Chapter 12

.

"Your information is getting us nowhere, Riddle!" Shacklebolt shouted, shoving open the cell door and advancing towards him with two, foot-long metal spikes in his hand.

Voldemort had been standing by his cot when he had heard the footsteps. The sight of those spikes set off air raid sirens and he backed away until he hit the wall.

The Minister did not explain, he simply grabbed him by the neck, pushing his head down, and threw him onto his table.

Voldemort spun so his back was against the wood, facing his attacker. The man was furious and Voldemort tried to understand. He had been cooperating! He had provided all the details that he could.

"Do you want Harry to die?" the man taunted, laying those spikes down onto the table with a dull clunk, next to Voldemort's right thigh.

The Minister moved until he was between Voldemort's open legs and leaned down over him, eating up the space between them.

"You've given us nothing."

Voldemort faltered. The sensation of the man's trousers touching his naked skin as he was pressed against the tabletop captured almost all of his focus. No, please, not this.

"My information is twelve years old," Voldemort said, trying to put some anger into his voice, but it still sounded weak and fearful. "I am—"

"I think you want Harry to die," the man interrupted, leaning down further, but Voldemort hardly felt that lie, because one of the man's hands had moved to those spikes. "I think you're just playing with him, Tom. I know the creature you really are, even if Harry has forgotten."

The Minister straightened his spine, his hand holding one of the metal rods, and Voldemort took in the inch diameter of it and the flat, four-inch top. Like a monstrous nail.

Smiling with all his teeth down at him, the villain raised the spike and positioned it just above his heart.

"This may sting a bit."

Voldemort tried to flee, but the man's hand was strong as he pinned him down— and then that metal rod was stabbed into his shoulder, just below his clavicle.

He screamed, the skewer making slow, agonizing progress through his muscles and between his bones. The nail jolted to a stop once it was completely sheathed inside his flesh, and Voldemort froze, every minuscule movement of his ribs causing white-hot pain to explode inside him.

He could not breathe.

"You're manipulating him," he vaguely heard the fiend say, but Voldemort's shallow, rapid breaths were clouding his vision.

Another sudden stab into his right shoulder and a prolonged effort to pierce him told him he was now nailed to the table on both sides.

He was sobbing out meagre breaths, hyperventilating, his vision rapidly darkening.

"You've never cared for him, you're just pretending."

Voldemort heard the drivel as though underwater and noticed his own body quaking loudly against the table.

"You're fading fast, I can't have that yet."

A spell hit Voldemort and he gasped, his eyes flashing open. The pain became dulled, still immediately concerning but manageable.

Breathing, unfortunately, continued to be impossible.

The man did not seem to notice.

"You're pathetic," he sneered, but Voldemort could only focus on the sensation of that metal grating against his bones every time his lungs attempted— and failed— to fill.

"You want Harry to trust and pity you so that he'll save you."

Voldemort felt his vision blurring again and recognized that he was about to die.

His assailant must have noticed it too. A sharp slap caused Voldemort to gasp in a breath of air that almost immediately knocked him out, but a potion was poured into his mouth when it was open and he choked on it.

The racking breaths that he drew in hurt, but they no longer threatened him with oblivion. He caught his breath, his mind clearing a fraction, and tried to focus on the other man.

Shacklebolt was smirking at him again.

"It's a shame to have to dull your senses for this. I really wanted you to feel it."

"I," Voldemort bit out, marshalling his control. "Have." He closed his eyes. "Tried."

He had wanted to say cooperated, but it was too many syllables. Although the pain was far diminished, the grinding of his bones against the metal stilted him.

"Oh, have you?" the other man mocked.

Voldemort opened his eyes. His body was still trembling and sweating, but that was likely from circulatory shock. He could not halt it.

"Yes."

The other man glared at him.

"Then why haven't we found him? We've searched every location you named, talked to every source you suggested. We even brought Lucius Malfoy in for questioning as you recommended, but he didn't know a damn thing. All of your information has been worthless. Are you the Dark Lord Voldemort, or what? I thought you had control of your people."

"Again," Voldemort panted. "Twelve. Years."

Shacklebolt was shaking his head.

"So, you have nothing for me, then."

Voldemort knew that tone well, it being the same one he himself used right before killing someone. He would offer a last, reluctant opportunity for the servant who had disappointed him to atone.

He was aware he could not die, but that primal terror refused to accept evidence.

He did not want to die.

"Who," Voldemort asked, thinking fast.

"Who? Do you mean who have him?"

Voldemort nodded. The other man frowned.

"I told you, the BDE."

"Names."

"We don't have a full list. Some Slytherin contemporaries of Harry's, a few of your old crowd—"

"Who."

Shacklebolt conjured a chair and sat. Voldemort could no longer see him in his line of vision, being nailed to the table as he was.

The other man sighed.

"Goyle, both senior and junior, we believe. Selwin. Travers. McNair. Yaxley. Two of the Lestranges.

"Bella?" Voldemort asked, instantly diverted.

Impossible.

Shacklebolt paused.

"We believe so, yes, but we don't have proof. There have been sightings and some of the missives they've sent to us scream of her fawning adoration of you."

She lives.

His last, best lieutenant. His deadliest, most loyal follower.

She could free him. If only he could get word out that he was alive and imprisoned.

"So?" the other man urged. "How does that help? Anything else to offer or is it time to set up alternate arrangements for you?"

Focus.

"A manor," Voldemort forced out, his mind working fast. "Hers. Scotland."

He heard the younger man stand and then he came into view, a hopeful glint in his eyes.

"Where? Why have you not mentioned it, Tom?"

Voldemort closed his eyes, grimacing.

"Bella. Hers. I thought." Salazar, the feeling of those nails scraping along his bones with every breath was sickening. "Dead."

Voldemort felt the man lean in and opened his eyes to see an ominously pleased expression on his face.

"Tell me where. If it leads to his rescue, I may come release you."

Voldemort slammed his eyes shut before he could react to that. It was merely a last possibility and it could take hours.

With faltering words, he gave all he had and hoped it would prove correct.

Harry would have to hold on. Perhaps his stubborn nature would save him now.

.

.

Harry longed to pace. He was restless and anxious and about to die.

He wasn't an idiot. He knew his failure to submit to the Imperius Curse was the final straw for Bellatrix. After the potions in his system had faded he'd remembered bits and pieces of what she and Goyle had said.

Harry had not been as helpful as they had hoped. Bellatrix was pissed and, being Bellatrix, she was murderous and unreasonable. Harry had no idea what Voldemort saw in her.

Had they ever…?

No. Voldemort was gay.

Sure, but so am I, and I'm almost married to a woman, so…

Bugger.

Later. If he had a later to worry about, he'd be grateful to stress about Voldemort potentially fucking that mad bitch, but as he was likely to be killed at any moment…

Onto important matters.

The Knights of Walpurgis.

The name was distantly familiar and Harry knew that Hermione would have recognized it instantly, but they couldn't all have her brain.

Bellatrix had wanted Harry to Vow to give up all information on Muggle-borns who held office and to never hurt or kill the Knights of Walpurgis— the ragtag group who seemed to be the new, Voldemort-less Death Eaters. Apparently Bellatrix didn't want to keep the original name.

Merlin, no way I'm changing all our internal documents to call them The Knights of Walpurgis.

Ridiculous. What the hell did that even mean?

Harry sighed and looked down at his poor legs. They had both been snapped at the knee, his bone poking the flesh at the joint but not yet breaking through the skin.

Mercifully, they were providing him with pain potions at every meal. Though he knew it must be some kind of trap, he could not resist necking them back as soon as they were brought to him. It was likely just to stop him from groaning and complaining about the pain, but he'd take it gratefully. As he was going to die anyway, he might as well spend his last few hours in relative comfort.

Unlike whatever Voldemort must be suffering at the moment.

It had been days since Harry had been captured. Time was hard to pinpoint with no fixed schedule, and some periods he was sure he'd blacked out for, but it had been at least a week and likely even as much as two. If he'd gotten fed once a day, then he had been here thirteen days, including the first few days where he had not been fed or given water at all.

Which meant that Voldemort had been alone and undefended for that long.

Everyone was likely going mad to find Harry and Voldemort may have become a scapegoat for their impotent frustrations. It was possible that they had even consulted him about what he knew about Death Eater safehouses and weaknesses. That's what Harry would have done.

Would that mean that they were treating him reasonably because they needed him? But then, obviously not because it wasn't like Voldemort would betray his people to help Harry. Whatever messed up feelings they had would not make the man cooperate with the Ministry.

The door to his room was suddenly thrown open and Harry gasped when the blurry outline of a man burst in.

"Let's go!" a voice shouted, and Harry felt a surge of hope ignite in his chest. He knew that voice! It was John Dawlish, his colleague! "Harry, come on!" he shouted over the tumult of rapid spellfire nearby.

"I can't!" Harry cried, gesturing to his ruined legs. "What's happening?"

"Damnit," the other man cursed, and strode quickly towards him. "How bad is it? Can you walk?"

Harry shook his head.

"No, just Mobilcorpus me, I don't care. What is happening?"

Dawlish drew his wand and cast the body lifting spell and Harry surged into the air, his mangled legs hanging sickeningly. He bit back a howl at the agony of that. The pain potions were effective on unmoving limbs, but they were nothing against his legs swaying with every motion.

"Oh Merlin, I'm sorry," Dawlish said, but Harry shook his head.

"Just go."

Dawlish kept Harry's body behind him as he stepped cautiously out the door and dodged spellfire coming in all directions.

They were not making it out of here alive.

Dawlish blocked Harry's body expertly, maneuvering them down the hall and onto the staircase.

"Seize him!" Harry heard Bellatrix shriek from downstairs. "He's got Potter! Kill him!"

A spell hit Dawlish and Harry fell to the ground. He reached out and grabbed the man's shoulders to look at his face and it was clear— the man was dead.

For him.

Again.

Loud footfalls approached him and when someone put hands on him he turned, expecting to see the mad, black eyes of Bellatrix Lestrange, but instead saw another Auror, Savage, bend down and haul him up and over his shoulder.

Harry felt useless. He could do nothing but sink his teeth into his bottom lip as his legs jangled viciously with the Auror's running.

Harry saw dozens of people fighting. For him. Some fighting to save him, laying their lives at his feet again so that he could be safe. Others were sacrificing their lives to finish what they believed to be Voldemort's last wish.

If only they knew how Voldemort's wishes have changed.

Haven't they?

They had finally made it to the front doors when a spell struck Harry hard in the shoulder.

He cried out and Savage spun to face the attacker, but another spell hit him too and they both crumbled to the floor.

Harry squinted up at McNair's dark, triumphant grin.

"Hello, Potter," he drawled, his wand pointed at Harry's face.

"Hi," replied Harry stupidly, but then someone shoved him and shouted, "Avada Kedavra!"

The green light struck McNair in the chest and he fell. Harry turned to see who had saved him and found Savage panting beside him, his wand pointing at where McNair had just stood.

"Go," he rasped, pushing on Harry's sore shoulder, shoving him towards the open door. "Get outside the wards. Go."

"You too," Harry said, grabbing the man's wrist, but Savage shook his head and rolled over onto his back, his wand still aiming at their enemies.

"My job is to get you out."

"So come with me!" Harry growled, but Savage disengaged their grip and pointed his wand at Harry who was hoisted into the air and thrown out the doors.

Harry sailed thirty feet away, his legs dangling helplessly, and then fell onto the grass.

"Catch!" Savage's voice shouted from the house, and Harry's crappy vision just saw a blur racing towards him until it got close enough for him to see it was a silver spoon.

A Portkey.

"Protego!" Harry shouted, and his need was such that the spoon stopped and then fell to the ground nearby, despite his lack of a wand.

Trying not to be too impressed by his own skill, he dragged himself into a sitting position and took in the house. The top level had flames pouring through the shattered windows and he could hear the battle raging on inside. He knew he had to get back to help fight. They were there for him, they were dying for him.

Harry began to army crawl himself back towards the front doors, ignoring the pain in his legs, his gaze and will focused on getting back and defending those who were dying for him when there was no need. I don't deserve their sacrifice, I don't want it—

Harsh, winded laughter burst out from behind him and Harry turned to see Bellatrix limping towards him, her hair a mess, her robes singed and torn.

"Going somewhere, little baby Potter?"

Harry wished he had his wand and his glasses. His wandless magic was not up to a duel and he was about to face Voldemort's most vicious follower.

"I was planning on killing you today anyway," she said, coming closer still. "You are useless. Weak. Pathetic. I should have killed you the moment I saw you."

She stood before Harry now, her wand pointing at his chest.

"You die for him," Bellatrix said fervently, her manic eyes sparkling with the reflection of the burning building behind Harry. "I will always be his most faithful. You die now, Potter, for the Dark Lord."

Harry watched her wand, his mouth open, trying to figure out what to say.

Now was the time to tell her that Voldemort was alive. She would stop to interrogate him and he could use that time to escape.

But before he could make a decision, or get the words out, he remembered the spoon.

"Accio Portkey!" he shouted, flinging his arm out in the direction it was laying, but at that exact moment Bellatrix had screamed her own spell.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Harry felt the curse hit him in his stomach, cold erupting from that spot and shooting down through his agonized nerves.

His head hit the grass, his vision blackening, and he knew no more.

.

.

Five days.

Voldemort had remained on his back, nailed to his table and unable to take a full breath for five days.

Unfed. Dehydrated to the point of unconsciousness and when awake, the hefty lethargy left him unable to even lift a single finger. His eyes remained closed, too dry to open, his throat like sandpaper.

He was a living corpse.

The infection in his shoulders from the imbedded spikes had killed him twice and the intolerable fever made him delirious.

Five days.

All his insomnia-induced thoughts revolved ceaselessly around the boy's fate.

Had they saved him? Was he alive? Were they still searching for him?

The absence of the guards was concerning but welcome. Nailed to the table as he was, he was certain they would have been delighted to abuse him in this novel position.

Not for the first time, he wondered what would happen if those responsible for him ceased to return. He was irrevocably immortal. Would he merely exist in ravenous hunger and parched thirst forever, succumbing on schedule to his false deaths every few days and then begin the cycle again, relentlessly?

It was a horrific thought.

He preferred the brutal rapes and torture to endless, abandoned demises. At least with his guards the scant possibility of escape existed.

And Harry.

The boy had made him stronger, had reminded him of who he was and reignited his determination. Voldemort had lost himself after what he had endured here, but Harry had presented him with a solution and the means to achieve it.

As he considered the fate of the boy, the unmistakable sound of the metal door to the cells opening reached his ears.

Even knowing he would not be capable of it, his muscles spasmed, trying to get him up—Is it Harry? Is it news?

He waited in furious silence, willing his senses to detect who was approaching. He could move nothing but his eyes, and even those hurt to expose to the air.

At last, Shacklebolt walked into view and Voldemort felt his weak heartbeat slam against his gaunt body.

"Po—" he croaked, unable to make more than a gasping rattling sound, before the man had even opened the cell door.

The Minister chuckled and Voldemort heard him enter and then conjure a chair to sit.

The silence was agony.

"Potter," he rasped, forcing the word out, hating the other man like never before, that he would dare keep him waiting like this, knowing what it was doing, knowing—

"Your information was correct," the man said, and Voldemort felt the spikes disappear.

He would have gasped, but had nothing to feed it. He laid there, panting, his throat burning, his body thrumming with adrenaline.

"Alive?" he croaked.

Horrible, prolonged silence and then, "Yes."

Voldemort allowed his eyes to close, his heart slamming against his ribs. Alive. Alive. Alive.

"Your guards had to be removed to help us find Harry. I kept watch on you with an extended monitoring charm. We had everyone working together. They will be returned tomorrow and things should go back to normal for you."

Voldemort wanted to sneer, but could not move. Was that pronouncement meant to be comforting?

"It was not my intention to keep you here… like this," the Minister's voice was suddenly quiet, hesitant. "For so many days. I am sorry for that. Harry has been…"

Voldemort's sore body tensed and he opened his eyes at the unfinished sentence.

"He. Has been. Injured," Voldemort rasped, his throat raw, and he began to cough, which ignited fire in his infected chest, his broken ribs, and he could not arrest the convulsions, but every breath in or out was agony, his body was curling in on itself, the trembling uncontrollable—

"Merlin—Augmenti, here."

Shacklebolt thrust a glass of water into his line of sight, but Voldemort could no sooner grasp the glass and stop coughing to drink than he could escape this prison.

A spell hit his throat and Voldemort gasped deep breaths of air into his lungs. It hurt, his arms wrapped around his thin body, yet he could breathe once again.

"Drink something," the other man insisted, pushing the water into his hand, but Voldemort knew it would be impossible.

He collapsed back onto the table, panting hard.

"Here." The Minister held the cup up and Voldemort startled, pulling away from the man leaning over him. "I'm just trying to help you drink. I won't hurt you."

"Leave— the glass," he rasped, turning his face away.

He did not trust the Minister anywhere near him no matter the man's current temperament.

Shacklebolt did as commanded. Voldemort would try and drink when he was gone.

"How. Gravely," Voldemort asked, trying to keep his chest as still as possible.

The fever was relentlessly trying to pull him under, but he had to focus.

"How gravely hurt is Harry?" the man clarified.

Voldemort nodded once and Shacklebolt drummed his fingers on the table, pausing long enough for Voldemort to imagine the boy torn apart and bleeding—

"He was hit with the Killing Curse."

No.

Voldemort managed to turn and stare at the Minister, trying to decipher if he was lying. Shacklebolt set his mouth into a grim line.

"It's true. I shouldn't be telling you this, but consider it repayment for the information you gave me."

Voldemort looked away, trying to understand how that could be possible. There was no mother to die for him this time, no Horcrux to take the hit. Was the boy so powerful that the curse was ineffective on him? Could he have created his own Horcruxes? That seemed impossible, knowing the boy's delicate sensibilities and complete lack of ambition.

"The Healers at St Mungo's are trying to figure out how he survived it. He shouldn't have." The Minister sighed deeply. "He almost didn't."

The younger man stood. He looked down at Voldemort, a frown on his face.

"Here," he said, conjuring a bowl of steaming rice and placed it on the table, next to the glass of water. "I summoned it from the dining hall. I don't have any healing potions on me, but I'll make sure the guards tend to your wounds tomorrow."

Voldemort could only stare.

"Do you need help to eat that?"

Voldemort shook his head once, maintaining eye contact.

Shacklebolt disappeared the chair and walked to the cell door. He paused with his back to Voldemort.

"Thank you. Harry is safe because of you."

The door closed and the Minister was gone.

.

.

The first time Harry became aware of anything, he heard voices. A woman crying. He felt hands on him. He tried to open his eyes but couldn't. He tried to squeeze the fingers curled around his own but his muscles wouldn't budge. He felt nothing. He fell back asleep.

.

.

The next time he awoke, someone was talking to him. He tried to open his eyes and managed to part them enough to be blinded by a bright white light so he quickly closed them again.

"Harry? Are you awake?"

Ginny.

Harry twitched his fingers and they were quickly grabbed and held.

"Merlin— get Hermione and Ron! Harry, can you hear me?"

Harry moved the tongue in his mouth to attempt to respond, but it felt foreign and dry. He succeeded in making a grunting noise.

"Harry, oh Merlin, I'm so happy." Her voice sounded rough with tears. "I love you so much, you scared me! How do you feel?"

Harry grunted again and tried to lift his eyelids. He forced them to stay open despite the pain of the lights. A blurry blue shape with red hair was near him. The room was white, but he had no idea where he was.

"Harry."

Fingers stroked his cheek, his forehead. He could tell Ginny was crying and he tried to say something to console her, but there was no way his tongue was responding. He closed his eyes.

"You scared me so much," she whispered brokenly, as she continued to pet him. "You're safe. We've got you. I love you so much."

Harry heard more footsteps, but then felt the fingers of unconsciousness creep up and pull him under and he knew no more.

.

.

The first few days that he could stay awake for more than an hour, passed in a whirlwind. Ginny signed all the paperwork, talked to all the Healers, answered all the questions. She handled the press and acted as a bouncer for his visitors, somehow knowing who Harry would want to see and who she would bar completely in a professional yet firm manner.

She was amazing and Harry was so grateful to have her.

Hermione and Ron were with him when Ginny had to leave. They took turns so that the other could stay home with the kids.

He was lucky. He had friends who cared for him like family. Or rather, more than family because his family had always been a disappointment.

Harry lay on his bed, staring out the window in his room and thinking about how very lucky he had been. The story of his rescue and sudden appearance at the Ministry with the Portkey on his chest had been recounted for him more than he could bear.

He had survived the Killing Curse. Again.

No one knew how and they were putting him through multitudes of tests to try and figure it out, but Harry had a sinking feeling that he already knew how.

"Do you want a new book?" Hermione asked, looking up from her own.

Harry smiled and closed the Muggle fiction he had been ignoring. He was glad to have a new pair of glasses so he could actually see things again, but he didn't feel like reading. He mostly held the books open while Hermione was here so he could sit in quiet while she read.

Hermione put down her book and scooted her chair closer to his bed.

"How are you feeling?"

Harry shrugged, but then let his shoulders slump.

"I want to go home."

Hermione reached out and grasped his hand.

"I know. They just want to make sure your heart is strong enough. Your—"

"I know."

His heart had almost collapsed, the arteries squeezing shut and disallowing blood flow. The Killing Curse was supposed to be painless, but Harry was told it ravaged his body. Harry knew the curse was probably just pissed it couldn't achieve its goal and took it out on him.

Either way, he didn't want to hear the harrowing story again. He was already enough of a freak without medical data to back it up.

At least my legs are back to normal.

When he glanced back at Hermione, she was giving him a sympathetic look.

"Soon. You've been here just over a week now. Eight days. You can wait a couple more. He's not going anywhere."

The book fell off his lap and he cricked his neck when he turned to stare at her in shock.

She snorted and pulled her hand away, smiling knowingly.

"Relax, I'm not going to say any more. But you will owe me later for inventing a spell for you that silences the things you call out for when you're dreaming. It had to be only when you're dreaming and not when you're calling out for help, so it was a tricky one."

"Oh god," Harry gasped, because he vividly remembered some of those dreams and they were not appropriate for company. "What—? What did I say?"

Hermione shook her head, smirking.

"Later."

Harry groaned and fell back into his pillows.

"But I was thinking," she went on, looking out the window and blatantly avoiding his eyes, "if you had any letters to send… that owls couldn't take. I would be open to delivering them for you."

"Put up a privacy ward, please," Harry muttered, mortified, and Hermione did so.

"I wasn't sure if you'd trust it," she said.

"That's the same one Kingsley uses when we talk about him so if it's okay for the Minister, it should be okay for us."

"I suppose. So, what do you think?"

Harry closed his eyes, trying not to sound too eager.

"How would you find him?"

"I imagine you could draw me a map," she said with a wry smile. "I'm quite clever, I'm sure I could manage. And you'll have to lend me your Cloak."

Harry thought about that and a slow kindling of hope gradually warmed him. He hadn't allowed himself to dwell on his longing to hear from Voldemort. He hadn't had the privacy to worry about the man so he'd pushed all thoughts of him as far away as he could. That must be why his dreams were haunting him with feelings he was refusing during the day.

But it was incredibly risky. Suicidal.

"I can't ask that of you. If you're caught—"

Hermione scoffed.

"Give me more credit than that. You were the idiot that got us captured by Snatchers when we were teenagers, not me. And you're not asking, I'm volunteering."

Harry wanted so desperately to let her, but—

"It's not safe. This is Voldemort. What if he hurts you? The collar seems to disable him if he attacks a guard, but he's been more than able to…"

Molest me? Hurt me? Merlin, that man has certainly not been gentle.

Hermione was watching him with an amused expression.

"Attack you?" She laughed. "Perhaps it's consent. Or maybe the collar is linked to certain people. Though, considering who he is, it would have been smarter to protect everyone if they're expecting him to break out eventually."

Harry nodded, but he wasn't really listening. Could this actually work?

"Do you know how much longer they want to keep me here?"

Hermione grimaced.

"It could be a little while. Your heart is still not fully functional on its own. I know you know the details so I won't reiterate, but Ginny told me earlier that they want a Healer from Canada who specializes in Cardiac Curses to examine you and she's not due in England until the end of the week." She looked at him apologetically. "And she may want to run more tests. And maybe even do some procedures."

Harry growled and bit his cheek to take the edge off. The comforting taste of copper cleared his head a bit.

"Can I check out on my own? Do I need to stay?"

Hermione sighed.

"I know you feel ready and eager to be gone, Harry, but Ginny says they're keeping your heart functioning manually with spells right now. If you leave the spells will weaken."

"And I'll die?"

Hermione stared at him hesitantly and her searching gaze made him uncomfortable.

"Can you die, Harry?"

Harry awkwardly attempted a bewildered shrug, but he was sure she saw right through it.

"I appreciate that offer, 'Mione. I'll write something today and walk you through how to deliver it."