Chapter 39

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His magic thrashed around him as he paced before the hearth in his chambers. He pushed down the voices that dared to chide him that he should have known better than to trust, that the boy had been persuaded to change his mind. That he was injured.

Three days.

Each hour brought his thundering violence closer to being unable to restrain. Their shared parchment remained blank, even after Voldemort had commanded the boy to come home. Attempts to Apparate to his side had been unsuccessful, meaning either that the boy was dead— a nauseating lurch stole his breath whenever he accidentally considered this possibility— or that he was being held with incredible, impenetrable magic, on a scale that even he was unable to break through.

Anything could have happened in three days.

The possibilities reached up and grabbed him.

Harry, spread-eagled on a table while a faceless figure raped him as he screamed; Harry, naked and shivering, forced to cut off his appendages as a sea of vermin laughed; Harry, terrified and bleeding, his body quaking, alone and injured, alone and frozen, alone and alone and alone—

Voldemort's palms hit the floor, his head bowed, as he tried to master himself.

Nothing had been confirmed, his spies had nothing to report. The Minister was as clueless as each of his anxious Death Eaters.

There was no reason yet to slay every living creature.

The boy's face haunted him, sometimes smiling and carefree as Voldemort had recently seen him, or else in a rictus of agony, swollen and bloody, pleading for Voldemort to save him.

He threw out his arm with a yell and the charred remains of his desk ignited again into flame, the pushback of scalding wind against his face momentarily calming him.

Harry had to be safe.

Surely no one would be doing this to instigate an altercation with the Dark Lord. If this was a maneuver from the Ministry, it was an unwise one. No one survived Lord Voldemort's vengeful attention when provoked.

It was not—

He felt the call from one of his Death Eaters and immediately dropped the wards on his chambers so that they could Apparate to him.

Moments later, Thorfinn Rowle appeared and dropped at once to his knees, head bowed subserviently.

Voldemort dragged him closer with his magic, tearing into his mind to access the information without having to suffer through the man's conversation.

"Tell your Master we've got Potter," an unknown man in Ministry robes said to Rowle, in a dark room that Voldemort did not recognize.

"Why? What do you want with Potter? You're an Auror, aren't you?"

"Sure am. Tell him the Saviour needs saving."

Rowle snorted.

"It's your funeral."

The stranger grinned.

"Make sure he knows that if he doesn't get here fast, there won't be much left of Potter to rescue."

"Where?" Rowle asked, and the soon-to-be-dead worker smirked.

"He knows the place. Tell him to go to his home away from home in the Department of Mysteries. He can find Potter there."

Voldemort pulled out of Rowle's mind and shrieked, every piece of furniture in the room dissolving into dust.

The Purgatory Chambers.

Harry was being imprisoned there. Tortured. All as a lure to get Voldemort back.

There won't be much left of Potter to rescue.

Trust the boy to stumble from one fatal situation directly into another. Although Harry was the Master of Death and therefore was guaranteed immortality, he was required to unerringly possess the Hallows. When Bella had attacked him, the boy had not been Disarmed and therefore had retained his indestructibility.

But what about this time? Had they Disarmed Harry when they had captured him? Was he still safe?

It was with nauseating horror that he recognized that that was unlikely. The boy had been carrying his holly wand at the time; he would have fought and therefore it must be assumed that he had been overcome and had his wand taken.

Rendering him unprotected. Stripped of his invulnerable status.

Mortal once more.

And Voldemort was terminally familiar with how barbarous the Ministry could be.

"Master, please!" Rowle choked, and Voldemort looked down to see his servant's severely burned figure, his pink skin hanging off of him in places.

"Narcissa," Voldemort growled. "Go to her. I forbid you to die, Rowle."

He gathered his magic and sent the man to her, not even pausing to ponder how he had managed that feat. If Rowle perished, Voldemort would lose his magic.

Yet, where he was going, that was not going to be an issue.

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When he Apparated into the Atrium moments later, he vaguely noticed about a dozen people milling about, unaware that Harry was imprisoned here, ignorant to what Voldemort was about to do. Not one of them had a chance to raise any alarm, however, because he effortlessly incapacitated them all with the wave of his hand. Watching the bodies crumple to the floor, he strode purposefully towards the lifts, letting one take him further underground.

He emerged onto Level Nine and, ignoring the desperate warnings of his astounded intellect, walked swiftly through the empty black-tiled corridor to the entrance into the Department of Mysteries. Once through, he selected the correct door and, without allowing himself to hesitate, went inside.

It was empty.

He followed the stone hallway and then turned left, coming to the four prison cells shut tightly with old, heavy, wooden doors.

He paused.

If he did this, if he entered one of those cells, he would be vulnerable once again. He would not be able to access his magic. The runes on his skin were not powerful enough to counter such an old relic.

The strangled sound of a man groaning reached him and he swept down the row, heading for the last door. Taking his chance to use his magic for perhaps the last time, he burst it open.

Harry lay on the bare stone floor. Naked, his eyes closed, blood streaming down from his temple.

Voldemort sent his magic out to retrieve the boy, but it could not penetrate into the cell. He scanned the room and saw no one within but Harry.

He stepped inside.

At once, he felt his magic leave him, felt his body shift, taking it like a blow. Ignoring the terror surging through him, he bent down to lift the boy, ready to carry him out.

Metal grated against metal and Voldemort whipped around to see the door slamming shut behind him, trapping him in.

He held Harry's still body in his arms and understood at once, the perils of attachment. For, even vulnerable as he was, trapped as he was, he still felt as if he had won because he was with Harry again.

.

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Harry groaned, his head pounding, as he tried to fight the impulse to puke. His mouth filled with saliva and he swallowed it repeatedly, eyes shut tight in concentration.

Fuck it. Rolling over, he voided everything that had been in his roiling stomach and then thumped his head down, exhausted, next to the pile of sick.

Merlin.

Once he got his breathing under control, he tried to to figure out where he was. His memory was cloudy. He remembered talking to Hermione. In his flat. He had told her about Voldemort.

Then she said she was sorry and knocked me out.

"Hermione," he growled, opening his eyes and pushing himself up to sit.

He looked around. He was in a room he didn't recognize. It looked almost like a cell, except that it had a comfortable bed, a table with chairs and a soft rug on the floor. But the rough stone walls and floor left no doubt that he was no longer in a house.

It reminded him of a the cell that they had kept Voldemort in, except without the cell bars.

But why was he here?

Why would Hermione kidnap him? Harry's mind supplied lots of reasons why she would try and have him arrested, but surely if that was her endgame, he wouldn't have such comfortable accommodations.

Digging through his pockets he searched for his wand but, of course, it was gone. Why would she want him unarmed? It was almost impossible to believe that she would want to hurt him. She could let justice come to him, sure, but to actively attack and then imprison him just wasn't her style.

He pushed himself to standing. There was a door and he walked carefully towards it. He tried the handle, but it was locked.

"Hermione!" he shouted, banging on the thick wood. "Let me out! What the fuck are you doing?"

He paused, waiting to see if he could hear anything— and then he did. Footsteps were coming his way. He backed up from the door.

It opened and Hermione came in, wand out. She looked scared and worried, but her hand did not tremble as she held his gaze unflinchingly.

"Let me explain."

Harry laughed, because what the fuck? She wanted to justify this?

"I can't believe you'd do this, Hermione. I don't even know you anymore."

"I don't know you either, Harry!"

She came closer, but only by a few steps. He eyed her wand, wondering how hard it would be to attack her for it.

"You're suddenly announcing to the world that the Dark Lord Voldemort is your boyfriend? That he's just done being an evil Dark Lord? If that's not a cry for help, I don't know what is."

"You're right then, you don't know shit because I wasn't asking for help. I was telling someone I thought was my best friend a new development in my life."

"Harry," she said, and her tone changed. She was pleading, sad. "I need your help with something."

Harry glared at her, already afraid that he knew what she was going to ask for.

"I tried to get your help," she went on, her wand still pointed at Harry. "I didn't want to have to do it this way, but…" she bit her lip. "I think you're compromised. I think he's manipulating you. Maybe it's the Horcrux, but either way, you're not thinking right."

"You want to talk about what's right, Hermione? What about kidnapping me? What about imprisoning me? What—"

"He killed Ron!"

The sound of her scream echoed in his head long after it had died away. They stared at each other.

"I know," Harry rasped, his voice scraping up his tight throat. "I… I think he regrets it—"

"Oh Jesus, Harry, don't give me that nonsense! You seriously believe that the Dark Lord feels remorse for killing Ron?"

Harry nodded once, his fingers going slightly numb.

"He said he did."

Harry remembered that conversation.

If I feel remorse, it is for what my actions have done to you. To… us. I am mourning the loss of your regard.

Hermione wouldn't understand how precious that admission had been.

"Harry."

Hermione must have pocketed her wand because when she approached him now, both of her hands were out and she grabbed his and held them tight.

"Voldemort is not worth killing yourself trying to save," she said, her eyes boring into his. "You've forgotten that he is behind almost all of the misery that has happened to you. To me. To almost everyone in our world. It's okay to have pity for him, but to pledge yourself to a monster, even if it's to exercise some control over him… It's not right. There are better ways."

Harry was shaking his head, refusing her words.

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about," she went on. "We are going to use you to get him back here."

I knew it, I fucking knew it—

"No."

"Harry, listen to me—"

"No, you listen to me." Harry stepped right up to her, his face inches from hers. "You will not touch him. Do you understand me? You will not lay a hand on that man."

His body was shaking, imagining Voldemort enduring all those abuses again. The rapes, the whippings, the attempts at murdering him each day… the drowning, the amputations, the sexual assault…

Hermione made a whimpering sound and Harry realized that he had his fist wrapped around the material at her neck, gripping her aggressively. He released her. Backed up, but kept his eyes pinning her with his sincerity.

"I will not be fucking bait for you to bring him back here to torture again. I won't do it, I'd rather die. Hermione, if you force me to do this I will kill myself and that will be on you."

"Harry, please—"

"No. I will never forgive you—"

"And I will never forgive you for falling in love with the man who killed my husband!" Hermione shrieked, pushing him back with two hands on his shoulders.

He hit the wall and stayed there, just staring at her. She was panting, eyes streaming tears.

"How could you," she said brokenly. "How can you stand there telling me that you'd kill yourself to hurt me in defence of him?"

Hermione walked away, clearly struggling to rein in her tears. She turned her back to him.

"He deserves to die," she whispered hoarsely. "He is a monster. And you are too, Harry, if you can forgive him for all he has done."

"You don't know him," he denied, knowing she was wrong, but flinching from the words all the same. "You've never actually talked—"

"Stop defending him!" Hermione shouted, turning back to face him. "He killed Ron! What is wrong with you?"

Harry had no answer to that. None that she would understand, anyway. She didn't know him. She didn't get to see how reassuringly Voldemort held Harry after he beat him, or how patient he was as a teacher during their duelling lessons, or how he was willing to humiliate himself in front of the world by admitting that he was gay to keep Harry safe.

She didn't get to see the best parts of him, the parts he never showed to anyone else.

"Let me go, Hermione," he whispered, even as he knew it was useless to try and change her mind.

"I have to do this, Harry. We'll get him here, put a collar back on him, and keep him in the Purgatory Chambers until you are ready to kill him."

Harry's focus riveted to her face.

"I thought those cells drove a person insane? Aren't they not for long-term use?"

She regarded him with resolute, unapologetic eyes.

"He won't be there for long, Harry. I'm sorry, but you're not leaving until he's dead."

Harry felt his breath catch.

"I won't kill him," he rasped.

Hermione shrugged and walked back to the door.

"I'll have some food brought in. Don't try and escape, you would not believe how thoroughly this room is warded and there are two Aurors just outside if you miraculously manage it."

Harry panicked, following her to the door.

"Don't do this Hermione, please!"

The door opened and he dove for it, trying to push through, but a jet of red light hit him in the chest and he fell.