Chapter 32

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On the morning of his trial, the Interim Minister, Jeffers, contacted Harry for a private meeting. He was due to face him in court that afternoon, so Harry was very confused as to what the man could possibly want. Unless it was to threaten him or coerce him to say or not say certain things to get an easier sentence.

Hermione had asked to be there for the meeting, or even simply to have a lawyer present, but Harry didn't really care at this point. He was ready to confront whatever was thrown at him. Nothing really scared him anymore.

When footsteps approached, he stood up, blanking his features and taking in a deep breath.

The man stopped once in sight, his gaze sweeping Harry in a strange way. He opened the cell door, entered, and then leaned against the bars.

"Jeffers," Harry acknowledged, confused by the man's silence.

Jeffers folded his hands.

"Mr Potter," the man inclined his head. "There has been a change in plans. I will argue your case and see to it that you are cleared of all charges."

Harry's muscles spasmed.

"What?"

Jeffers quirked his lips in a bewildering smile.

"I am sure that this is confusing. I am here to ensure that you will comply with my terms."

Harry paused and then let out a bitter laugh.

"Terms. Of course." Harry sat back down. "Alright, what do I have to sign away to receive this facade of mercy?"

He wasn't an idiot. The man was likely just here to taunt him. To offer the illusion of freedom and then laugh in his face when he could rip it away.

I should just tell him to stuff his terms up his arse, the pious little git.

"My terms are these," Jeffers said, smirking in his usual manner. "Firstly, you keep your mouth closed in court unless I directly ask you to speak, and then you may answer only the questions I put forth to you."

Harry frowned, suspicious.

"No way, why would I—"

"Ah ah," Jeffers said reprovingly, with a shake of his finger in Harry's face. "Listening now. My second term is that you will back me up regardless of the truthfulness of my statements and trust that I have a plan."

Harry made a noise of disgust.

"Why would I trust you? I don't trust you, there's no way I'm just going to—"

"Silencio," Jeffers said, his wand suddenly in his hand and the rest of Harry's diatribe lost sound.

He dropped his jaw in shock and then glared at the other man, taking a step forward with his fists balled.

"I wouldn't attack me if I were you, Mr Potter," Jeffers said, casting a pitying look at Harry's clenched hands. "I am, after all, the Minister and you are a criminal."

Harry felt himself shudder in enraged disbelief at the man's audacity.

"Now then, my third term— and remember that I am here to help you, so it would be wise not to come any closer."

Harry paused, eyebrow raised, and Jeffers took that as compliance.

"Thank you. Now, my third and final term is that you agree to follow me after we walk out of here, though I will not be telling you where we are going. You will have to trust me, yet again."

Harry opened his silenced mouth, but before he could even gnash his teeth, Jeffers folded his arms and continued.

"Trust, Mr Potter, is what I ask of you right now. I will get you free, but you will have to follow me and not interrupt or gainsay what I put forth. Can you do that? A nod will do, or, of course, a shake of your head if you will not and then I will happily Obliviate you and sign the parchment to send you to Azkaban."

Harry stared at him, anger and incredulity burning in him… but also a timid hope that he hadn't felt for weeks. Jeffers obviously wasn't doing this for free and if anyone was trying to break Harry out it was either Hermione or Voldemort.

Likely, Hermione because Harry knew Voldemort's usual modus operandi was to kill not converse. He would have just broken in and taken Harry away.

But then, that technique hadn't worked very well for the Dark Lord last time, had it? And the Ministry was probably the very last place Voldemort would willingly go now, considering what he'd suffered here.

Jeffers had both eyebrows raised, clearly still waiting for Harry's response. When he remained silent, Jeffers sighed and released him from his spell.

"Who sent you?" Harry asked, realizing he was parroting Voldemort's words from a few weeks prior.

Jeffers smiled again, smug and arrogant and Harry wanted so badly to punch him.

"I am not at liberty to tell you, I'm afraid."

Harry blew out a snort, turning away.

"Ridiculous."

"This is your only chance to get out of here."

"Or you could be setting me up."

Harry turned to see his reaction to that, but the man just rolled his eyes.

"What could be worse than Azkaban?"

Harry laughed darkly.

"Oh, you must be an innocent to believe there is nothing worse."

He was thinking, of course, about what Voldemort had gone through. He was certain that the Dark Lord would have gratefully chosen Azkaban over what he'd endured.

"Trust me or don't, but your time is up. I can only do so much, after all."

Harry felt adrenaline surge through him. He didn't want to go to Azkaban.

That being said, he would have to be a gullible tit to walk into what was so obviously a trap.

"Tell me who sent you and I will do it."

Jeffers pressed his lips together and shrugged, turning back to the door.

"Oh well. I tried."

And Harry, being the obstinately gullible tit that he was, took a step forward.

"Wait."

What did he have to lose?

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The Obscuro charm was fucking annoying.

Jeffers had required Harry to have it cast upon him before he'd bring him to their super-secret final destination. After he'd grudgingly complied, Harry had been taken by portkey to wherever the hell they were now, in some old, sodding house that was cold and smelled like firewood and mildew.

He was pushed over the threshold and tripped over a bunched-up rug, still blindfolded from that godforsaken spell.

He stumbled and crashed into a side table of some sort, which hurt his knee and he hissed, bringing his hands down to grab onto the wood.

"Jesus, Jeffers, you can use your words, you know," Harry spat, turning to face the door where he assumed the other man was. "Tell me where to go, don't just bloody shove me."

He heard a snort.

"So long, Potter," Jeffers drawled and then the unmistakable sound of a door clicking shut alerted him to the fact that he was now alone.

Maybe.

But where the fuck was he? They had Apparated here straight from the Ministry, after the Wizengamot's vote had miraculously granted him freedom. After, too, he had completed the mountains of paperwork and had been given back his wand and possessions.

Astonishingly, Jeffers had spun a tale of Percy's jealousy for the court; of his preoccupation on vengeance (as evidenced by his treatment of both Harry and Voldemort), and his rapid decline into the mania that had led to his obsession with slandering Harry.

Jeffers had hardly asked Harry to speak at all and perhaps the most shocking thing was that Harry had been given fake Veritaserum before being asked questions that would have destroyed him without it.

Are you responsible for setting Tom Marvolo Riddle, alias the Dark Lord Voldemort, free? Have you been in contact with Tom Marvolo Riddle, alias the Dark Lord Voldemort, for any length of time after the Battle of Hogwarts? Were you, at any time, involved romantically or sexually with Tom Marvolo Riddle, alias the Dark Lord Voldemort?

But he had been able to lie. And now, he was free.

None of their pertinent evidence had survived, none of their witnesses had been able to testify, and his lies under the fake truth serum had made his innocence unquestionable.

He was free.

Except, that he wasn't.

He was blind and in a room that may or may not be empty. About to meet his saviour.

He was reminded of the incident years prior, before he had known of Voldemort's survival, when he had almost been kidnapped by one of his fans who had wanted to keep him prisoner in their house. So I can keep you safe, the man had whispered into Harry's ear. Like you kept us safe. That man had been mental. Was it possible that the same person had orchestrated this?

There was a tension in the air. Harry felt like he was being watched. He knew he should find the wall and feel around to see how big the room was. Make a sound to test the acoustics. Say something, anything, to invite anyone present to engage with him.

But his instincts had him staying silent. Unmoving. Waiting.

Hermione wouldn't bring him here like this.

There was only one person so paranoid. So dramatic.

And he knew that that man was pissed at him.

Harry widened his sightless eyes to see if he could perceive shapes or shadows. He sniffed the air and tried to listen, but nothing gave away any indiction of where he was or if he was alone. He knew Voldemort could be effortlessly silent, like when he'd eavesdropped on private conversations back at his flat. He was an unapologetic voyeur.

So, Harry waited, clutching that table stupidly for as long as he could.

Which wasn't really that long. He was exhausted. Anxious. And so very done with all this shit.

"What the fuck, Voldemort," he cursed, still looking around pointlessly.

There was no response, but Harry wasn't an idiot.

"I know you're here."

He waited. Still nothing.

"I know you paid off Jeffers or Imperiused him or something."

Silence.

"I also know you destroyed the evidence, threatened the witnesses… You probably manipulated Percy or cursed him to make him act so weird about me, too. All so I could be delivered to your doorstep like a goddamn mail-order broomstick."

Harry waited, listening. The quiet just fuelled his fury.

"Give me back my eyesight."

Nothing.

Harry was ready to unleash his magic. He had his wand now, but Finite hadn't worked on this cursed blindfold when he'd tried it at the Ministry and he was reluctant to cast anything more on his own face without being sure. Hermione could help him. Maybe he should try and Apparate.

And then that voice broke the silence, torturously slow and enunciating each word.

"My mail-order broomstick."

Fuck.

It was the fatigue that seized his legs and almost brought him to his knees, not that high, wondrous susurration. Not the sound of it so close, so arrogant and amused.

"Voldemort," Harry whispered.

"Harry."

His heartbeat was thundering.

"Where are we," he asked weakly.

"You are in my home."

Merlin. In his home. Why did that make him feel sentimental instead of scared?

"Give me back my sight," Harry demanded with as much courage as he had.

Voldemort hummed darkly.

"No."

He fought the surge of arousal that swept through him at being denied. It had been so long.

"You left me there," Voldemort said, suddenly closer.

His tone was menacing, shimmering with suppressed violence. Harry felt his skin erupt in goosebumps.

"You do not deserve my mercy," the Dark Lord stated, "when you gave me none of yours."

"I'm so sorry," Harry breathed, closing his sightless eyes against the emotion in the other man's voice.

What more could he say? He wanted to explain how every time he had started to make a plan to go to him, Ron's face would materialize and remind him of why he had not yet gone. Why he couldn't.

"I have protected you from Azkaban," Voldemort went on dangerously. "Before that, I came to you when the Minister would have stripped you of everything."

"You killed Ron," Harry said defensively, and he wished he could see, wished he could read what was on that man's face. What those expressive eyes were saying. "You killed my best friend."

Silence. Harry felt himself trembling. He wrapped his arms around his chest to try and keep himself together.

"That night," Voldemort said, his voice odd. Stiff. "When you appeared in the rain."

Harry, his eyes still closed, saw that evening clearly in his mind. He felt the precipitation on his face, the cold metal bars in his hands. He remembered confessing his feelings and receiving nothing in return.

"Percy said your… mouth." Harry opened his eyes and tried to see something, but all was dark. "He said you had been hurt. Badly. That you were unable to speak."

Say something, please give me something—

"I wanted to respond," Voldemort muttered, his voice low. "I was… regretful. That I could not."

Harry gripped the wood tighter as his legs suddenly felt shaky.

Regret.

Regret.

He's sorry.

"What would you have said?"

The silence was pressing on his ear drums. He let go of the table and took a step towards where the voice was coming from. It sounded close. Two steps. Three. He raised his hands and spread them out, hoping to connect with that solid chest.

"Harry," Voldemort almost groaned, his voice strained, and then fingers grasped his.

Harry gasped. He stumbled forward and collapsed against the body suddenly pressing against him, holding him up, holding him together.

Fingers carded through his hair and grasped it firmly, guiding his head back and Harry melted into the embrace. He let his hands roam over whatever he could touch, feeling with his fingers what he could not see with his eyes.

He touched that face, the smooth, soft skin around his mouth. The back of his head, so bare and vulnerable. He ran his fingers down that long, lithe column and delighted at the nakedness of it, free from metal.

"Let me take you," Voldemort hissed against his forehead, hot breath searing his skin.

Yes, take me.

Harry moaned, whipping his head forward and accidentally knocking it hard against Voldemort's face.

The Dark Lord drew in a sharp breath and then his magic suddenly snapped and Harry was rendered completely immobile.

Shit, that must have hurt him.

Voldemort removed Harry's pliant fingers from his shoulders and disengaged. Harry couldn't see, couldn't speak, couldn't move.

He heard the other man breathing shallowly. Erratically.

"You despise me for your friend, Harry," Voldemort said roughly. "I killed him. I know you will not understand. But he dared to force me back…"

Voldemort trailed off and Harry would have surrendered his own magic to see what the man's eyes were telling him.

"Perhaps you will not understand, but I would have done anything to protect myself from ever going back there. He condemned me. He…"

Harry felt Voldemort's magic surge against his skin and then he heard several big things shatter in the room they were in.

"This detestable conditioning I have," Voldemort growled, his voice agonized and thin, "my reactions to pain now, my fear— You see it. This is what is left of me after what was done. I am not seeking your pity, remove that look from your face."

Harry tried to smooth his features, but his chest ached with sorrow.

"You will not understand. Your loyalty is to your friends."

He sounded so resigned, so defeated. Harry wanted to shout that if that had been the case, almost nothing that had occurred between them would have happened. His loyalty was clearly displayed, if Voldemort would only look.

"I… feared to return," Voldemort continued, his voice quiet. Faltering. "And I killed him for it. You would want me to regret it and I do, but not for the life I took. He deserved to die for making me… endure what I did. If I feel remorse, it is for what my actions have done to you. To… us. I am mourning the loss of your regard."

Merlin. How could the man be so bloody blind? Ron would always be a wound between them, but Harry had so longed to hear these words from his lips. Though it was not the apology he'd sought, the man was at least able to recognize that he had made a mistake.

"I am not asking for your forgiveness," Voldemort said scathingly, "because I do not forgive you for leaving me there. We have much between us to regret. I am asking simply that you allow yourself to see this situation through my eyes, if only for a moment. When he snapped that collar onto me I felt rage such as I have not felt in years. But I also felt terror. I did not want what that collar promised me."

Harry closed his sightless eyes. Voldemort sounded vulnerable in a way the abuses he had suffered had never really made him seem. Of course Harry knew it had been hell for the man, but to hear him actually express his fear was both painful to listen to and yet also heartening because the Dark Lord was able to suffer. He was human enough to be emotionally affected and self-aware enough to identify his emotions and articulate them.

Harry forced himself to keep listening, wanting to hear every word.

"I have never hidden who I am. What I am capable of. He dealt me a death blow and thus I returned it in kind."

Harry hated this reminder, this horrible topic.

"I cannot explain it, you cannot fathom what I have survived. I struggle to command my Death Eaters. I cannot sleep nor clothe myself nor eat a meal without being forced back to—"

Harry waited, desperate to know.

"I cannot escape it. Not even in my waking hours."

The man's voice was bitter, full of anguish. Harry tried desperately to move, to reach out and touch him, but he was still forced to be motionless. Helpless to merely listen in aching, inadequate silence.

"I am fatally wounded."

He heard Voldemort slowly stalk away, his footsteps receding, and then a door was slammed closed. When it did, Harry was given back his sight and control of his body.

Immediately, he ran across the room, not even taking in his surroundings, and whipped open the door. He saw Voldemort's black robes disappear through a doorway and then that door banged shut.

He ran down the hall, stopping right in front of where the Dark Lord had disappeared. He tried the handle, but it was obviously locked. He banged on the old, stained-black wood.

"Let me in!"

No answer. Harry wanted to scream in frustration.

"Voldemort, let me in! You can't just say shit like that and then run away!"

Nothing.

Harry was done being ignored. He pulled out his wand and tried to blast a hole through the door, but his spell just got absorbed into the wood. He tried setting it on fire, shrinking it, tried picking the lock, but once he began to kick it with his feet, he recognized that he would not be getting in without Voldemort's permission.

He kicked the door again anyways.

"What the fuck are you even doing? Talk to me! Stop hiding in your room!"

He roughly jostled the knob like he expected the damn thing to suddenly be open. Shockingly, it wasn't.

"You can't just… It's not on to just say shit like that and then disappear!"

The door remained unyielding and Harry growled in frustration.

"So this is it? This is how this conversation is going to end? After all the time we've been apart? After everything?"

Harry waited, hopeful and yet completely unsurprised when no response came.

"What about what you promised me? What about what you showed me with Legilimency? Was any of that true?"

Those images had been his safe haven whenever he had allowed himself to think of the man while in prison. Voldemort had still wanted him, had offered to teach and treasure him.

But maybe things had changed for the Dark Lord since then. Maybe some distance had soured his feelings. This possibility was shattering. He couldn't lose him, not after everything they'd been through.

"Please. We have to talk about this."

Harry closed his eyes and reached out a hand, placing it flat on the door. He thought back to what Voldemort had said. His defence.

"I heard you. I understand why you did it. Ron, I mean. I understand. But… well, that doesn't really change anything. Can't you see? You can't just kill my best friend and then expect me to get over it."

As much as he wanted to.

Merlin.

"I'm sorry for head butting you in the face. I hate that you still suffer flashbacks and whatever else from the trauma you went through. I'm so sorry I didn't come for you sooner. I know you'll never forgive me for leaving you there, and… well, it fucking breaks my heart, but I get it. I don't deserve your forgiveness for that. Whatever I felt about Ron… I shouldn't have left you there."

There was so much poison between them, so many actions they could never take back or apologize for. Was it possible to move on with a person when neither were able to forgive? Was understanding and acceptance enough?

Harry sighed, turning around and leaning heavily against the door. He knew that Voldemort was not comfortable with emotions or displaying vulnerability and the man now had a room in which he could hide. That door was not going to open anytime soon.

He should leave. Hermione was going to be frantic. He had to figure out what the fallout at work was going to be. Did he have a job still? Would anyone trust the outcome of that sham of a trial?

He thumped his head back against the wood.

He didn't want to leave. He looked down at his watch and saw that it was well after 4 am. Merlin, he was tired. Maybe he should just sleep here. Voldemort may already be sleeping. He could have a silencing charm on his door for all he knew and therefore hadn't heard a damn word Harry had been shouting at him.

He turned, giving one last, tentative knock. Quiet and defeated.

"Please. I just want to see you."

He whispered it, lips touching the door, eyes closed.

"Want to know something hilarious? I still fucking love you."

He smiled as tears welled in his eyes.

"And I can't stop."

He let the silence stretch for a pathetic amount of time and then forced himself to have some dignity. Clearly, he was making no impression on the other man and should just get the hell out of there.

He walked down the hall, longing and misery tightening his chest and making it feel like bubbling water was trying to burst out of his throat.

Harry walked past a room downstairs that had a couple of sofas and chairs. He stopped. He'd been looking for the front door, but now he couldn't go any farther.

He looked up at the ceiling.

Fuck.

He didn't know where Voldemort's home was. If Death Eaters had free access to it. What kind of protection the house had. Or even if the man lived alone.

But he couldn't leave. Not like this. They were at an impasse and if Harry left now it would tell Voldemort that none of what he'd said, what either of them had said, had mattered. It would tell him that he was finished.

But he wasn't.

As much as he should be, as much as Hermione would expect him to be, or whatever common sense dictated, he wasn't done here at all.

Voldemort had admitted that he had regretted killing Ron, and no, not because it was wrong like he should realize, but because it had hurt Harry. And that was a whole lot of something to cling to. Maybe Harry couldn't influence Voldemort's conscience, but the fact that Voldemort had considered the matter enough to know he regretted it, for whatever reason, was a start.

Was it enough to risk his heart again?

Because that was what he was doing. If he moved past his anger at Voldemort, if he accepted that the man had acted out of fear, out of desperation, that he regretted the murder… could he allow Voldemort close again?

Could there be a way forward for them?

Hermione would never approve, but he was done living his life for someone else. He'd done that. He had never wanted to be everyone's Saviour or be some kind of pinnacle of morality.

He just wanted to be loved and cherished.

Could Voldemort give him that? Would he want to?

Harry sighed. Who fucking knows. But he wasn't leaving until he found out.

He transfigured one of his socks into a blanket, curled up on the closest sofa, and prayed to Dumbledore that he wouldn't wake to find Bellatrix leering down at him.

.

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Voldemort sat on the edge of his untouched bed, fingers weaved in his lap, his head down. Thinking. He had remained thus for the entirety of the night.

His plan had been simple. Bring the boy home, make him see reason, and allow him to grovel.

Fuck him.

The angst-ridden episode that had unfolded had not been foreseen.

Harry's words had struck him hard. Again, the boy had mocked him for hiding and it had taken all of his dubious control not to drop the wards on his door and thoroughly correct the boy.

He had not been hiding.

His loathed conditioning had sprung up between them again and reminded him how utterly unprepared he was to undertake this task. He was unravelling.

His omnipotence had always been assured. Obvious. But now.

Now.

He could no longer ignore the symptoms of trauma that he was experiencing. If only to himself, if only in the dead of night with no one present to witness his uncertainty…

He was struggling.

And it was unacceptable. Inconceivable.

That he even had weaknesses was unthinkable, but that they were such trivial, humiliating issues was intolerable.

Eye contact. Unexpected touch. Abrupt noises.

Men.

Their voices, their smell. Seeing a rowdy group of his own servants together had recently left him breathless, heart pounding, and collapsing against the wall.

Bella had noticed. She had come to him and impudently placed a hand upon his arm, which had shocked a response from him that had almost levelled the room.

Enough.

He could feel it coming again.

Closing his eyes, he squeezed his hands together, forcing his mind back onto the tempest into which he threw everything he could.

Yet it was no longer sufficient. Too much had happened and he was powerless to dismiss it all.

Harry had denied him, refused his apology. He had not anticipated that. The boy was still determined to be upset about the Weasley child, unable to understand what that collar being snapped back onto him had done to his mental state.

That collar—

No.

He stood.

He would not think of it. He forced all the memories, the feelings, the rage to be hurled into the slamming waters in his mind, refusing to acknowledge them. This was all he knew how to do. Banish everything until he no longer felt. He was strong enough for that.

He lifted his head, taking a deep breath. His eyes fell upon the door.

Was the boy still here? Had he, perhaps, stayed despite the clear message that Voldemort had sent for him to disappear?

Was he willing to work through this with him?

Or had he fled? That was the most likely outcome. For all the words and sentiments expressed last night, the crux of it all was an impossible incompatibility. They may have pining and passion between them, but at the centre of it all was a value system that could not be reconciled.

Harry would never forgive him taking lives. The boy could not understand that this was the way that he operated, had always been. It was cleaner, simpler.

And Harry hated him for it.

He walked to the window and looked out at the lightening horizon. It was morning. He turned his back upon it.

It was an acceptable hour now to venture outside of his chambers and go see if the boy had vanished. If he had stayed. What it would mean, either way.

Instead, he found himself sitting once again on his bed, unsure of how he had gotten there.

Soon. But first, he would take a few more moments to arm himself against whatever awaited him beyond that door.

.

.

Harry's dream that he was eating the world's biggest apple was abruptly interrupted when he rolled over and fell off the sofa.

He landed with a gasp, somehow managing to pull out his wand in midair and point it uselessly at an empty doorway.

Then he looked around. Peeling wallpaper, old but expensive-looking furniture…

Ah yes.

He remembered being miraculously saved from jail. Reuniting with Voldemort, confessing his love again and then the juvenile tantrum that Voldemort had pulled.

No. That's not fair.

Voldemort had opened up last night. Harry had known that the man was suffering but hearing him actually talk about what had happened had meant a great deal. He had actively chosen to let Harry see his vulnerability. He had taken the time to explain his actions, seemingly desperate for Harry to understand. He had treated him like an equal, someone whose judgement he cared about.

That realization was staggering.

Harry had never felt more proud.

But was it enough?

Gingerly, he picked himself up off the floor and then slumped heavily onto the sofa, letting his head fall back. He closed his eyes, releasing a long breath.

He had to face Voldemort this morning. They had to talk, to figure out if there was any way forward for them.

If they could compromise. Accept the other as they were, or at least, accept them as a work-in-progress. Not perfect. Flawed.

Okay. Deeply flawed.

But willing to try.

Harry had to decide if he could handle aligning his life with one so dark. Voldemort would surely argue that Harry had known what he was getting himself into, falling in love with a Dark Lord, but Harry had not fallen in love with him, the evil, all-powerful sorcerer.

He had fallen in love with the man that had casually wiped Harry's tears before forcing him to protect himself from the guards, to Voldemort's own detriment. Who sometimes closed his eyes when eating, savouring the taste. The man who held him together, staying when Harry was falling apart. Who'd sacrificed a piece of his soul so that Harry could find balance. The one who had twice come to his rescue, in his own way, risking everything.

They were not the same man. And yet, somehow they were.

Voldemort would never be perfect, but Harry could recognize that the man was making a sincere effort. There was a battered sensitivity in him that Harry would never have predicted and it was startling and trembling and fragile.

Precious.

Harry wanted to nurture it. To get to know it.

And he would. He was ready to face him now. But first, he had to find the loo.