Chapter 29

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Harry walked up the cobblestones towards where he knew the cage was located. It was raining, but that didn't bother him. His glasses had a permanent repelling charm on them and his robes came with the standard impervious spells woven in.

It was late, he didn't need his watch to tell him it was well past midnight. He had gone home after work today and continued to agonize over what to do about Voldemort. It had been two days since he'd spoken with Percy, since Hermione had suggested he visit, and two long days since Neville had warned him not to go.

He hated being told what to do.

Or, rather, what not to do.

He had two choices, as far as he could tell: wait until he could pressure Percy to grant him a private meeting with Voldemort, or simply fuck it all and go see him in Diagon himself.

His purposeful stride in the rain made it clear which one he had chosen.

He was done waiting.

And the Horcrux had been working. He remained clear-headed and himself while he was carrying it. He refused to put it back in his ear, though the hole had probably closed up anyways.

Voldemort will just have to re-pierce it when he puts it back on me.

No.

He was not here to rescue Voldemort.

He was here to see for himself what had been done to the man he loved.

He would not hide. He was not a coward. But neither would he let Voldemort persuade him that killing Ron had been necessary. Acceptable.

If Voldemort's condition was dire, he would commit to freeing him soon, but with a Vow on his magic in place this time and an understanding that their… involvement was over.

He loved Voldemort, but he could never forgive him.

He turned a corner, his mind settled and resolute—

And then his eyes fell upon the minuscule cage that the giant of a man was imprisoned in.

His legs trembled and simply refused to move any further.

Fuck.

There was a body curled up on the floor of the cage. Naked. A shining, vivid white in the darkness. It did not seem to be moving, but of course, it had to be.

Harry had not yet killed him.

And he knew he never could, which was why the Vow was so crucial to his plan. Voldemort could escape but not to a bloodbath.

His foot scraped against the stones, slowly bringing him closer to that broken body soaking in the rain.

He began to walk again, almost like he was Imperiused. His eyes were riveted on that body.

He was close now, maybe ten paces.

He stopped.

That lithe, elegant back was facing him, each vertebrae poking through the pale skin, which was slashed with angry red welts. Coloured bruises marred that perfect, hairless skin, some in the shape of fingers or hands, others larger and indicating that he had been struck with heavy objects. Repeatedly.

This was going to suck.

A mad desire to flee surged through him, but he fought it. He owed Voldemort at least the courtesy of witnessing what he was suffering for Harry.

Again. Someone he loved was suffering for him.

He bit his lip until he tasted blood and then jerked his foot forward to get the momentum again to take him all the way to that impossibly tiny cage.

Voldemort was breathing, but his skin was almost completely blue and Harry could see the violent quaking his body was producing to attempt to bring heat to his drenched, emaciated frame.

Harry couldn't fill his lungs and his pulse was hammering in his temples. His vision began to dim and he felt his legs soften.

Before he could fall, his hands shot out to grip the bars.

The sound startled the man on the floor and Voldemort jolted, flinging himself against the opposite side of the cage, though that didn't even move him out of Harry's reach.

The wide, red eyes found him in the dark and fixed onto him, stealing his breath and his sanity and taking everything, oh gods, Voldemort, I'm so sorry, I'm so fucking sorry—

Harry crumbled.

His knees hit the stones hard, but his gaze was locked with Voldemort's, who stared at him with shock and terror that wrung Harry's heart. There was no comprehension in his eyes, there was only instinct.

Survival.

The bottom half of Voldemort's face was purple and lacerated. His swollen chin jutted forward strangely and trails of blood streaked down his chest and collared-neck despite the rain.

Voldemort had scrambled upright and his hands had gripped the bars behind him as if trying to force himself through the gaps, but this position bared his torso to Harry and his stomach clenched when he read the word HALF-BLOOD carved deeply into the man's sternum.

Jesus fucking christ.

Even after expecting the worst, this was horrifying.

Harry knew he should say something to reassure the man who was still shaking with the cold and obviously trapped in his head, but all he could manage was to stare.

The sunken, panicked eyes were so familiar and so precious to him that it was unbearable to see them without recognition. Harry was here, finally here, and Voldemort wasn't even aware of that fact.

Harry hit him with a non-verbal warming charm and that slowly stopped the trembling, but the man didn't even seem to notice. Harry decided against trying to heal his face because who knew where he could even start. Why didn't I think to bring healing potions when visiting a torture victim?

Harry cleared his throat. He had to stop this.

"Voldemort," he croaked, the word hardly discernible.

He coughed, trying to dislodge the phlegm and guilt that were stuck in his throat.

"It's Harry," he rasped, placing both hands on the bars and trying to compel those wild eyes to see him.

Voldemort continued to stare, still lost.

"It's Harry," he said again, because what else could he say? I'm sorry? Are you alright?

Nothing would be enough to cover what the man had endured. Merlin, was there even any coming back for him? Twelve years at the Ministry and then months here like this.

Harry wiped the rain off his face, uselessly. He needed something to jolt the man out of wherever he was.

"Do you…" he began, searching those eyes for the powerful spark he knew was hidden somewhere. "Do you remember Italy?"

Merlin, Potter, you go for that memory?

"I came to visit you," Harry plowed on, still scouring those red eyes. "You… picked me up and slammed me against the wall. Do you remember?"

The rain was making pink rivers slither down that pale, beautiful face. Harry dropped his eyes to watch the thin ribcage expand and contract, sometimes fluttering like a bird's.

His eyes were just as feral.

Okay, a different memory. A happier one.

"You broke through that collar once," he said, his eyes falling to the new metal band, which looked exactly the same as the last one. "You killed a man for daring to…"

Harry looked back up. Damnit, don't remind him of that.

"You were free. You can be free again."

Something in those scarlet eyes seemed to click into place. The snake-like pupils narrowed, and his gaze turned hard.

It was suddenly very difficult to maintain eye contact.

Harry felt his hands trembling, but not from the cold water.

Finally.

Lord Voldemort had returned.

It was amazing what a difference the shrewd, penetrating gaze could make. What power the man instantly seemed to possess.

Voldemort lowered his hands and arranged himself into a more dignified position on the floor. The rain was forcing his eyes to blink as it hit his eyelids, but otherwise he seemed quite in control.

Yet still, he did not speak.

Harry's fingers curled in an effort to keep himself from ripping apart the bars and licking each drop of water off of that man's forehead, tasting his skin, and begging forgiveness with his mouth, not using words because they would surely be thrown back at him.

He pressed his face against the metal. There was no help for it.

"Please," he begged, having no idea what he was asking for.

Voldemort did not move and gave no indication that he wanted to. That he had even heard Harry.

"I'm sorry," Harry whispered, and he closed his eyes because Merlin, what a paltry offering after what the man looked like.

What an insult and Voldemort clearly thought so too as he remained aloof and silent.

"I missed you so much," Harry breathed, and he wasn't even sure if the sound would carry over the pattering of the rain on the metal cage.

Harry opened his eyes and brought them slowly up to meet that red gaze.

There was nothing but disgust and loathing on the pale, wonderful face. It was like going back in time to when they'd been enemies.

Harry flinched. He removed his hands from the bars and sat back on his heels.

It's over.

He hates me.

Harry knew this had been a likely outcome, but seeing those eyes that had once held warmth and affection, that had crinkled with a genuine smile or blazed with protectiveness for him… to see those expressive eyes be now blank and cold hollowed out his chest.

He had lost.

After all they had been through, after all his work to build brittle trust in a man who trusted no one, this was how it ended.

Harry closed his eyes and nodded his head.

"Okay," Harry said, forcing the word over the sound of the rain, his eyes still closed. "I know you hate me," his voice trembled on that word, "and I get it. I should have come sooner."

Harry opened his eyes and met that scathing stare.

"You came to the Ministry that day to save me. You killed Kingsley to protect me." Harry gave a bitter laugh. "In your own crazy, Dark Lord way. You killed the guards, too. To keep me safe."

Harry unconsciously reached his hand into his pocket and touched the metal. The buzz of connection shocked him and he let go.

"But Ron," Harry whispered, and closed his eyes again, his voice disappearing.

There was no coming back from Ron.

Harry saw a flash of Ron trying to drag him back from Voldemort, yelling at him to leave and then another flash of his red face frothing and those blue eyes going vacant.

Harry was aware that this was the moment that Voldemort should apologize. It was a frail hope, but surely, even the Dark Lord could understand that Harry needed to hear it. He had attempted an apology before, he could do it again, knowing how much this had killed Harry.

Because they were both betrayed, both hurt by the other. Harry should have fought to protect Voldemort, but Ron should never have been taken.

"I know he put that collar on you," Harry said, wrapping his arms around his body. "I know. I know that was unforgivable in your eyes. But he was my best friend."

Harry opened his eyes, trying to find some contrition or remorse in the other man.

"Do you understand? He was my first friend, he was everything. He was— and you took him from me, strangled him slowly right in front of me. That wasn't an accident. That was murder and— and—"

Harry spun and pressed his back against the bars. He was hyperventilating, gulping in air and water as he tried to control himself.

The Dark Lord did nothing. No words, no excuses even.

"How can I forgive that?" he muttered, more to himself, when he could speak again.

His voice was small and he refused to let Voldemort see him crying.

He waited, eyes closed, but it was clear that Voldemort was not going to apologize to him. He did not regret his actions nor their effect on Harry.

Any hope he had was destroyed.

As much as he knew there could be no future for him and Voldemort, as much as he knew he was not here to rescue the man, he had still harboured a secret longing that Voldemort would beg forgiveness, would express regret and Harry would be overcome with sympathy, and maybe, just maybe there would have been a way forward for them.

What a joke.

Clearly, Voldemort did not feel the same way.

Obviously.

Only an idiot would expect the Dark Lord Voldemort to be capable of loving someone.

Everyone had always said it was impossible.

And if it wasn't, then Harry had evidently not made the cut. The man had seemed to feel something. Concern, perhaps. Lust, without question.

But love?

Harry reached his hand into his pocket, turned around, and dropped the Horcrux onto the floor of the cage.

"I don't feel right keeping this," he said slowly, fighting the vicious impulse to seize it back.

He looked up and quickly drew in a sharp breath of wet air.

Voldemort's gaze was burning, his eyes boring into Harry's. Harry grabbed onto the bars with one hand to keep himself from crumbling. There was fury there, but what caught him was the misery. The defeat.

Then he felt the mental intrusion, the gentle press of Voldemort entering his mind and he flinched violently back.

"Don't do that!" Harry shouted, breaking eye contact. "I told you I don't like that! You have no right!"

He looked back at the Dark Lord, who was watching him with a frustrated expression on his swollen face.

"If you want to know something," Harry spat, "just fucking ask me like a normal person."

He waited, panting, for Voldemort to say something, but the man kept his silence. Harry grimaced, letting out a mocking laugh.

"Didn't think so," he said, shaking his head. "You've always been much better at taking than asking."

Harry ran a hand through his hair, blowing out a long breath.

"I'm an idiot for believing in you, Voldemort. I keep expecting you to change or want to…" his voice dropped in embarrassment, "…want to be with me. But I think it's time for me to accept that you don't want that. You won't even speak to me, which is childish beyond imagining."

He stared pointedly at the Dark Lord, giving him a last chance to stop this rupture, to prove that he actually felt something real, that he wanted to save whatever it was that they had.

Harry closed his eyes.

"I love you," he whispered.

And that was all he had to give.

Harry waited in pained anticipation for long moments, holding his breath, his whole body frozen, listening for the barest hint of… something.

But Voldemort remained silent, didn't want what Harry had to offer, so Harry would leave before things got even more pathetic. Before he shook the cage and demanded why Voldemort didn't say it back, why he hadn't even acknowledged Harry throwing his heart out onto the bloody wet floor of his cage, why he had to be so fucking stubborn and proud and unmovable, why he—

Harry bit his lip hard, until he tasted copper. He sighed.

Enough.

Enough, now.

Harry stood.

He pushed the rain off his face, ignoring the crumbling of his heart, the choking despair and desperation, the scalding anger that this was how it was going to end, that he was going to have to leave it here and never get to hold the man again, never get to wake up wrapped in his arms or taste his skin, or kiss his eyelids or his belly or his feet, would never get to call him Master again or—

Cold fingers abruptly gripped his shoulder and— that touch!

His vision swam and a sob ripped its way out of his throat. It was like doing a Wronski Feint without a broom, or like dying, it was—

Electricity.

Harry spun, heart thundering, to see Lord Voldemort suddenly towering over him, staring with an intense, determined gaze.

Harry felt fingers brush his hand and broke eye contact to look down and see Voldemort press the tiny metal ring into his open palm.

Harry looked back up, searching those red orbs for a hint of what this meant. Surely he'd understood why Harry couldn't keep his Horcrux, not after confessing everything, after practically begging for an apology and being denied—

The hand touching his fingers drew back, but Harry grabbed it before it disappeared, clutching those delicate digits and refusing to relinquish them again.

"Why?" Harry whispered.

Voldemort stared at him, his gaze penetrating, but offering no clue as to what was going on.

"Please," Harry rasped, reaching his other arm through the bars and gripping the man around the back of his neck, drawing his head towards him.

Voldemort let him, leaning down and closing his eyes. Harry pressed their foreheads together and felt complete for the first time in ages. In the pouring rain, clinging to frozen, slippery skin, his whole body trembling in tandem with the other man's.

It was never just about the damn soul.

"The fuck?"

An unfamiliar voice spoke derisively from behind him and Harry spun around to see a younger man frozen outside of one of the buildings, wand out.

Harry shifted his body, standing directly in front of Voldemort. Shielding him.

"Why were you hugging him?" the man asked, pointing vaguely behind Harry. "Do you know who he is? He's the Dark Lunatic."

Harry felt his hands curl into fists and he slipped one of them into his pocket to drop the Horcrux and grip his wand.

"What's it to you?" Harry asked.

The man's eyes narrowed and then flew wide.

"Sodding hell!" he cried, pointing at Harry with the index finger on his empty hand. "You're Harry Potter!"

Harry snorted.

"Well spotted."

The man lowered his hand and tilted his head, like he was trying to make sense of something.

"But then…" he began, "why…? You were hugging him, weren't you?"

Harry stood straight, refusing to speak.

The man screwed up his face in disgust.

"Merlin, you're not a queer are you? I thought you were with that red-haired bint."

"Get lost," Harry spat.

The man stared at him for a moment and then began to laugh. Harry's hackles rose murderously.

"I have as much right to be here as you," the man said, getting bolder after apparently confirming that Harry was indeed gay. "You can't order me anywhere, fucking faggot."

The man ambled over and Harry kept his body between him and the cage. No one would be touching Voldemort, not a fucking chance.

"So what were you doing, Mr Potter?" the man asked, sneering. "Come for a quick shag? I see his face has been smashed in, was that your work? But then, no. You seemed to be snogging him, more like."

The man ran his fingers over the outside of his own mouth.

"Wonder what the Prophet would do with that information? The Boy Who Lived Caught Cuddling With He Who Must Not Be Loved."

The fool laughed again.

Harry removed his wand, holding it ready in his right hand. The man saw this and laughed harder.

"Whatchu gonna do?" he mocked, spreading his arms wide. "I've got every right to be here. I can hit him with the Cruciatus, rip him open with a knife… I can grab him by the dick and make him suck mine, too. Maybe that's more to your interest."

Harry raised his wand.

"Touch him and I'll kill you," Harry whispered, adrenaline surging through him.

No fucking way was he going to stand by and watch Voldemort be abused.

The man stopped laughing. He looked shocked, but then raised his own wand.

"Think he's yours, do you? Well, I've got news for you. I live right there," he nodded over his shoulder, "and I've already had this freak daily for months. Every day, before and after work, I say hello. Sometimes with my wand, other times I like to see him bleed."

The man took another step forwards.

"And you ain't gonna stop me."

"The hell I'm not," Harry muttered through his teeth, and then hit the man with a nonverbal Stupify.

He watched the body fall to the ground. His heart was hammering as he walked over to the horizontal man and kicked his wand away.

"I fought the most powerful Dark wizard alive almost every year of my adolescence," Harry said, standing over him. "Did you seriously think you were going to scare me?"

Harry hauled the man to his feet and propped him against the wall of the building.

"Obliviate!" he said, and then opened the door the man had emerged from with a silent Alohomora.

He pushed the body inside, said, "Finite," and then slammed the door shut.

He turned back to Voldemort, who was watching him with trepidation.

They stared at each other.

"I can't leave you here," Harry muttered, suddenly realizing this.

Fuck.

When he left, Voldemort would be subjected to all this horror again. With no one to protect him.

He would be rented out to be mutilated, degraded— raped. How much longer could this man endure such treatment until his mind was lost, until his keen intelligence fled and all that was left was a traumatized shell?

Harry considered his options. He had not come here tonight intending to free the man immediately. This evening was supposed to just be recon.

Percy was already suspicious of his relationship with Voldemort. As was Robards. Although the rain had allowed them some privacy for this conversation, he wasn't so naïve as to think that the Minister didn't have spies watching at all times.

Someone will have seen him here and if Voldemort disappeared, Harry would have to run with him. He would be the prime suspect and once they brought in his ex-fiancée and his best friend for questioning, the two would talk under threats to their families or reputations, he was certain.

So this was it. He was—

"Go," that high, unforgettable voice said suddenly, shocking him out of his thoughts.

Harry's eyes snapped back to Voldemort, still reeling from the sound of that wonderful, if slightly odd-sounding voice.

Then Harry realized what he'd said.

"Go?" Harry repeated. "What do you mean?"

Voldemort kept his swollen lips pressed together and just stared at him, his eyes hungry yet agonized.

Harry walked back over to him, but before he could touch him, as his fingers were twitching to do, that devastating voice spoke again.

"Go."

Harry stopped.

"You want me to leave."

Harry waited for more, but Voldemort apparently had nothing else to say to him.

"Did you even hear what I said?" Harry asked, voice just on the right side of hysterical. "Do you even fucking care?"

Harry saw Voldemort's long fingers grip the bars, his translucent eyelids fluttering closed. But Harry refused to pity him.

"Jesus. So that's all, is it? Go. That's all you have to say."

Harry walked right up to the bars. Voldemort's eyes flashed open and he stumbled back a step. That horrible HALF-BLOOD wound carved into his chest caught the meagre light and Harry's attention was momentarily seized, but he was angry. He had a right to be angry.

"How about I'm sorry?" Harry pressed, ignoring the way Voldemort was staring, the way his eyes showed a depth of feeling that his silence contradicted. "How about reacting to me saying that I fucking love you? Anything to say about that?"

Harry pressed his face against the bars, raising his eyebrows as high as they would go.

Voldemort stood there— naked, drenched, battered, and alone.

Silent.

Harry took a step back, feeling suddenly exhausted. Defeated.

"You want me to go."

Voldemort held his eyes for long moments and Harry felt like the man's blazing red irises were trying to communicate so much with him, but Harry had no idea what they were saying.

Voldemort broke their gaze and looked down at the ground. Then he inclined his head once, the barest hint of a nod.

Harry huffed out a breath, utterly bankrupt.

"Fine," Harry breathed.

And he Disapparated.

.

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Voldemort was startled awake, aware of only his agonized mouth and the hands all over him, touching and pinching and pulling at him. He flinched, wanting to beg, but knowing it would be impossible so instead he keened, pulling his legs up and tucking his arms into the hollow between his concave belly and his bony knees.

His eyes were squeezed shut, trying to block out the noise; it was deafening and the hands were pushing him down, turning him, positioning him—

And suddenly Grayson was there, smiling down on him from above.

"You're such an eager little whore, Tom," the cretin murmured, his fingers reaching down and pinching his nipples, but when Voldemort looked down his entire chest was ripped open, his skin peeled back, his ribs cracked and broken to expose his black and shrivelled heart, which was beating furiously, but also dripping blood, so much blood—

A sharp slap sent his face crashing into the bars and he slipped in all the blood that was rushing down his chest in huge cascades, how was it possible so much blood could emanate from—

Another blow on the same cheek and his vision began to darken. His dry throat clicked as he attempted to swallow and his pounding head became clouded and weighed more than the rest of him and he was falling—

But he was on the top of a cliff, and it was the Rupe Tarpea and Harry had shoved him off and as he fell from the staggering height, one hundred feet at least, he heard Harry say, "It's for traitors, after all, you lot never see your fall coming," and he did not, he was plunging to his death, it was—

Someone was shaking his shoulders and this time, it felt real. Voldemort tried to grasp the feeling, tried to focus, but then Walker was pushing him down, his sweaty adipose form crushing the air from his lungs, he was unable to expand his ribs, and he was—

"Riddle!" someone shouted, and he knew that name, but surely no one would dare—

And then his father was there, seated at his decadent dinner table with Voldemort's worthless grandparents and they were all ignoring him, refusing to acknowledge his existence, refusing to believe who he was despite the fact that they looked exactly the fucking same and he was mortified and furious and irrationally hurt and then they were dead and he felt nothing, nothing because they were nothing, but he was extraordinary—

Ice-cold water crashed over him and he gasped around the surge, opening his eyes and seeing, really seeing where he was.

In his cage, midmorning.

Laying on his back, naked, and just now emerging from those abhorrent fallacious hallucinations. He was always left disorientated afterwards, but he fought to stay coherent.

He sat up gingerly, panting, and surveyed the masses gathered around him. The Minister was there, as were a few of the regular Aurors who worked security detail. He scanned the crowd, which was a task he normally avoided, but he had to know.

You will never be vulnerable like that again, I promise.

The boy's words constantly haunted him, mocking him. A lie. It had all been a lie.

Potter was nowhere to be found and, if the Minister with his lackeys were present, that meant Voldemort was to be brought before another vengeful, barbarous adversary.

And Potter was letting it happen. More promises from the boy and then— after hearing the one word Voldemort's ruined mouth could utter, Potter was convinced to abandon his feeble efforts.

A memory grabbed him of how the boy's face had crumpled, the way that damned hand had gripped over his heart as if he were holding it from shattering apart. Although Voldemort despised the gesture, he could admit that he shared the sentiment.

It had hurt to let the boy go.

Yet watching those stubborn verdant eyes oscillate as he had so obviously constructed desperate methods to liberate him had spawned another uncomfortable but critical urgency to protect the reckless idiot. Potter had been about to throw himself into action with no plan, no strategy, and that same impulse that had landed him here rose up in him once more to shield the boy from himself.

If Potter had stayed or emancipated him then the boy would have lost the little he had left. His job, his allies, perhaps even his freedom.

The illogical impetus to put another's safety over his own was unsettling. Dangerous. It—

"Get up," one of the Aurors growled, but Voldemort internally laughed at the idea that he would be able to rise unaided after the thrashing he had recently received.

He was kept on the cusp of death but, since they had discovered they could not kill him, they were careful not to advertise that he was immortal.

The only solace was that they always healed him before these encounters. His mouth was agony and it would be a relief to have his teeth back.

"Just levitate him and let's get on with it," the Minister muttered, and then Voldemort was hoisted into the air.

"But you just brought him back!" someone shouted, as Voldemort's body drifted above the angry mob.

"Where is he off to?"

"Leave him here, I already took the morning off work!"

"Make way!" the Minister called, sounding irritated.

Voldemort lowered his eyes against the indignity, cataloging each and every face and vowing that they would all die by his hand when this was finally over.