Chapter 26
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The Ministry was plunged into pandemonium.
When Ron crumbled onto the floor, Harry fell to his knees beside him, recognizing the empty stare and lifeless body for what it was. Hermione was hitting Ron with spell after spell, crying hysterically and, when no magic worked, she began to administer chest compressions and rescue breaths.
Harry felt helpless, watching as one of the multitude of other Aurors came over and ordered Ron to be taken immediately to St Mungo's. Hermione went with him.
Harry stayed.
He watched as the Aurors descended on Voldemort, wrapping him in restraints and binding his ankles and wrists. One of his colleagues, Stephen, broke down after the Minister's body had been respectfully carried away and began to kick Voldemort's unconscious form repeatedly in the side. The body he'd held days ago, that he'd cherished and kissed, was lifted with the force of the violence done to it, becoming bloodied and broken, the man's magic no longer protecting it.
Another Auror dragged Stephen back, hugging him and speaking words of commiseration.
Harry watched, numb.
Ron.
He felt his body begin to tremble. I am so sorry.
.
.
Harry lay on the floor in his kitchen, clammy face pressed against the cool tiles and tried to convince himself to get up. Take a shower. Dress.
Today was Ron's funeral and, although he knew he wasn't welcome there, he had to go. He would stay in the shadows and try not to draw attention to himself.
His head was pounding. Perhaps from the alcohol or maybe from not eating or drinking since his best friend had been murdered. Ron had died hating Harry, and yet the man had still sacrificed his own life to protect him. Ron had wanted to flee when Voldemort—
Harry flinched, felt his face muscles twitch. That name hurt. He had refused to think of the man since seeing Ron's lifeless body collapse three short days ago. He'd removed the ring and the Horcrux, throwing them onto his mantel in a drunken rage.
He had no idea what had become of the man after he'd watched the Aurors take him away in chains. Bloody and alone. Another person who had suffered for trying to protect Harry.
But he couldn't forgive this. Ron was dead and although he knew that Voldemort had been incensed after being collared again, the man had to have known what killing Harry's best friend would do.
It was unforgivable.
Harry took in a deep breath and forced his body to move. He dragged his face along the floor until he was on his knees, then he slowly straightened his spine, vertebrae by vertebrae, until he was mostly vertical. At last he stood, waiting for the dizziness to pass.
He still felt drunk so he stumbled to his bathroom for a Pepper-up Potion and a Sobriety Draught. He necked them both back and closed his eyes while they kicked in.
An hour later, he Apparated to a hill a short distance from the small family graveyard in Ottery St Catchpole where a large group of mourners were gathered. Luckily, no one had heard the crack of his Apparition and so he could slowly make his way closer, unobserved for now.
The mound of earth removed to make way for the coffin was a stark reminder of what was about to happen and Harry felt his hand go up to touch his left ear. The empty lobe offered no comfort and instead made Harry feel more alone than ever.
What is happening to Voldemort right now? Is he back in his cell, being tortured, waiting for me to come rescue him?
As he'd come for me.
Harry ripped his hand off his ear.
No.
I am here to bury my best friend, killed by that man.
He wouldn't dishonour Ron's memory by pining for Voldemort.
"Harry?" Luna Lovegood had materialized out of nowhere and placed a small hand on his sleeve.
Harry tried to force his attention onto reality.
"Hey," he said, unsure whether Luna hated him or not.
"I saved you a spot near the edge in case you have to run away," she said, taking his arm and leading him towards the mourners. She looked up at him with a frown. "Did you forget to bring something for the grave?"
Harry noticed that she was holding a small clutch of pale yellow flowers.
"Oh," Harry said, nervously. "I… I didn't know…"
"Here," Luna said, smiling happily at him and thrusting half the flowers into his hand, "I brought extra for just this occasion. They're blossoms from our Dirigible plum trees."
Harry felt his heart warming at this woman's kindness. He had always loved Luna.
"Thanks," he said, really meaning it.
She beamed and then put her index finger to her lips and Harry suddenly realized they were on the outskirts of the silent crowd who were listening to Arthur speaking by the grave.
Harry looked around to see many sets of eyes on him, most confused, some sympathetic, but the vast majority were ignoring him.
How was it that no one was attacking him? Didn't they know how Ron had died?
Harry decided to listen to Mr Weasley speak.
"…bravery, as anyone who knew him could attest." Mr Weasley's voice was hoarse and Harry could hear several people crying. "Rose and Hugo…" the crowd moved to try and catch a glimpse of the children, "will be taken care of by their loving mother and of course, Molly and I will always be here for anything that's needed."
"Yer not alone," Hagrid said from near the front, and Harry was hit with how many of his old friends were here.
People he'd abandoned and ignored for over a decade until they'd given up chasing him.
The service went on and Harry tried to stay present, to listen to Mrs Weasley when she sobbed through her words, to Hermione as she delivered an empty, hollow speech that sounded ripped from her soul, and the remaining siblings, Ginny, George, Percy, Charlie, and Bill who all spoke as well.
Harry was surprised to see Percy there, though he supposed even the interim Minister would make time for his dead brother.
Dead.
If Harry hadn't gotten involved with Voldemort, Ron would still be here. If he hadn't refused to surrender the Dark Lord, Ron would still be alive. And the results for Voldemort were the same, anyway.
Likely worse. Before, they could have kept the Dark Lord secret and managed his imprisonment themselves, but now, with the might of the vengeful Ministry behind them, and Percy at their head, Voldemort was certainly going to be facing horrors worse even than before.
He'd killed the Minister. The public would want his blood.
"It's not time to sit yet, Harry," Luna said gently, in his ear.
Harry looked up and realized that he was on his knees and everyone around him was staring. He quickly got to his feet, pointedly staring at the front where, thankfully, the service was finishing up. Harry watched as the body of the first person who'd ever wanted to be his friend was lowered into the earth.
Molly and Hagrid's sobs were difficult to listen to. He wanted to go home and grieve in his own way, with a bottle of Firewhisky and lots of self-loathing.
"Are you going to the Burrow now?" Luna asked, but Harry shook his head.
"I've got to—"
"How dare you come here," Ginny suddenly growled from beside him, and Harry jumped.
She looked livid, tears staining her face and body shaking with anger.
"I'll go," Harry said, desperate not to cause a scene. "I'm so sorry."
"You're sorry?" Ginny said, her voice growing louder. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
"Ginny, that's not nice," Luna broke in, but Harry shook his head, and backed away, trying to get the hell out of there.
"Running, Potter?" Ginny said, following him and Harry could not look back to see if every face in the crowd was watching. "I suppose that's what you do best."
When he got to the edge of the wards, he pulled his magic in as fast as he could and Apparated away.
.
.
Voldemort cradled his mutilated arm, crouching as close to the centre of his minuscule cage as he could get. But nowhere was safe. That bitch relentlessly sent slicing hexes gouging into his skin, and there was nowhere to go, nowhere to escape to.
"You pathetic snake," another voice snarled, striking him hard on the jaw. His head whipped to the side, left ear ringing with the impact. "Not so scary now, are you?"
He bristled, but knew he could not defend himself without that fucking failsafe in his collar activating and incapacitating him again. He was powerless to avoid the crowd's relentless torment.
He was trapped.
He tried not to engage with them, tried to ignore the pain in his body, the humiliation, the boiling fury, and the staggering exhaustion from not having slept since he had been recaptured five days ago because every single time he tried to sleep, another hero would materialize to punish him.
"You'll get the Dementor's Kiss for sure," someone murmured, and Voldemort wanted to scoff. It would not be the first time.
A wand was pressed against his knee and burned him, sizzling and creating a horrific smell of his own cooking skin.
Hissing, he pulled his leg in, trying to protect it, but that just brought his back closer to the other side where hands reached through to viciously punch the air out of his lungs, perhaps also managing to crack a few more ribs.
He opened his eyes and turned, breathless, to face his attacker, but they were unknown to him. A nobody.
The instant fear he saw when their gazes met was vaguely satisfying, but then a hand from another side of the cage sunk a finger into his nostril and pulled his body back against the bars, arm reaching out to wrap around his neck as someone else hit him with a Cruciatus.
His muscles instantly seized as every nerve in his body ignited and panic shot through him, agony ripping a scream from his throat and it would never end, he would die like this, naked and bleeding and alone, so alone, Harry please—
He was released to the sound of laughter. It grated, but his body was too weak to respond. He lay on his face, utterly exhausted, eyes closed, saliva and stomach acid dripping from his open mouth. His butchered arm was bent awkwardly underneath him, pulsing with agony.
It was too much. Unlike in his his cell at the Ministry, there were no breaks in the abuse here. Three guards got tired and bored eventually, but the entire wizarding world never drained their stock of self-righteous victors.
Children and shopkeepers, teachers and Ministry workers, they all came, some to make him scream and cower, others to stand and watch.
"Make way," Voldemort heard, and he froze, recognizing that voice and what it meant. "Minister for Magic coming through, please do make way."
When Voldemort managed to lift his face off the cage floor, Percy Weasley was looking down at him, a distasteful sneer on his lips.
"Merlin," the redhead remarked with disgust, eyes roaming Voldemort's prone form. "You'll need to be cleaned up before you're ready, won't you?"
The words were whispered, as if they were meant for Voldemort alone. Memories surged up and chilled him. Percy had come once before and it was to deliver him to his brother's home where he had paid for the death of a twin and for Harry's best friend.
One death for which he could never atone.
"Excuse me, I have to remove the prisoner," Percy said, and he tapped his wand to the bars.
Voldemort closed his eyes, ready this time, when the Stunning Spell hit him, levitating him out of his cage, and forcing him to follow the Minister back to whichever vengeful crusader had requested him this time.
.
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If not for the owls bearing mail, it would be like Harry was in a suspended nightmare which blended so well with reality that he could not tell what was real. The news helped keep him present, though that was not any better.
It had been weeks since he'd last left his flat. He ate when he got lightheaded, he slept basically all the time. Otherwise, he sat on his sofa and stared into the fire.
Agonizing.
Hermione had sent him one short letter a few days ago, asking him to meet for tea. He hadn't responded, nor had he to any of the other letters that came his way. From Robards, from Percy. Luna even sent him a thick one containing some dried insects to place around his house to ward against something or other, but he didn't write back to that one either. If he broke the tradition now, who knew where that might lead.
Firewhisky helped, but its powers had dwindled since he'd gotten so used to its effects. He didn't like being hung over so he drank enough to distance himself from his thoughts, but not so much that he couldn't halt his mind from coming up with plans and excuses.
There was nothing to be done.
Ron was dead. The Weasleys had not reached out after he had shown up at the funeral, nor had Ginny tried to confront him again. He had no idea how Hermione was faring since he was hiding from her too.
Percy had won the election on a platform of flagrant abuse. The Conquered Dark Lord— one of his many new ridiculous monikers— was kept naked in a cage in Diagon Alley and the public were encouraged to participate in his reparation. People loved the new Ministry, finding Percy to be both accommodating to their blood-lust and exacting in his execution of Voldemort's punishments.
Percy had thrown Kingsley under the bus over the farce of celebrating Voldemort's dead body. It mades some sense; Percy had to address the fact that the public had been lied to about it, but he was making himself out to be some kind of conquering hero. As if he had caught Voldemort instead of hiding behind his desk in terror, which had been the reality. As if he alone was prepared to expose the Ministry's corruption.
Harry was sitting on his sofa, hands wrapped tightly around the Prophet in his lap, trying to work up the courage to read it. Just because he couldn't act did not mean that he didn't want to know.
Though, when he'd glimpsed the headline, it had accelerated his heartbeat and sent him reeling so that he'd had to breathe and count for a few minutes until he had finally been able to look at it again.
.
Lord Vanquished,
Absent a Third Day This Week
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Harry tried to master the nauseating twist in his stomach when he imaged why that was. Rumour had it, so suspected the Prophet, that Percy sold out Voldemort to wealthy or deserving citizens to be privately punished.
The constant, detached haze that had settled around him was not enough to block out the horrific images that crowded his mind when he interpreted this. Voldemort was being forced to endure unsupervised, illegal torture by people who he likely recognized and who undoubtably had scores to settle with him. His treatment now was worse than unethical; it was evil.
Harry's heart ached for the man he still loved despite everything, who would never understand the scorched earth between them. It hurt to hold himself back from going to see him, reaching out a hand and just touching him… Apparating into that cage, wrappings his arms protectively around that thin frame, and taking on anyone who dared to touch what was his. Bundling that precious body up and saving him from his torment.
But whenever he began to formulate a strategy, the spectre of Ron materialized and reminded him why he must stay away.
Voldemort had not changed.
Not enough. He had not needed to kill Ron. Ron had been trying to save Harry's life and Voldemort had killed him ruthlessly, slowly, right before his eyes. How could he build a life with a man who had thought it was okay to kill someone like that?
He took another drink of Firewhisky and forced himself to read the article.
.
Lord Vanquished,
Absent a Third Day This Week
People are calling on the Minister
for Magic to address the rumours
that he is accepting bribes or
awarding people the opportunity to
punish He Who Must Not Be Forgiven
in the comfort of their own homes.
Those who have been suspected to
have garnered this VIP access have been
frustratingly tight-lipped. When the
Prophet tried to contact the Weasley
family about whether they had
partaken in this privilege, they
refused to comment, yet four
eye-witnesses report seeing the
Minister arrive at his brother
Bill Weasley's seaside cottage with
You Know Who's Useless in tow.
This week, three out of the five
days so far, the Conquered Dark
Lord has been absent from his
cage in Dragon Alley, much to the
disappointment of the gathered crowds.
The Minister gained his position
by promising the people they
would get to punish the madman,
so why has he been missing
so often? Where is he taken?
Why has this opportunity been
cloaked in secrecy and not offered
to the wider wizarding population?
The current system reeks of favouritism.
Perhaps the Minister will address this
concern at today's press conference.
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Harry dropped the paper, letting it fall to the floor, as he held his head in his hands.
Merlin. Was it true? Had Bill actually laid hands on his— because, damnit, Voldemort was his, no matter the current circumstances. Had Bill tortured him?
Raped him?
Fuck, had the whole family had a go?
Harry sat up and collapsed back into the cushions.
Why else had they wanted a private meeting with him? Voldemort had killed two of their family and harmed four others, if you considered Ginny's possession and near murder by his Horcrux, Arthur's near-fatal snake attack, Bill's face, and George's ear. If anyone deserved to see the Dark Lord suffer, it was that family.
Well, apart from me.
But abusing Voldemort was the farthest thing from his mind.
He reached out to grab his almost-empty glass again when the sound of another owl scratching at his window got his attention. He stood and removed the letter from the leg of a bird he was well familiar with. Ugh. Robards again.
He opened the parchment and read.
.
Potter,
I know you are grieving and I am trying to be respectful of that, but it has been almost a month since you were last into work and I need to know if I should be giving your office to someone who actually works here.
The BDE are very active right now due to the situation with He Who Must Be Named. I don't want to put much in writing, so get your arse into the Ministry so we can discuss this in person.
I want a date, by tomorrow, of your return. If I do not receive it, you will be getting a box with your personal items and looking for a new job.
Tomorrow, Potter.
-GR.
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Harry groaned and dropped the parchment onto the floor.
Fuck.
He couldn't go back. If he returned to the office he would be that much closer to Diagon Alley. Fifteen minutes away, to be exact and that's if he didn't Apparate.
The pull towards Voldemort from that close would be irresistible.
But Robards was obviously fed up. If Harry wanted to keep his job, he'd have to go back. He'd have to face everything.
Would everyone blame him for Ron's death? It would be impossible to work so near to where Ron had been killed. To have to deal with Percy now, who he'd never really gotten along with before, but who would be hell-bent on revenge. To run the risk of crossing paths with Hermione.
To pretend to be okay.
He couldn't return. His world was crumbling and would surely be destroyed if he went back.
He had until tomorrow to decide. Harry brought his legs up under him and let his body face-plant onto the seats of the sofa, his head pounding and his heart breaking.
.
.
Voldemort was kneeling, naked, on the polished wooden floor. Head down, eyes lowered. The Minister had left moments after pushing him into this position and warning him to behave. He knew there were Aurors outside, poised to strike should he not.
His new torturer had not yet identified himself and had left the room the moment they had been alone.
Voldemort waited, the exhaustion almost pulling him under. He felt his body teeter, desperate to sleep, but he firmed his spine. Being unconscious amongst enemies was perilous and he was strong enough to master the impulse.
He was suffering severe sleep deprivation to the point where he had begun to hallucinate and fall victim to memories that came alive from his past or his recent tortures. It was worrying, but not more so than what he was about to experience here.
He did not dare raise his gaze, knowing that trap for what it was. Instead, he waited, attempting to sharpen his senses to anticipate the first blow.
In the silence he tried to focus on his collar. These private torture sessions often meant short moments of respite and if he could just force his mind to concentrate on the collar's construction, he could break it again.
Closing his eyes, he reached out with his constrained magic, trying to feel the band of metal, to identify where an opening could be untangled. But his glorious mind was a wasteland. Everything was clouded in a thick fog, the tendrils impossible to grasp, and he soon abandoned his attempt.
He tried to stay present, to remember who he was, remember that he could not be broken and that physical pain could be mastered yet, to his horror, his body always recognized what was needed and forced him to comply. He was able to resist for the first few minutes, but once the violence reached a certain point, muscle memory took over and he obeyed.
Cowering, begging, crying.
Slow footsteps thundered in his ears as the unknown man came back into the room. Voldemort's nervous muscles tensed and corrected his posture, hoping to avoid antagonism for his lack of proper etiquette.
A chair was scraped across the floor many feet away and he heard a person sit.
"I thought you'd be a little less pathetic," the voice said, but Voldemort ignored the insult, instead trying to place the identity.
He searched his mind and concluded that he did not recognize the man, which was a first so far for these visits.
He remained still, silent. Waiting for the first spell to hit.
"You certainly look different than you did when you had visited Hogwarts in our last year," the man went on. "This look suits you. Though, if I'm being honest, it does make me pity you a bit."
His state of anxious tension erased his usual abhorrence of that word.
"But then I remember what you did to the students when the school was under your rule. You put the Carrows in charge and they tortured children."
Voldemort closed his eyes against the rage he could hear in the man's voice.
"People killed themselves because of what you did at Hogwarts. Did you know that?" He laughed. "No, I suppose you didn't, because rumour has it you've been a prisoner at the Ministry all this time."
Voldemort stiffened at that. Speculation, or had the information leaked somehow?
A twinge of worry wriggled up from inside of him but he viciously stomped it down. Potter would receive no more of his concern.
Voldemort had been a monumental fool.
After receiving Potter's fateful message that had led to his current situation, Voldemort had swiftly sought out the remaining two guards and dealt with them. It had been disappointing not to have drawn out the spectacle, but he had been more focused on getting to the boy in time. He had known that once he killed Kingsley, the two guards would be released from their Vow and could give testimony against Potter regarding Voldemort's escape months prior. He had had to trust Potter to handle his own friend's silence, with the undiscussed caveat that if he could not, then Voldemort would.
That done, he had then charged into the Ministry, ready to rip the building apart to get to the boy, eviscerate any person who had dared to threaten Potter.
He had risked everything, overcome with a reckless and unfamiliar impulse to protect.
And his current position— on his knees before his enemy, recaptured and collared once more— had been the fatal consequence of his stupidity.
Voldemort shifted uncomfortably, his muscles fatigued and trembling.
Focus. He sank the disgusting misery that choked him from Potter's betrayal into the violent whirlpool in his mind. It was inconsequential. Not worthy of his concern. Just like Potter.
What mattered now was why he had not been attacked yet by this new host? It normally did not take this long. The gloating was not surprising, but the lack of brutality was.
"I'm not proud of buying you," the voice continued, quietly. "I wanted to see you and I couldn't stomach going down to Diagon Alley. I've seen the pictures. It looks horrific."
Did this mean he would not be torturing him? Voldemort continued to work on regulating his breathing.
"Has Harry requested you yet?"
Voldemort's eyes snapped open, but he managed to keep them lowered still.
"Harry Potter," the man clarified, sounding annoyed. "I know that you know the name. Have they forbidden you to speak? Answer me."
The brief reprieve from aggression fanned his resistance. He remained silent.
The body moved on the chair.
"I asked you a question, Voldemort," the man said with an edge of warning, but this was the first time in weeks that someone had called him by his true name and it distracted him.
Voldemort.
Yes. That is who I am.
A spell connected with his right shoulder and sent an explosion of pain through him, shocking a gasp out of his throat. He looked up and saw a young man no older than Potter, slightly overweight, a stranger, meet his eyes with equal surprise and not a little terror.
They stared at each other until that blue-eyed gaze grew cold. Voldemort looked away, curling his fingers in his lap. Who was he? A random Hogwarts student? Voldemort did not like the mention of Potter. It spoke of a connection between the two.
"I can make you answer, you know," the child went on, lazily. "I'm sure you know. That collar has been outfitted with a component that forces you to obey an order given with the specific key phrase. I'm sure you've experienced that already."
Voldemort closed his eyes again. Of course he had, did the imbecile think he could explain to him the workings of his own collar? Mercifully, that aspect was not public knowledge. He feared the day the mobs in Diagon Alley learned of it.
"Alright then, we'll do it the hard way. Tom, I command you to answer if you have seen Harry Potter since you've come back from the dead and been recaptured by the Ministry?"
Luckily, the collar was not Veritaserum. He must speak, but the words could be his own— unless he was forced to repeat a phrase, as the collar interpreted that as a physical command.
"I have not," he rasped, having no energy to lie, and the words sent a wave of nausea through him because they were true.
Not once. Potter had abandoned him to this hell.
The child made a sound of polite interest.
"I thought he would have. Oh well, maybe he's waiting."
Waiting for what? For Voldemort to become the mindless, traumatized shell that he had been when the boy had first seen him?
No. Potter was not waiting. He had turned. Before the events of that fateful day, the boy had seemed to overlook and even accept all that Voldemort had done, all that he was, but the death of his friend would never be understood.
"I killed your snake."
Voldemort looked up slowly, distracted, his anger clenching his fists. Nagini. He had wondered what had become of her. Horcrux though she was, he was fond of her beyond that. She had not deserved to die.
His expression must have revealed his displeasure. The young man pulled back, but his eyebrow raised.
"That pissed you off, eh? Well, I'm not sorry. Harry asked me to kill it and thanked me for doing so later. Was it your pet? Did you care about it?"
Before he could formulate a response to that impertinence, the child continued.
"Too bad. I hope that hurt. You deserve to hurt for what you have done. My parents—"
The young man broke off and Voldemort wanted to roll his eyes. More of this. Sentimental infants trying to make him feel remorse for taking insignificant lives. He was not sorry for what he had done. He did not regret a single life.
Well. Perhaps one.
If he had let the Weasley boy go, Potter may have fought for him. Voldemort might never have had to endure this again. Potter would have stood at his side, battling his own colleagues to get him out.
"You are responsible for so much suffering," the idiot child droned on. "I'm glad you're paying something for it. I'm grateful they caught you, though I'm still unsure why they have't killed you yet."
So his immortality was not public knowledge. Interesting. Had Potter not told anyone? Had Shacklebolt kept that secret?
"Must be so they can whore you out," the rat mused, and Voldemort flinched.
One of the figures gripped his ears and held his nostrils against their coarse pubic hair, grinding his face and forcing him to take them deeper and he was furious, hating every one of them, but completely impotent and unable to do anything as they fucked his face like he was a doll, like he was already dead—
He shook his head, fighting to dispel the flashback, hating that they had become so close to the surface again. Every action ignited a reminder of past horrors even amidst the making of new ones.
"Though how anyone could ever want to touch you sexually, I have no idea," the young man said scathingly, and Voldemort snapped his attention back to the present. "I have another hour and a half with you. I really had not planned this out, I just wanted to see you broken. I'm glad you're suffering. Look at me."
Voldemort gritted his teeth, unmoving.
"No?" the cretin said, dark humour in his tone. "You never were smart, were you? You never were a match for us. Useless during the fight at the Ministry, useless at the Battle of Hogwarts. Does it embarrass you that Harry always bested you?"
Voldemort's insides twisted at that name, but he forced himself to focus on sneering at the insults.
And then the man stood.
Voldemort flinched then immediately mastered himself, despising his conditioning. He watched through his sparse eyelashes as the figure came closer, slowly, until he was standing near enough to touch.
"Last chance," the stranger said, softly, tauntingly. "Look. At. Me."
Voldemort's mind spun with options and he settled on his strange belief that this person would not really hurt him. He would administer corrections, but he was not after blood.
He closed his eyes.
"Crucio!"
Voldemort fell back, supine, and began to thrash as the spell set fire to his nerves. He bit his tongue trying to stifle the sounds emerging from him, his whole world was agony, there was no escape and he arched off the floor, Salazar, the pain, stop, please, Harry, where are you, damn you, I am sorry, come find me—
The spell lifted and Voldemort felt his mind shut down, felt the staggering exhaustion claim him, and he fell into unconsciousness.