Chapter 22

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Voldemort idly stroked the adder in his lap. He had found her outside, wounded from two boys who had thought it amusing to injure such a beautiful creature.

Billy Stubbs had been like that, at the orphanage. Tom Riddle had rescued a small grass snake from the cold one autumn evening before curfew and had not thought to hide her well enough. While Tom Riddle had been washing dishes as punishment for another presumed offence— they had never managed to actually catch him doing anything— Stubbs had broken into his room and killed her. Ripped her head off.

He had gotten his revenge, though.

This snake hissed consolingly, sensing his mild agitation.

He put down the parchment that he had been reading, dismissing it as worthless, like all the rest. Germany had been no more fruitful than any of his other destinations. There was certainly enticing magic to absorb, but none of it could hold his attention unless it could trump the boy's status as Master of Death.

It seemed that nothing could. Yet accepting his vulnerability was not something he was prepared to do. He could not return to England with nothing but his faith that Harry would not harm him. Trust was a foolish shield that he had never wielded.

Indeed, the boy's dependability was severely tainted by his insistence on remaining attached to his beloved fiancée.

Ginevra Weasley.

How simple it would be to eliminate her himself. She did not deserve the boy and yet Potter's delusional sense of obligation protected her from abandonment.

Voldemort had never tolerated people touching his possessions. It was ludicrous that there was even a competition. He was the Dark Lord, the most powerful being alive. Harry wanted him, he was sure. He could give the boy more than the weak, slip of a girl ever could.

Enough.

Voldemort gently placed the snake onto his shoulder and stood. If his search for immortality was destined to remain unfulfilled, then he needed to decide on his next steps.

He approached the window and looked out at the early morning sun breaking through the clouds.

He was no coward and would never flee from his rightful home. He would return and take vengeance upon the three souls that had sought to harm him.

Harris would die first, but slowly. He would come to him at home, perhaps while he was making love to his wife, or playing with his dear progeny. He would immobilize her, make her watch his magic peel back her husband's epidermis leisurely, layer by layer. He may even allow her an opportunity to help, let her take it deeper, ripping through the dermis, seeking purple muscle tissue. Watch them share a bloody kiss.

Then I will take that whip to the raw, purple mass and strike him until I reach bone.

Voldemort's fingers were clenched, the vision disturbing in its familiarity. Blood had never unsettled him before, but after his time at the Ministry, his threshold for violence had been greatly reduced. Yet another thing they had taken from him.

They would pay for it. Discomfort at bearing witness would not deter him from collecting what he was owed.

After Harris was dealt with, he would find Walker and make his bones swell inside his corpulent body, crowding within the meat sack that he was, until they began to snap against each other. He would surround him in his magic and squeeze until his organs, adipose tissue, and blood seeped out of his orifices.

Then Voldemort would heal him, right before he perished, and do it again. And again. He would kill them both for as many times as it took until Voldemort no longer dreamed about what had been done to him. Murder them all until he no longer flinched each time metal grated against metal, or feared to be naked, or until he could think about Harry without worrying if the boy still saw him as the victim.

No more.

It was irrelevant. He would take his vengeance upon the guards and then take the Minister. Harry would understand.

Not that the boy even seemed to care.

The adder scented his face with her tongue, the thin appendage flicking out and touching his cheek. He closed his eyes and worked to control his breathing.

"You need to feed, Speaker," the little creature chided him. "You are shaking."

"Quiet," he said softly.

He settled her beside the fire and went back to his desk, pushing aside the worthless tomes and parchment. England called to him, of course, but he must wait.

Perhaps it was time to consider contacting Bella. Fully healed, his body no longer starved, his magic more potent and terrible than ever, now he could reclaim his summit.

And if the boy will not submit to my one command then I am under no compulsion to try.

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Harry twisted the Gaunt ring absently around his finger.

Four days. That was enough time to wait, surely. It wasn't pathetic if he waited four days to contact him. Three, maybe. Two, certainly.

And this week had been torture. Hermione had begun to chase him at work, constantly popping up and apologizing for Ron. Harry kept telling her that he wasn't upset about what had happened. He had deserved it. To which she would respond that he was being dramatic and a martyr and how he was allowed to be angry at his best friend for punching him in the face and screaming gay slurs at him.

She didn't understand.

Ron was right. Sure, maybe bloodying your mate because he was fucking the enemy— who dared to be the same sex as him— was brash. But the fact remained: Harry had betrayed everyone.

Ron, for lying about his sexual deviance and tricking him into making him a surrogate Weasley under false pretences. Ginny, for the obvious reasons. And the whole wizarding world for lying about killing the evil Dark Lord and instead, falling in love with him and setting him free.

So yeah. He had a lot to atone for.

Hermione didn't get that he had no problem accepting punishment when it was due. Preferred it that way, actually. Punishment let him move on; otherwise he just agonized over how he was ever going to make it right. If getting punched in the face and screamed at made Ron accept the situation easier, then power to him.

Harry was a terrible person.

As evidenced when he pulled out the parchment and Summoned a quill.

Hey.

He had to write before he lost his nerve.

Sorry. Hope you're not busy.

No response, but he vowed not to freak out so soon this time.

Today has been a day. How's yours going?

Harry spun the ring, his heart hammering.

Do I need to pay a visit to Mr Weasley?

Harry laughed in relief, his palms sweaty.

No. Gods, I love this parchment.

Harry felt a stab of fear at using that word so casually. It could be dangerous if he wasn't careful.

What happened.

Nothing. It's just good to hear from you.

Where are you now?

Harry held his breath, hoping with everything he had that Voldemort would answer: England. Your neighbourhood. Look behind you, Potter. Harry felt a shiver and glanced around stupidly. Bugger.

Still Germany.

I am deciding what to do next.

Come home.

Harry cringed at the sentiment. Home. He was sure Voldemort would understand that to mean home to Harry, not home to England.

How is Ms Weasley?

Harry groaned, thumping his head back on the upholstery of his sofa. He growled and fisted the quill.

It's you I want.

Yet she wears your ring.

I am wearing yours.

Harry felt adrenaline surge through him, desperate to know how the man would take that news. Would he curse Harry's audacity? Get angry? Love it?

Explain.

The Gaunt ring. Your Horcrux.

The silence was agony.

I am wearing it on my left hand.

Harry felt giddy with recklessness.

Guess which finger.

He gripped the quill so tightly that it hurt.

Why.

Because it's yours. And so am I.

The Floo burst green and Harry shouted in shock, dropping the ink bottle, which shattered on the floor. Not now, goddamnit!

He stood awkwardly, adjusting his trousers to accommodate his erection, and knelt on the hearthrug. He opened the connection.

Ginny's head greeted him, her expression devastated.

"Gin? What's wrong?"

She closed her eyes, tears falling from them.

"Can I come through?"

Harry nodded and stood, backing up as she climbed out.

"What happened?" Harry asked, but he already knew.

"Ron's just left. Harry, he—"

She collapsed into his arms, pulling him close and sobbing into his chest.

A quiet chime sounded in his mind and Harry felt a stab of fear and excitement, yearning to read the reply.

He held her like a mannequin, his arms going to the correct places, but his mind was completely focused on guessing how destroyed this conversation would leave his life. He had already lost Ron, had he lost Ginny too? And when she told the rest of her family, would he lose them as well? What about when they spread it round, would he have to flee in shame?

Would he go to Azkaban?

Or you could join Voldemort and be outcasts together. But the man would never settle for living in hiding.

Ginny's choking breaths had eased and she pulled back, regarding him with a puffy, red face.

"Voldemort," she whispered brokenly, and Harry's heart jolted in fear. "Is he… alive? How can that be? I saw his body. The Minister had a celebration."

Harry watched her grapple with being lied to on such a scale.

"Is he back? Harry, is he alive?"

Harry blew out a breath. He nodded.

Ginny's face lost some colour and she took a step back. She stared at him and then seemed to marshal herself.

"Ron says you…" she began, a deep frown creasing her brow. She was looking away. "He swears that you…"

She couldn't say it and Harry was grateful for her disgust and disbelief. It always sounded worse when someone else said it.

Ginny wiped her nose on her sleeve. She looked up at him, pleadingly.

"I know you… prefer men sometimes. I told him I knew that, that I was okay with it. And I am. I know you can't help it, Harry."

She began to tremble and Harry found himself leading her to sit down on the sofa. She pulled her hands back from his and wrapped them around her stomach.

"Tell me Ron is wrong. He said… He said you… And Voldemort."

She scrunched up her face as if attempting to laugh at the idea.

Harry had no words to give her. He didn't want to lie. Ron knew, Hermione knew. It was only a matter of time until he was destroyed.

"Is it true?"

Harry closed his eyes. He really did love this woman. She had supported him and cared for him for so many years. He would be dead without her.

He took her hand, putting it flat between the two of his.

"I am so sorry," he whispered, and he meant those words perhaps more than he ever had before. She didn't deserve this.

Ginny froze and then yanked back her hand, staring at him like he was a stranger.

"I'm talking about sex. Ron said you have been having sex with him."

She was obviously sure he had misunderstood.

"I know, Gin," Harry said, hating himself.

Ginny stood quickly, facing him.

"You had sex with…" tears began to fall from her eyes again, but her face was drawn up in a sneer of disgust, "with the… monster who killed Fred? You're having sex with— Voldemort?"

Harry squeezed his knees, pinching the skin until it hurt. He nodded.

"How could you?" she shrieked, and Harry was hit with a Stinging Hex. He flinched and looked up at her in shock. "What is wrong with you? That's… That's fucking sick!"

"I'm sorry," he repeated, his voice sounding empty and lifeless.

"You're sorry? Harry, you— you—"

She spun and fled into his loo, slamming the door. Harry breathed out slowly, leaning back into the cushions.

She hadn't left. Maybe that was a good sign.

Or maybe he should use this as an opportunity to finally break it off with her. Do the right thing.

But, in the meantime, Harry quickly pulled out the parchment and read the message.

Careful, Potter.

Merlin, two words and he was hard in his pants again. Fuck, what did that even mean? Was he pissed? Irritated?

When Ginny emerged, her face was clearer and she looked more composed. Less disgusted.

Harry stood, not knowing what to do. Fix it or end it?

"I was thinking," Ginny said, her eyes peering intently into his like she was trying to decipher something. "Tom Riddle."

Harry frowned. That name would always remind him of those vile guards. Ginny pushed a piece of hair behind her ear and continued to stare at him.

"In first year, when I wrote in his diary. He was very… persuasive."

Ah. Harry could see where this was going.

"He was kind. Charming. He made me think he was my friend. But it was a lie, Harry. He was using me to open the Chamber. He's using you, too."

"Gin, it's not the same," Harry said wearily, wishing it were so simple.

It would be grand if he could blame Voldemort for his feelings. Sure, he craved the man's soul, his magic, but that wasn't Voldemort's fault. If Harry were a stronger man, he could resist the pull. He would fight it like Hermione said he should.

But he couldn't. No, worse: he didn't want to.

"How do you know?" Ginny continued, taking a few steps closer to him, her expression growing softer. "I didn't know he was using me, either. I…" She grimaced and shot him a guilty look. "I thought I liked him, too. I thought he was the perfect boy."

Harry couldn't help but snort.

"He's hardly perfect, Gin. I don't think that. I know who he is."

"Yes, but maybe he's controlling you somehow. Are there gaps in your memory?"

"Ginny, listen to me. There are no gaps. He's not controlling me or manipulating me. Do you know why? Because I'm the one going after him. I want him enough that I've managed to convince him to humour me. I'm the one who—"

She slapped his face, his cheek stinging. It was surprising, but also not really. He turned back to look at her levelly.

"You and your brother are a lot alike," Harry said.

"Yeah," she replied coldly, "we both think you're a disgusting traitor."

Harry released a bitter laugh.

"Right. Well, I guess that's it. For what it's worth, I am really sorry for hurting you. I do love you, Gin. But I understand that this is messed up and… Look, I know you've probably already told everyone anyways, but if you could just reduce it to me being a revolting poof and leave out the whole Voldemort aspect, I would be eternally grateful."

The urgency of this need suddenly became clear. He met her gaze, baring himself completely.

"That's all I'm asking. You can have all my gold, or whatever else, I don't care. Tell people anything you want, I'll go along with it. But, please. Please, Gin. Just don't mention Voldemort."

"Are you protecting him?" she asked.

Harry bit his cheek until he tasted blood.

"Please. That's all I ask. I'll take care of it."

"How?"

Harry rubbed his hands together, feeling the ring on his finger.

"I don't know. But I will. It's what I do, after all."

Ginny scoffed.

"Yeah, but back then your loyalty and priorities were very different. Now, you're basically a Death Eater."

Harry cringed.

"Come on, you know me better than that. It's not like we agree on anything. We're not friends."

"No. Just fuck buddies."

Harry closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

He heard her move and looked over to see her disappear into the Floo in a flash of green.

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Harry stared at his watch, willing the hands to move faster, or move at all. His brain felt foggy and he couldn't bring himself to finish the report he had meant to hand off last week.

He pushed the paper aside and allowed his head to hit the desk. He closed his eyes, his mind instantly conjuring an image of a pale, slender neck and red, inhuman eyes. It was beyond mental that this was his calming picture now. That Voldemort could bring him peace.

Tonight was going to be a shit show. He hadn't seen Hermione or Ron since their lovely visit just over a week ago. Ginny hadn't contacted him either. Harry assumed he was on his own now until Hermione had sent him an owl yesterday asking if they could drop by after work.

The prospect was exhausting. He just didn't care. He knew he should, they were his friends. His only ones, really. He had lost all the others after twelve years of not following up and declining invitations. And now he couldn't even muster the energy to save the last two he had in the world.

He pulled out the parchment, almost unconsciously, and grabbed a quill from his desk.

Ginny gave me the boot. Guess who's a single man now?

Harry felt a smile creep onto his face imagining the man's response to that. He wished he could have seen it in person. The way his eyes would darken possessively. The satisfied curl his lips would take, the relish in victory.

Harry waited for what felt like ages, his cheek returning to the wood. He looked at his watch. 4:37. Thank Dumbledore, almost time to head home.

Then he remembered what awaited him this evening and he closed his eyes.

When he opened them, long minutes later, the parchment contained a sentence that, once read, disappeared.

Is that so.

Harry picked up his quill again.

Yup. I'm all yours.

She left you.

Was he blind?

Yes.

Why.

Harry struggled to find a way to explain that wouldn't make the man hate him.

Because I'm gay. My friends know now.

You told her months ago. That is not why she left you.

Crap.

Tell me the truth.

Harry looked at his watch. 5:19.

I'm sorry, I've got to go.

Harry shoved the parchment back into his pocket even as the soft chime sounded in his mind. He grabbed his wand from his desk and banished the papers he'd been writing on to his filing cabinet.

He couldn't help it. Before he pulled open the door, he drew out the parchment.

She knows about me.

Harry groaned and stuffed the paper back into his trousers. He could deal with this newest fallout later tonight. He had a dinner date with his best friends who hated him that he was already late for.