that could bind the two of them, The Warshaw Binding Oath fit the results best, but without his magic it was impossible that he could have participated, even assuming he had been Obliviated afterwards. No, a potion was more probable, as they were unlikely to enter Potter into a ritual without his consent.

Unless he had consented….?

Voldemort strangled the unwanted twinge of betrayal he felt at that thought. Even accepting that the boy could be using him, surely in that case Potter would not willingly tie himself to his nemesis.

The conclusion to this being that the boy was acting on his own erratic free-will.

He closed his eyes, livid, forcing his thoughts onto relevant matters. The potion. He must discover which potion was being employed.

It was an extensive list he could recall, but it was not exhaustive. Severus could have given him a complete enumeration and Voldemort admitted, not for the first time, that his death had perhaps been hastily decided. Voldemort would never know if it had been necessary for the Elder Wand's allegiance, but it had all been for nothing in the end. Whether the wand belonged to Severus or the fool Dumbledore, it had not helped him win the war.

It could not bring him victory over Potter.

It would seem that nothing could.

Voldemort rolled cautiously over onto his side and opened his eyes.

His cell was empty, as it had been more than was usual, for the past four days. In that time only Grayson had visited him and, though his violence had been staggering, he had not lingered. Nor would he answer Voldemort's questions, but mercilessly taunted him with crumbs of information that left him more confused.

It was as if they were all preoccupied elsewhere and, combined with the boy's sudden absence, he suspected something had happened. Or was presently happening.

If—

The jarring sound of metal hinges grating together brought Voldemort to a standing position at once.

Footsteps, too calm and measured to be Potter's, slumped his posture briefly.

Shacklebolt strode into view and Voldemort felt a momentary leap of adrenaline— the two were friends were they not? Perhaps news—

"Sit down, I'm coming in," Shacklebolt ordered, and Voldemort obeyed instantly due to his extensive conditioning.

He almost rose again in defiance to prove that he was not a trained beast, but then recognized that until he knew for what purpose the Minister was here, he would act compliant.

"I don't have much time for you," the Minister said, his face uncharacteristically bearded and gaunt.

Shacklebolt closed the cell door and conjured a chair, sitting heavily and then surveyed Voldemort, his foot tapping irritatingly on the floor.

Voldemort would not speak first.

"Harry has been captured by the BDE," the man said, and Voldemort felt the breath leave him.

BDE— DE was surely Death Eaters, but what—

"He was taken while in London five days ago. We don't know—"

"Who are the BDE?" Voldemort interrupted, still caught there.

Shacklebolt sneered at him.

"We call them the Baby Death Eaters."

Baby..?

"Our name, not theirs. They consist mainly of younger people brainwashed by your rhetoric and unhappy with Harry winning the war."

"Young people," Voldemort said, his mind following different possibilities. "Are any marked?"

Kingsley's gaze became harder. Suspicious. Or perhaps protective of information, but Voldemort did not have the patience to coax it out.

"Some are. We don't have a full list of names, but we know of at least a few from your Inner Circle who have been sighted in connection with their activities."

"You need my help," Voldemort guessed, his mind conjuring detailed violent images of what was being done to Harry and they hit Voldemort viscerally.

Five days. In five days what I could have done to the boy if I had won the war… Time was crucial.

"Yes," Shacklebolt confirmed, and Voldemort began to piece together a plan, where they would go, what they were likely doing…

But he needed more information.

"What do they want?"

"Same as you did, but astonishingly, they are even more blood-thirsty and less organized than you were." Voldemort allowed the insult, his mind still working. "They focus mainly on killing Muggles with no regard for our Statute of Secrecy or for the value of human lives. It's mostly terrorist behaviour with some demands of removing Muggle-born workers from the Ministry and other higher-up positions. And, of course, ridiculously—"

"They want me," Voldemort finished, having known this would be their demand as soon as he had heard the name.

The Minister laughed cruelly and opened his mouth to respond, but Voldemort talked over him.

"Do they know I live?"

"Of course not," the Minister spat. "They're just deluded. They lost the war and they can't face reality. It's the same as last time. You were gone for thirteen years and yet they still thought you were alive."

Well, he had been alive. It was not madness to assume someone as powerful as he was, who had plundered the deepest knowledge magic had to offer would survive the unexceptional Killing Curse— even if it had been his own. And to then be taken into the Ministry by the boy and apparently executed with no body to display? It was hardly shocking that his followers were unconvinced.

"What do you want from me?"

Shacklebolt's eyebrows raised and a look of bewilderment crossed his face before it was taken over by a harsh laugh.

"Just like that? Merlin, you really do like him."

Voldemort refused to defend himself to such a useless wizard. He waited with a distasteful sneer pulling at his lips.

The Minister rubbed his eyes tiredly then sat up, his whole demeanour changing.

"You will tell us everything you know about the people we name," Shacklebolt demanded, his eyes sober and level. "You will give us any safehouse locations, any methods they would use to conceal a person, any areas they would frequent, any mistakes they would make."

"You are assuming I will assist you," Voldemort said quietly, pushing aside the fact that he intended to help regardless. "What incentive do I have to thwart those who support me?"

Perhaps it had been unwise to test this man, who seemed not to have slept since Harry had been taken. Shacklebolt rose from his chair and struck Voldemort hard on the right cheekbone, crashing him back against the wall, his head snapping to the side.

Before he could bring a hand up to protect himself, the Minister had pinned him to the wall by his neck, squeezing so that air could not make it past. Voldemort stared up into those unhinged eyes and tried to calm his slamming heartbeat.

"You will," the man growled, his face inches from Voldemort's. "Do you know why, Tom? Because your miserable existence can be made much worse effortlessly. I can sell your arse out to strangers that I Obliviate afterwards. I can outsource your torture to the Weasleys or any number of other families who would jump at the chance to pay you back for what you've done. I could feed you nothing but your own excrement and offer your urine as your only drink."

Voldemort's vision was blurring, his pulse pounding in his temples, as he listened— oh, he listened and believed every word.

"The only person who gives a fuck about you is counting on you to save him. If anything happens to him, I will consider you personally responsible and make you suffer for your failure."

Kingsley stared at him hard for a few more moments then shoved him away. Voldemort coughed and gasped in deep breaths of air. His eyes were streaming, but he forced his gaze to return to the other man who was smirking knowingly at him.

"But I don't have to do any of that. You are going to cooperate all on your own because you know that, without your help, we cannot save Harry. And you know what they're doing to him right now."

Voldemort saw it all: Harry chained to the wall as Bella lost him to the Cruciatus; McNair taunting him until he rebelled, then the man would be unable to control himself as he beat the boy into a paste; Lucius with his knives, so controlled until the boy inflamed him as he was wont to do, and Lucius plunged those knives deep into the boy's belly.

And Harry had no ritual with Death to bring him back.

It may have already happened.

It was self-preservation that had Voldemort nodding his head at the Minister without reciprocal payment. If Harry was killed, Voldemort would lose his best chance of escape. He needed the boy alive and willing to help him.

"That's what I thought," Shacklebolt condescended, drawing back and seating himself again in his chair.

Voldemort stayed pressed against the wall.

"Let's start with where they could have taken him."

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When Harry wasn't focused on the pain in his head or his broken legs, he thought about Voldemort.

He thought about the man's small smirk when he was pleased by something Harry had done, or the feeling of his long arms and his towering body holding him safe, or the way he said Harry's name.

He thought about those lips. That collar. His pulsing magic.

If he could have one thing more before he died here, he wanted to kiss the man again. And the good thing about it being the last thing he'd get to do is that consequences or morality could be damned. No one could judge him or hate him or be disgusted by him because you can't do that to a dead guy.

He could just kiss him. Slowly. Maybe Voldemort would bite his lips again or groan against him as he pulled him closer.

Just one last time. As a goodbye.

Harry felt a smile spread across his face, imagining that. He giggled.

"Quit that, you're creeping me out, Potter."

Harry's eyes snapped open and he gasped— the pain in his legs was searing, throbbing. He was sitting on the floor, his mangled limbs outstretched, his clothing soiled and torn.

"Ahh, fuck, a pain potion," Harry pleaded, looking over to the door of the room he was kept in and seeing a blurry shape he assumed was Goyle leaning against the wall, shaking his head.

"Nope, sorry," Goyle said, not sounding sorry at all. "The Mistress said she wanted you in pain."

"Goddamn you, you fucking prick," Harry muttered, closing his eyes and trying to float away from the pain again. "Piece of shit, wannabe Death Eater bollocks."

He missed his glasses. They had been smashed ages ago. He missed seeing things— actually seeing them. Not guessing.

"Whatever, Potter," Goyle laughed. "Whatcha gonna do about it."

Harry counted to ten, then to fifty, then two hundred— and then Bellatrix was in front of his eyes, smiling at him.

"Good morning, sunshine," she said, and booped him on the nose. "Look at you. One of the things I love about this combination of potions is that when you drift because you are forbidden to sleep, your mood actually improves. Mind you, it separates you a bit from reality, but you were never that stable to begin with. It's delusional euphoria. And it's delicious to watch."

Harry ignored her, groaning in pain. A tiny glass vial was pressed against his lips and Harry gave it a sniff to identify it.

Who was he kidding? He had no clue what the fuck it was.

"Drink this, little baby Potter. It's just a mild pain relief potion. I need you to be able to concentrate."

Why not. Harry drank the potion and at once, his legs felt better. Still sore, but bearable now.

"How is that?" she asked.

Harry followed the movement of her lips and compared them to his. Hers were thicker, had more colour. They looked wet. Were they? Sure, hers were nicer. Fine.

But he didn't want to kiss her lips.

She was saying something to Goyle, gesturing and laughing, and the other dude was answering her, but all Harry could think about was the word she'd used: Delicious.

He missed delicious. They fed him now, rice sometimes and potatoes, once he'd gotten some kind of vegetable, but none of it was delicious. The last time he'd had delicious had been Voldemort.

Food was good, but nothing could take away the agony of his ruined legs. They made sure that any energy he could muster was worthless as he could not move. He looked down at his legs and glared at them.

"I need you to focus, now," Bellatrix said, touching his chin and making his eyes lock onto hers.

Woah, she was close!

"Good. Now we are going to make an Unbreakable Vow, understand?"

Harry's arm was grasped and suddenly Goyle was standing right beside him, with what looked like his wand pointing at his and Bellatrix's hands.

"Imperio!" she said, and Harry felt the cloud descend further upon him, his mind wiping clean except for a bizarre desire to listen and obey.

"If returned to the Ministry, will you make a list of all the prominent Mudbloods and their addresses, and deliver it to me?"

Harry heard a compelling voice whisper in his head, Answer 'I will,' say it, say 'I will.'

But that didn't sound right. All the Mudbloods? Wasn't one of his best friends a Mudblood?

Yeah. Hermione. Harry thought about her bushy hair and remembered when she'd punched Malfoy in the face. He snorted.

Harry heard Bellatrix curse.

"He won't say it," she spat. "The Dark Lord had said he was resistant. I told you this was useless."

"Maybe try an easier one, Mistress. He may be thinking of his Mudblood bitch friend with that one."

Harry felt a stab of indignation but forgot quickly why.

"Imperio!" Bellatrix said, and Harry felt that blissful buoyancy again.

He closed his eyes and hummed.

"If returned to the Ministry, will you Vow to never arrest, interfere with, or kill a member of our noble organization, The Knights of Walpurgis?"

Knights of—what?

Harry almost laughed, what a ridiculous name!

That voice spoke in his head again, Say 'Yes,' say 'I Vow it,' Now, DO IT!

Don't tell me what to do.

Harry growled, managing somehow to shove Bellatrix back and let go of her arm. Goyle grabbed him by the hair and whipped his head back, exposing his neck.

"He is worthless," Bellatrix cursed, and Harry heard her coming closer again and standing. "The Dark Lord knew it and knew not to try and use him. Many suggested he attempt to turn him like he tried with the boy's parents, but my Master refused."

She poked his neck with the tip of her wand, pressing in.

"He must die. I must finish this task for him."

Harry felt a jolt of fear, which soon quieted.

"No! There has to be something he can do for us!" Goyle said forcefully, putting a hand on Bellatrix's wand and lowering it.

"You dare?" she shrieked, but Goyle spoke over her.

"Forgive me, my Mistress," Goyle said quietly, removing his hand and looking down. "But we need him alive. We can use him."

Bellatrix stared at Goyle for too long and Harry got bored. When they started talking again Harry rolled his eyes and leaned more comfortably against the wall.

Voldemort tasted better than potatoes, for sure. Yup.

Delicious.