Chapter 27
.
Harry had managed to sneak into work without anyone noticing.
He closed the door to his office and set his bag down onto his desk. There was a mountain of overdue paperwork piled ominously, chastising him for his absence.
A sharp rap on his door made him spin.
"Hey, Harry," Vanessa Thompson, a fellow Auror said, pushing his door open slightly so she could peer at him through the crack. "Robards said he wanted to see you first thing when you got back."
"I just walked in," Harry said through clenched teeth. "Give me a bloody second."
Thompson shot him an apologetic look.
"Sorry, but he said right away. You know how he gets. I'll wait outside."
Harry released a sigh and followed her to Robards's office.
"The BDE are relentless right now, with the Dark Idiot locked up in Diagon," Robards said, by way of greeting when Harry shut the door behind him.
The mention of Voldemort, though, had his full attention.
"They're hitting people all over," he went on, "trying to get close to him, but obviously the area is very well-protected. They can't touch him and I'm pretty confident about that fact. The lunatic is safe— ha." He let out a dark laugh. "Safe from safety. Safe from rescue."
Harry had no idea what to say to that. He stayed silent, his fingers flexing tightly, his head becoming clouded.
"I need you on security detail, but I'm going to place you with people you know, so they won't fawn over you as much. Tomorrow you're on Neville Longbottom. The BDE have been pretty clear that they want him in particular."
He raised an eyebrow at Harry and leaned back in his chair.
"They want you too, obviously, so don't fall asleep. Understand? Keep Longbottom safe, see if you can find any traps set up around his place, and then come back in. I'll want a report with any suggestions you have and we'll see what you think we can do to protect him without wasting a body to guard him."
Harry hadn't spoken a word, yet and he didn't think he could, even if asked. Thankfully, Robards seldom needed a conversation.
The man rubbed his chin, considering Harry.
"You've missed a lot, but I'm glad to see you're back with us." He paused and eyed him. "Percy may be by to see you. He had some questions for me."
Harry tried to control his reaction. Fuck. I bet he did. He nodded and Robards nodded back, his razor-sharp focus returning to his paperwork.
"Dismissed, Potter."
.
.
When Harry slowly collapsed onto his sofa that evening, he closed his eyes and all the pressure in his brain, all the torment and the guilt and the anxiety and everything came crashing over him at once, overwhelming him and drawing him under.
It was too much.
Harry knew he was sobbing and knew it wouldn't ever stop, knew he was lost and scared and so painfully alone, but he also knew he didn't deserve sympathy, didn't deserve to get better because it was his fault that Ron was dead. His fault that Voldemort was being tortured right now, right at this bloody moment.
It was all his fault and he couldn't do a damn thing.
If he went to Voldemort, it would be a betrayal of Ron and Hermione and everyone who fought against the Dark Lord. But if he allowed Voldemort to stay a prisoner, he was punishing the man for coming to save him, teaching him that compassion brought destruction.
Every day that passed with Voldemort in chains led him deeper into his despair, nudging him that much closer to his yearning for the end of his own suffering.
He couldn't stand the guilt anymore.
A knock at his door made him gasp, face springing from the sopping cushion where his head had been, discharge and tears smeared on his cheeks.
No one came to his door.
They knew better. He hated being surprised, hated not having a choice.
He looked at his watch. 10:18pm.
He pushed up from the sofa and went to his door cautiously. Squinted through the peephole.
Hermione.
Of bloody course.
"Go away," he said, after taking down the wards so she could hear him and he her.
"Open the door," she said, and he watched her fold her arms over her chest.
"No."
"Harry," she said, and her voice was suddenly agonized and small and vulnerable and it rent a hole through his heart because how could he deny her anything after what he had done to her?
Whether it would kill him or not, he had to at least let her in so she could yell at him. It may even help ease some of the crushing weight surrounding his chest.
He pulled open the door and stood back to let her enter.
When she didn't immediately come through Harry looked at her— really looked at her, and he felt the air leave his lungs.
She was thin, older than she'd ever been. She seemed faded and gaunt and diminished.
Broken.
"Hermione," he whispered, and fell to his knees.
She made a sound and grabbed him by his hair, pulling him towards her as she began to shake. Her knees landed in his lap and she curled up against him, crying and gripping his hair.
He held her, hating the tears that fell from his own eyes, hating the deep, churning agony that ripped through him knowing he had done this to her.
Ron.
Harry had never missed him more than he did right now, holding Ron's widow. It was like he was transported back to when Voldemort had released Ron's body, back to witnessing his best friend's last act of trying to pull him to safety, trying to protect Harry, like usual, at the cost of his own life.
Ron had hated him and yet he had given his life to save Harry's.
And Harry had let him. He could have allowed Ron to drag him away and Hermione would not be here right now, devastated and alone.
Ron would still be alive.
"Inside," Hermione rasped, still clinging to him and Harry pulled back to see her face. She buried it deeper into his shirt. "Take me inside."
Harry drew in a deep breath and forced his legs to take his weight. He gripped Hermione's thin arms and brought her up with him. Closing the door behind them, he brought her to the sofa and fell onto it, still curling tightly around her.
They were no longer crying, but none of the desperate grief had abated.
Harry felt like an intruder. Who was he to comfort her? He could not touch her without acknowledging that he was responsible for her suffering.
He pulled away, but Hermione gripped him harder.
"I haven't slept properly since he died," Hermione whispered roughly into his shoulder. "The kids are safe with Luna. I need to sleep next to someone."
Harry was floored.
"Hermione," he croaked, then cleared his throat. "You can't want to sleep with me, I—"
Hermione pulled back and Harry saw the deep purple shadows under her eyes. The grey colour to her skin. She looked angry, which normally made her look fierce, but now she just seemed so delicate.
"Don't turn me away, Harry," she growled, more tears suddenly springing to her eyes. "I need to sleep before we have this conversation and Merlin knows I can't do that at home with his— his—"
Her words stuttered out and he made a shushing sound, gathering her up and leading her into his bedroom.
He tried laying her down and removing himself from her, but she clung tighter and brought him down with her. He wanted to keep his distance, but she wrapped his arms around her diminished body, pulling him close. He was spooning her, the wife of the man he had murdered.
He hated the intimacy. The comfort it brought, comfort he did not deserve.
He turned off the lights. She was silent, but Harry knew she was not yet sleeping.
The urge to confess, to beg forgiveness was impossible to fight, twitching his jaw and pausing his breath.
"It should have been me," Harry breathed.
"Don't make this about you," she hissed, and he flinched as her reprimand landed.
He tried to untwine his fingers from hers, but she held tight.
"He knew what he was doing," she went on in a quiet voice. "I know he wouldn't have had any regrets. He loved you, Harry."
Harry closed his eyes, taking that like a knife to his stomach.
"Now, I need to sleep," she said, burying her face deeper into his pillow. "We can talk in the morning."
Harry hoped she felt him nod against her hair because he was incapable of much else for a long time after she had fallen asleep.
.
.
Three men and one woman stood before him as he knelt on their floor in a small, tacky pool of his own blood. He was panting, eyes struggling to stay open.
"Tom, I command you to slice down your left forearm," one of the men said, grim determination in his tone, "four inches long this time."
Voldemort's body was powerless as it obeyed.
His right hand, the one with the knife, raised and pierced his skin, slicing down his left arm until it had completed the demanded length. His breath was held, fighting the pain, the humiliation.
The fury.
Blood dripped down onto his thighs and he struggled against the vertigo that made him lightheaded.
The Shacklebolt family were cold and exacting. Vicious. They did not seem to be enjoying themselves, but rather performing a necessary act of retribution. There was no taunting nor any attempt to engage him at all. It was as if he was not even sentient, so far beneath them.
"This isn't enough," the woman said stonily.
"We're not allowed to seriously wound him, you know that," one of the men replied.
"I know," she muttered, unruffled but determined. "And yet King suffered more than he is. He's not even reacting. It's like he's mocking us."
Voldemort felt a swell of pride at that statement. Even bleeding and on his knees, he was disconcerting to them. He still had power.
"What do you want him to do?" another brother asked.
The woman made a sudden movement and knocked Voldemort back so that he was laying prone. She straddled his thighs and wrapped her hands around his neck, strangling him. His fingers came up to break free, but she interrupted him.
"Tom, I command you to lay placid. Do not fight."
His hands instantly fell away. He felt his pulse beat loudly in his temples and felt the pressure of his blood clambering to get past the barrier of her fingers.
"Crucio!" one of the men shouted, and his body thrashed with pain, his eyes rolling back into his head, his fingers jolting with agony as the red-hot flames licked up his nerves.
He was screaming, but he could only hear vague gurgling sounds emerge from his throat, which was still clamped tightly, his blood electrocuting him. It was endless and he felt himself slipping, his vision going dark—
And then it stopped and he was released, the woman jumping off him as he rolled to the side and gasped in deep lungfuls of air.
His cheek was pressed against the wood. It felt so good, the cool varnish on his fevered skin.
He was sore everywhere, his body throbbing and shaking. But, at that moment, he felt no fear.
All he felt was rage.
Debilitating, blinding rage against the Shacklebolts for daring to touch him, against the Weasley Minister for orchestrating this, against the entire wizarding world for deigning to attempt to lower him, against his Death Eaters for not being able to break through and strike his enemies down.
But mostly, he felt rage against Potter.
Potter, whose continued absence festered, confirming his betrayal. The boy would have had access to him, could have come to him at any time. All his vows of loyalty and affection were worthless.
Lies.
And Voldemort had been fooled.
That was what truly rankled.
Even knowing better, even after a lifetime of betrayal, Voldemort had still allowed himself to believe. Potter had felt sincere. Different.
Yet he was just like all the rest.
Treacherous.
"Tom," the woman's voice drew him back, and he flinched, "I command you to fracture each of your fingers."
He had only a moment to freeze before his arms swept forward to meet above his head as he lay in his cooling blood. Without looking, he gripped the index finger of his left hand with his right and yanked it sideways.
The bone cracked audibly and Voldemort swallowed the pain, his hand already moving onto his middle finger, which received the same fate.
By the end, his hands were shaking so violently that he was unable to properly grip the last finger, his right thumb. All the other digits were useless, dangling points of agony.
But it had been a command so his body would not allow him to rest until he had completed the task.
Without conscious thought, his thumb moved into his mouth and was clamped between his teeth. Understanding left him breathless. His jaw seized shut and his right hand twisted rapidly away, the snap of his last finger both a relief and a murderous confirmation that he was alone here.
Potter was not coming. And it was time he stopped waiting for him.
.
.
Harry woke to an empty bed.
It was early, 6:15, which gave him lots of time to suffer before he had to go see Neville as his security detail.
He went to the loo and took a piss, trying not to let the guilt and shame that had begun to choke him as soon as his eyes opened make him hide in his bedroom.
Because Hermione was waiting. And he owed her at least his body in the room to take her justified anger.
When he managed to make his legs move to enter the sitting room, Hermione was curled up on the sofa, cradling a cup of tea. Another steaming cup was waiting on the coffee table, likely for him.
If she had bothered to make him a cuppa, surely that was a good sign. Was it possible that she didn't hate him?
No. Of course she did.
He walked to the sofa and sat down as quietly as possible, trying to attract the least amount of notice. There was silence and then Hermione put down her teacup.
"I'm not going to hit you, Harry," she whispered, and Harry was instantly reminded of when Ron had beat his arse when he'd found out about Voldemort.
He would do anything now to be beaten by Ron again.
Ron had been right that Voldemort would kill more people. If only Harry had known at the time who his next victim would be.
Would you have listened? Would it have changed anything?
"Stop cowering," Hermione whispered, and Harry tried to loosen his posture.
She took a deep breath.
"You've been ignoring me and I understand why, but Harry," she turned to look at him, an agonized expression on her face, "I've needed you. You can't disappear. I need you."
Harry tried to hold her gaze, but it was like staring into the sun. He forced himself to hang on.
"Ron's gone." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "And you've been gone, too." She opened her eyes and looked at him imploringly. "You're still my best friend but you left me alone to deal with all of this by myself."
Harry surged to his feet, but hands reached out and pulled him back down onto the sofa. He shook his head, eyes closed, unable to take any more guilt.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered.
Her hands moved to grasp his.
"I know. I know you blame yourself," Harry made a strangled noise in his throat, "but it's not your fault. Listen to me."
Hermione shook his hands and Harry opened his eyes, but he couldn't meet her gaze.
"It's not your fault. Ron had always been very protective and he loved you very much. He knew what he was doing."
Harry tried to focus on her words, but the haze that lived in his head began to seep out and cloud his thoughts.
"It's Voldemort who's at fault, not you."
Harry felt his heart crumble.
Voldemort's fault, Voldemort's fault— but who invited him into the Ministry? Who stood by while he killed Ron?
And if Voldemort alone is to blame for Ron's death, then how can I ever go to him?
"You can't keep hiding from me," Hermione said, squeezing his hands. "Please. I can't lose you too."
Hermione stroked his fingers and then released him. Harry wrapped his hands around himself, but Hermione nudged his teacup against him so he took it and cradled it against himself for warmth.
"How have you been?" she asked, and Harry bit back the hysterical laugh that wanted to burst out. Oh, you know. "I heard you've come back to work."
Harry nodded.
"Have you seen Voldemort?"
He shook his head, pushing down the explosion of anguish that that thought conjured.
"I have."
Harry's eyes snapped up to search her face. Her expression was stubborn and challenging. Unapologetic.
"I wanted to look him in the eye."
Harry was holding his breath, watching her. Jealous and incredulous and scared.
"He met my gaze, unflinchingly," she said, quietly, her expression evening out, her eyes faraway. "We weren't alone, but he kept his focus on me."
"Did he say anything?" Harry asked.
Hermione paused, watching him.
"No. He just stared at me until someone sunk a blade into his back."
Harry flinched, his fingers clenching. I'll kill them all.
"I know he wasn't sorry," Hermione went on, her eyes leaving his face, "but he could have said just about anything to break me at that moment. Even a smirk would have been enough."
Harry pictured the encounter, seeing it all so clearly.
"Yet he didn't. It felt… It was almost like he was offering me a chance to claim my own vengeance on him."
"Did you?" he asked, his voice little more than a breath.
She shook her head.
"No. That wouldn't have solved anything. I didn't want that. Besides, I don't know how much you have seen, but…" She met his eyes. "He's in a rough state."
Harry closed his own, blowing out a deep breath.
"His body is…" she trailed off and Harry wanted to block out her words. "He's like you said, before. He's nothing like the Dark Lord. He cowers and screams and… Harry."
Hermione paused and Harry knew she was waiting for him to open his eyes, but he couldn't.
"Have you been reading the Prophet?" she asked quietly. He remained silent, so she went on. "I don't know what you know, but Percy is doing horrible things. He's offering Voldemort to private citizens to torture. I'm trying to stay out of it, but some of the things I've heard are truly horrific."
Harry felt his pulse accelerate erratically, his vision beginning to darken.
"His new collar has a keyword," Hermione went on, as if blind to his torment, "that forces him to obey any command. Percy—"
Harry released a chocked sob and fell off the sofa, onto his knees. Chest heaving and face pressing into his hands.
"Stop, Hermione, please," he moaned, shaking. "I can't. I can't do this."
Hands gripped him tightly, grounding him, but he needed more. He was spiralling and he knew a panic attack was looming, creeping closer.
The image of his Horcrux on the mantel called to him like a gasp of breath, and he knew one touch and he would calm, one brush of his fingers against that man's soul would bring everything back into focus, would arrest this swirling chaos—
But he couldn't.
He would not touch it. It would be a betrayal, perhaps worse than what he was already doing. To use the man's soul to make himself feel better while allowing Voldemort to continue suffering, was unconscionable.
"You still love him," Hermione breathed, and Harry hit the floor.
His heartbeat pounded in his ears and he was dizzy, his eyes slamming closed. Hermione's hands settled on his head, but it wasn't enough, would never be enough, it wasn't what was missing, what he needed, oh gods, more than anything—
"Harry," he heard her say, but he needed something to ground him, he needed sharp nails digging into his skin, needed teeth on his neck, the sting of a hand against his face…
"Harry," Hermione said again, "you need to breathe. You're not breathing."
He tried and failed, it wasn't working, he was going to die, he wanted to die—
Small hands squeezed his shoulders tightly.
"Breathe!"
Harry gasped in a breath and his eyes snapped open. Hermione looked concerned, her face swimming in front of him, and he closed his eyes again, trying to focus on drawing in deep breaths until his heartbeat evened out.
In, out. Pause. In, out. Pause.
When Harry opened his eyes again, Hermione was seated on the floor next to him. He felt the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, but the panic had passed. He was now just more awake, more aware.
"Maybe you should go see him, Harry," Hermione whispered, lacing her fingers with his.
Harry breathed deeply three more times, until he was able to answer.
"I can't."
"You're struggling. He helps with that, right?"
Harry nodded, but was drowning in helplessness.
"I can't go to him for comfort… If I cannot… I can't— help him. How can I seek help from him without giving any?"
"I'm sure he'd like to see you too," she said, looking away as if the words cost her something.
Which, they obviously did.
Harry shook his head.
"He hates me. How could he not?"
"Then go in your Invisibility Cloak. He won't have to know. It's honestly madness there, with the crowds attacking him, he'd never even notice you."
Harry slammed his eyes shut again, trying to shut out the images that conjured.
"We need to figure out a way," Hermione mused, "that you can have access to him so you can balance yourself. What we need is… something like… Something—"
"Like a Horcrux," Harry finished quietly.
Hermione eyed him and then nodded.
"Well, yes, that would work, but we destroyed all of those and we can't force him to make another. We—"
"We wouldn't have to," Harry muttered, hating himself. "He already gave me one."
Harry felt Hermione freeze and then his shoulders were shifted until he was facing her fully. She swept his bangs away from his eyes.
"He gave you a Horcrux," she said, sounding disbelieving. "When?"
"Before," he answered. "Before… Ron."
She flinched at the name but persisted.
"Where is it? Why haven't you been using it?"
"I can't, Hermione!" he shouted in frustration, getting up on shaky legs and moving away from her. "Aren't you listening? He gave it to me so I could feel better, how can I use it now when he needs my help and I'm turning my back on him?"
He began to pace, self-disgust churning inside him.
"He gave it to you so you could feel better," Hermione repeated slowly, incredulously. "He gave you a piece of his soul."
"Yes, Hermione, yes. But it doesn't matter. I can't use it, I won't."
"Harry, don't you see?" Hermione said, sounding suddenly excited.
She stood and walked over to Harry, who stopped restlessly walking.
"This is perfect! You need to touch this Horcrux, keep it on you for a few days. Feel better. Connect with the soul piece you lost. And then, you will know if it was ever actually about Voldemort himself at all, or if it was just about his soul piece that was taken from you. Maybe that's all you need! Maybe the rest is just proximity."
"Proximity?"
Hermione nodded.
"Exactly. You feel good being around him because your soul connects with his, but maybe it's not him at all. Maybe you can separate him from the equation completely. Maybe it was never about him."
Harry wanted to consider it, but it too felt like betrayal. He didn't want to use the Horcrux to test his feelings for the man. He knew how he felt. His love sat like iron balled in his gut, spreading guilt and worry throughout his body.
Loving Voldemort hurt.
But it was also as natural and unavoidable as breathing.
If touching his soul was what filled the hole inside him, why did he crave so much more? Proximity, like Hermione suggested, would be enough, but for Harry, simply touching Voldemort would never be sufficient.
"Go get the Horcrux, Harry," Hermione urged him, pulling him to his feet. "I need you to understand that it's his soul and not him that compels you before I suggest the next part to you."
Harry stopped, already lifted to be standing, but caught by that phrase.
"What next part."
She shot him a determined look.
"I promise to tell you after you've retrieved the Horcrux."
"I—"
"Go get it, Harry," she said, more firmly this time. "Then we'll talk. I promise."
He stared at her for a few moments, but his anxious curiosity was piqued. Someone had a plan and Harry was so deliriously lost that he was willing to cling to anything that would give him some direction. He walked to the mantel, shooting backwards glances at Hermione, and closed his fist around the small, silver ring.
His body shook.
It stole his breath, almost bringing him to the floor. The pulsing magic, the stability, the relief.
He felt good, more coherent.
When he looked at Hermione, she was smiling, but her eyes were troubled.
"So that works, then," she said. "Right," she went on, and took a seat at his table, gesturing for Harry to sit, too. "That makes things easier, at least for now."
Harry sat, but did not get close. There was an ominous air about Hermione that filled Harry with trepidation. He wasn't going to like this plan.
"You need to keep it on you, Harry. This Horcrux can balance you. You're better off accepting that and you shouldn't feel bad because that's what he intended when he gave it to you. It was meant to help you and it does."
Harry squeezed the small metal ring in his palm, wanting to protect it.
"Now," she said, giving Harry a cautious glance, "what they are doing to Voldemort is grossly immoral. I know it hurts you to talk about, but you have to understand. It is not tenable, what we are doing to him. I hold no… great concern for him as a… person. He…"
She broke off, looking down into her hands. Harry felt the urge to comfort her, but found he could not move.
"His abuse cannot continue. Whatever I feel about him, I will not discard my humanity to see him punished. He is an object to be pitied right now and it must end."
A flame of hope was flickering to life in his cold belly. Could she be suggesting…? Would she free him from his guilt and encourage him to go to him at last?
"You are the Master of Death, Harry," Hermione said, pulling him from his wondrous imagination. "You are the only one who can end it. End his suffering."
No.
Harry felt his lips part, his eyes scouring her face.
"Kill him," he breathed. "You want me to kill him."
Hermione held his gaze and then slowly nodded.
Harry got up, running a hand through his greasy hair. He was shaking.
"No," he denied. "No. I can't."
Hermione stood.
"It's the only way, Harry. He's mostly dead already, he's kept alive by whatever anchors him here, but it's a thin chain."
"No."
"He's not got a life worth living, come with me to see him, you'll understand. It's a kindness, what you'd be doing."
Harry gripped the Horcrux tightly, his pulse slamming against the metal. Never, he promised it.
"We'd have to break through the added enchantments on his collar, first," she went on, oblivious to his near-ruin. "I'm sure you know, when… the collar was snapped onto him this time, it was just a basic magic-suppressing band with no failsafes, that's why he was able to… kill."
She took a deep breath and then let it out slowly.
"It has since been imbued with dreadful additions. People have been eager to offer their support in bolstering it."
Harry sat down heavily on the hearthrug and Hermione joined him, taking his limp hands in hers.
"We'll do it together," she said, squeezing his hands, but his left was still fisted, holding tight to that precious metal.
She seemed to sense his focus and looked down at his clenched knuckles.
"You'll have to destroy that too," she whispered, stroking her hand over his. "We can wait until you're ready, but we have to destroy it before we kill his body. Same as last time."
Destroy it.
Kill his body.
She rubbed his arms.
"It's going to be hard when he's gone and you can't go to him for balance anymore, but Harry," she leaned down and caught his eyes, "I will be there for you. We're all we have now. You can move in with me and we can help each other heal. I know it seems impossible, but your life is not over. We will get through this together. Broken, but still fighting."
Harry felt tears meander down his cheeks and Hermione pulled him into a fierce hug, burying her face into his shoulder. He let her, noticing how warm she was, how full of resolve.
As he stroked her back, he began to harden his heart.
She was right. It could not go on like this.
Perhaps it was time he requested a private meeting with the Dark Lord.
.
.
Voldemort recognized no one this time. The five men were young, perhaps in their thirties. Slytherins, if they were to be believed. Dorm mates. Apparently their families had money, though they had not said which families, and they had requested him simply to have fun.
Entitled, worthless, puerile beasts.
He was pushed down onto his hands and knees on the bed where two of the other men were already reposed. They stared at him with salacious eyes and Voldemort flinched, attempting to back up, to get away, but that hand on his shoulder became two and then four and somehow he was suddenly laying supine, each of his arms held tight and his legs left to press together and bend, trying to protect himself.
"That's better," one of them spoke, at his side.
Voldemort buried the fear and instead surrounded his mind with the pounding rage that he felt. He was the Dark Lord Voldemort, the most powerful being in existence, and these infants had once cringed away from speaking his mere name, they—
"Tom, I command you to spread yourself out on the bed. Legs and arms wide."
Voldemort felt his body move to obey, the restraining hands on him dropping away, but once he had completed the task Voldemort forced his limbs together and pushed himself up, reaching through the vultures crowded around him and breaking through.
They had not commanded him to stay.
"Grab him!" someone shouted, but another voice spoke over them.
"Tom, I command you to get your arse back on this bed."
Voldemort closed his eyes and battled his will against the compulsion, but he lost quickly and his feet carried him back towards the demons. He watched them sully him with their rapacious eyes, smirking and practically licking their lips.
He sat on the edge of the bed, ready to propel himself free again, but that damned voice spoke.
"Tom, I command you to stay on this bed until we give you permission leave."
He had no time to mourn as hands began to drag him back into the centre, pull his arms wide, jeering at him as they did so. He growled, furious that his magic would not save him, that he was not even allowed to fight like a Muggle, that he was vulnerable to these insects as they descended upon him, groping him, grabbing him, and he had always loathed being touched—
"Merlin, he's so boney. Are we sure that this is what we want to do with our time?"
"Hell yeah. Think about being able to say you fucked Lord Voldemort."
A chorus of laughter followed and Voldemort tried to detach, to become a witness instead of a participant.
"Tom, I command you to pinch your nipples."
His fingers reached up and touched their required location, but Voldemort disassociated. He could feel it, but it was not him. He was elusive. Invulnerable.
"We should make him come."
He would kill each and every man in this room.
"Can he come? Isn't he like, part snake?"
"Do snakes come?"
More laughter, but Voldemort was above it all. He stared straight ahead and planned how he would slaughter each of them, imagining the way his magic would crash into the weak flesh, tearing them apart, slowly, painfully.
"Tom, I command you to lift your knees, spread them, press them against your chest, and then hold that position."
His legs moved as instructed. He lay exposed, but it did not matter. He was untouchable.
"Who wants to be the first?"
Voldemort's breath caught, a bolt of terror running through him, but he closed his eyes against the fear. He was better, he would have his—
"I do," one of them said, and then fingers grabbed his legs and immediately a stab of pain sliced through him as he was speared with one brutal thrust.
He took in a sharp breath of air, eyes flying open.
Disbelieving. Frantic. But then he quickly crushed those feelings. They only had another hour. It could not go on forever. Get through this, Harry will come—
He ruthlessly silenced that delusion. Potter was not coming. He was—
"Tom, I command you to kiss the man fucking you."
Before he could fully comprehend the order, his head lifted off the mattress and his lips pressed against the hairy face. The man shoved him back.
"Ugh! Merlin, Malcolm!"
Warm saliva struck Voldemort's chest.
He froze.
The audacity.
"Bleeding disgusting. Don't do that again, or just wait and see what I do to you when you have a go."
The flea recommenced thrusting and Voldemort turned his face away, closing his eyes. An image of the boy rose again in his mind, of those green eyes narrowing in determination, but Voldemort banished it. Potter had betrayed him and deserved no more of his regard.
"Tom, I command you to tell me how it feels."
Voldemort clenched his fingers into fists where they lay by his side, on the sheets.
"It feels as if I am being suffocated by a repulsive, incompetent, juvenile, pervert who cannot—"
"Shut it," a voice said, but Voldemort was glad to ignore it.
"—attract genuine sexual attention so he must—"
"Tom, I command you to shut the fuck up."
Voldemort's mouth snapped closed.
A sharp slap landed against his left cheek and Voldemort hissed with rage. The laughter that met that sound sent a call for immediate violence through his veins.
He pushed himself up onto his elbows, startling the man impaling him enough to cease, and Voldemort's face moved fast, intent on ripping out the man's neck tendons with his teeth.
Instead, the collar jolted him with a surge of electricity that paralyzed him, blinding him with agony, and he fell back, shaking and screaming.
When he came to, a new man was thrusting between his legs.
He panicked. How long had he been unconscious?
"Welcome back, my Lord," one of them mocked, and kicked him hard in the ribs.
"Stupid idea, trying to attack us."
"I thought you were supposed to be a genius or something?"
"Though, I did like seeing him scream."
"And pass out."
Laughter. Voldemort let out a long breath, trying to calm his mind and ignore the pain.
A booted foot landed on his throat and pressed him down. He tried to breathe around the painful tickle scraping at his esophagus, but it was impossible. His hands flew to the trouser leg, attempting to pull it off.
"Tom, I command you not to fight. In fact, Tom, I command you to masturbate while I strangle you."
Voldemort was distantly aware that his hand had made contact with his flaccid cock and began to manipulate it in some manner, but his focus was on his throat where the built-up pressure on his eyes and ears began to pulse with his heartbeat.
"Careful, Leo, we can't kill him, remember. Let him go before he passes out."
"So he passes out. I'll stop then. He won't die and I'll fuck him while he sleeps again."
Voldemort could feel his hands at his groin, stroking his limp cock and it was horrifying to be unable to get those fingers to help free himself.
His mind flailed in panic, but his body merely laid passive and allowed it. For all his power, superiority, and intelligence, he was helpless against the demands of this vile collar.
"Just stop, Leo. Let me have a go before you fuck him to death."
The boot was lifted and Voldemort pulled in breath, his chest heaving.
"Tom, I command you to lick my feet."
A barrage of noise followed. Voldemort crawled, still panting, but thankfully able to stop molesting himself, towards the dog who had spoken. He was able to dislodge the one between his legs, but then was powerless against the collar's compulsion to bend down and run his tongue over the repulsive, moist toes.
He closed his eyes against the thunderous humiliation.
"You used to get your Death Eaters to do this to you, right? How's it feel?"
Allow me to show you.
One of the men pulled themselves closer to him, their eyes sparkling with mirth.
"Tom, I command you to repeat the words, I am worthless."
Voldemort pulled his head back from his task and clenched his jaw, but it was no use.
"I am worthless."
Laughter followed.
"Tom, I command you to say, I love Muggles."
Pathetic. How much did they pay for the opportunity to torture him, and this is what they wanted?
"I love Mugg—"
"No!" Another man was falling over in paroxysms of amusement. "Tom, I command you to say, I love Harry Potter!"
Voldemort froze, his eyes widening in shock, but his mouth was cursed to obey.
"I love Harry Potter."
He felt that like a Giant's club to his chest.
"Oh Merlin, that's hilarious."
"Come on, we only have another twenty-five minutes and none of us has even come yet. Why don't we double up? And then someone can fuck his face as well?"
A deadly swoop of terror plunged through his intestines. Surely not.
"Double up? Like, two of us… two in his arse?"
"Is that even possible?"
A lazy chuckle.
"You are all so innocent. Here, I'll show you."
Voldemort rolled, propelling himself off the bed, but was hit with a bolt of agony the moment his feet touched the ground. He fell back, fingers twitching, his heartbeat erratic.
One of the men leaned over and laughed at him.
"Forgot we'd commanded you not to leave the bed without permission, eh, Tom?"
He was dragged back and he tried to allow what was about to be done to him, tried to disassociate and remember who he was. But once he was impaled on one man's lap, pulled against that chest and then stabbed again, the pain sharp and startling, the only thoughts in his mind were of animal instinct.
Hatred. Fright. Despair.
A third trespass was made upon his body, his throat invaded, and he was lost. He was no longer Lord Voldemort, but merely a man. Naked and exhausted. Desiring nothing greater than mercy and hopeful that someone, anyone would save him.