Chapter 40
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It had been almost two days and they had not yet come to liberate the boy.
This fact perplexed him but was also disconcerting. Voldemort had assumed that Harry had been intended as a hostage who would be released upon Voldemort's recapture. He had obviously not meant to get caught himself, but now that he had, it was baffling that the Ministry would elect to ignore the boy's condition.
Unless they had nefarious plans for him too.
Perhaps they sought to punish Harry for daring to desire men. Or they wanted vigilante justice regarding the charges put against him for his alliance with Lord Voldemort. Though that was unlikely, as Voldemort had not been aware— through Jeffers nor any of his other spies at the Ministry— that there had been any lingering suspicions about the boy.
It was even possible that one of his Death Eaters had broken their Vow not to speak about Voldemort's announcement and had told the Ministry about their connection, revealing Harry to be a traitor.
He would slaughter that person when he broke free, if that was the case.
The senseless herds of wizarding Britain would want blood if Harry's true nature had been discovered. They would despise their hero, and what was a more appropriate audience for their hatred than the man who had corrupted him?
Harry was in danger here, certainly more so than he himself. They had already brought Voldemort low, made him suffer for his crimes, but Harry was still unsullied.
And terrifyingly mortal.
He glanced behind himself to regard the unconscious boy.
Voldemort's arms had grown numb and sore after hours of holding him, so he had been forced to reluctantly place Harry against the back corner of the cell. He now crouched in front of him, shielding him with his body.
Pointless.
When they came, without access to his magic, they would take Harry easily no matter how he fought. Yet fight he would. Because it was clear that Voldemort was not their only target. Or even, perhaps, their primary one.
He absently stroked a finger down the boy's cheek, encountering a line of dried blood as he did so. It was difficult to see Harry so vulnerable. He did not know what they had given him to keep him asleep. His vitals seemed stable, despite the various wounds and bruises marring his perfect skin, but he had not stirred in all this time.
Perhaps they meant for him to simply starve to death while Voldemort watched helplessly. Powerlessly. Uselessly.
He shivered, his mind at once supplying him with images of what they could do to Harry, and he struggled to fight them, to push them back. He could feel the despair that was woven into the stones of this cell relentlessly wrapping around him, dragging him down, enticing him to give up, but he had someone to protect now. For Harry, he had to stay coherent. He could not succumb to the madness of the Purgatory Chambers because once he did, all would be lost.
The door suddenly opened and Voldemort— unthinkingly, incomprehensibly— took the offensive, running forward and smashing his fist into one of the men that had entered. The body fell, but then more followed, two shoving him against the wall, away from Harry, leaving the boy wide open and undefended.
He shouted something, trying to bite, but there were too many of them crowding the cell, all touching him and grabbing him— like Grayson, like Walker, thrusting their tongues in his nostrils, peeling off layers of his skin— restraining his arms and hands and laughing, mocking everything from his actions to his inability to protect Harry—
Harry.
He tried to stretch over their heads to see what had become of the boy, but there were too many of them and they had dragged him down the wall several inches. He shrieked words, but even he did not know what they were and no one heeded them anyways.
The first fist to smash into his face almost knocked him right out, but they were careful after that and concentrated on his body, ripping off his robes, slashing into his skin, snapping both of his ankles so that he crumbled to the floor.
Once there, he carelessly thrust aside his gurgling anguish and searched through the men's legs to scan for Harry. The corner where the boy had been was empty.
He roared, somehow managing to take down a few of the bodies looming over him as he thrashed, but they quickly pinned him to the ground.
They took him— where? What will they do?
"Harry," he rasped, but a kick to his ribs stole his breath and the rest of his sentence.
He grunted, trying to break free.
"Hold him," someone said.
The hands on him tightened and Voldemort knew whatever was coming would be dire. He felt a press of cold metal against his neck and then the loathsome collar was snapped back onto him for the third time in his life.
Yet it cannot hold me any longer.
He did his best to sneer at the men suffocating him with their bodies, wanting to yank it off and throw it in their faces, but knew it was wiser to pretend that he was caught. Let them lower their guards and then he could break free and find—
"Where is he," he demanded, his voice soft but menacing.
Laughter followed, and then someone nudged his foot and he sucked in an agonized breath as his fractured bones grated against themselves.
"Suffering for you," one of them replied.
The hot breath puffing in his face, the sweaty bodies pressed up against him, the hands everywhere on his naked body tried to pull him under, force him to drown in memories of similar experiences, but he fought them all. He had to.
Suffering for you.
"What do you want."
A face suddenly came down and loomed before him, the bushy eyebrows drawn down, lips curled in derision.
"We want you dead."
Shocking.
"It's our job to convince Potter to kill you. The stubborn brat insists on refusing. So we're doing all we can to… convince him. Every day that it goes on, though, we have to think of new ways to be persuasive."
Voldemort took that like a deluge of icy water.
So he was the hostage for Harry.
He had gotten it all wrong. They intended to torture the boy until he gave Voldemort up.
They did not know Harry at all.
The boy was many things, but above everything else, he was a martyr. It would never even occur to the idiot to sacrifice another to save himself. Not even a stranger.
And Voldemort was hardly a stranger.
"Maybe you can help us talk some sense into him?" said someone near the cell door who was not holding him, and the man kicked his throbbing foot again. Voldemort choked on a breath. "He can go free as soon as you're dead."
He was panting, fighting to control his panic. He coughed, his dry throat sticking together, clicking as he tried to swallow.
"But until then… well." One of the men let go of his arm. "We have to be creative."
The others let him go too and, once released, Voldemort shuffled back as far as he could, leaning against the wall and glaring up at the army of men he was trapped with.
His body began to twitch and his vision tunnelled.
Looming figures circled around him as he knelt on the floor, as commanded. He did not need to look up at them to know that they were coming closer, their words crude and mocking. Two men grabbed his legs and spread them obscenely wide while others held him down. The ones not touching him shot burning hexes and jinxes and curses at him, and it was chaos, so many hands and broken bones, the two hours passing in a frenzy of pleading and screaming and crying and begging and—
A slap landed on his cheek and he shook his head, trying to clear it. He looked around.
He was in the Purgatory Chambers still, men surrounding him again, standing there staring and jeering and promising pain and humiliation and—
Harry!
Where was Harry? He whipped around to search the area and thought he saw the boy's long, black hair pooled on the ground behind a crowd of boots.
"Let him go," he rasped, trying to drag himself towards the boy.
"We've got to amuse ourselves somehow," a voice said, apropos of nothing and Voldemort ignored him, scanning the room for Harry because he had been sure that he had caught a flash of light off the boy's spectacles, by the door.
"And you sure seem thirsty."
There. He saw the boy's hand drag along the floor and out the door.
He made to stand, but a bolt of agony sliced through him when he tried to put weight onto his useless ankles.
Very well, I will crawl.
But even that was beyond his abilities, so he dragged himself a few inches across the floor until he was abruptly kicked in the side, knocking him onto his back. He looked up.
A circle of heads swarmed above him, raucous and imposing. Someone spat onto his face, others undid their trousers and pulled out their flaccid cocks. Voldemort felt his body quake, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
Suck it, Tom— On your knees, whore— Look at you, defeated at last— Not so scary now, are you?— Take my Mudblood cock, you tosser—
"We'll be nice and give you a drink."
Voldemort stared up bewildered. Terrified. Then a hot spray of urine hit him in the eye and he spluttered, rearing back.
"Whoops!" someone laughed. "My aim's a little off."
Boots immediately pressed him down, grinding his skull painfully against the ground, and then two more gushes of putrid piss splashed against his closed lips until the toe of a boot worked his mouth open. The vile streams snuck in at last.
He gagged, choking, trying to eject the repulsive liquid, but the men merely laughed harder and held him more aggressively.
As he struggled, hopeless, furious, his mind stayed with the boy who was likely receiving far worse treatment. Harry was protecting him, taking punishment for refusing to surrender him. Harry was staying strong and so too would he.
He would break free and rescue the boy, killing each and every man present, and happily live out his endless days and nights with Harry as a squib.
.
.
Please, don't come after me. Don't get caught. Stay away. Don't come after me. Don't get caught.
Harry paced the small room frantically. Maybe if he obsessively repeated this plea often enough it would achieve some kind of magical power. His fingernails and the surrounding skin were torn to shreds as he chewed them. It hurt, but it wasn't enough.
Don't come after me, don't get caught.
He'd been here almost a week now and Hermione swore that Voldemort was safe. Well, the way she told it, the Dark Lord had refused to come to his aid and was basically cutting his losses. Not interested in him anymore.
But Harry knew better.
He loves me. No fucking way the fervidly possessive control-freak isn't hunting me down at this very moment.
And Hermione wouldn't lie to him about capturing the man. So the Dark Lord must still be working out a plan. He just had to wait. Or figure out a way to escape.
Which was useless, of course. The amount of wards on this room was comical. They were piss-terrified of Voldemort and had emptied the Ministry of all their relics to keep Harry free from rescue.
At least there was still hope. He was bored, but otherwise treated well. So long as Voldemort stayed away, eventually they had to let him go. People would start to wonder where their Saviour was.
He stopped to gnaw at a shard of bloody nail that refused to lay smooth. Last piece.
Don't you dare fall for this trap, Voldemort. Let me handle these idiots. I'll be home soon.
.
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The grinding of metal on metal startled him from his open-eyed doze. He sat up, throwing out his arms reflexively to shield Harry who was still unconscious behind him, pressed up against the wall.
"Take me," he rasped, making eye contact with the man who always came for the boy. "I am the Dark Lord Voldemort. Surely you wish to punish me. Take me this time."
The man laughed and came closer lazily, slowly.
"Has he not woken up yet?"
He imagined having his magic. He would cradle the boy against the wall, repair his own swollen, tender ankles, and then snap the neck of this cockroach. This dead man who dared to touch what was his.
A sudden kick to the face shocked him, but his nightmares were faster and dragged him down.
He fell onto a carpeted floor where the scarred Weasley took a knife to his chained back and stabbed him until he almost perished but then he was Healed and awoke to drowning in the blood pooling in his lungs, choking him until the agony nearly killed him again and then he jolted back into consciousness and saw another redhead, smaller and stockier, take out his wand and mutter a curse with angry eyes and then he was on his fatally-wounded back screaming in pain as the Cruciatus ripped through him—
"Oi! Riddle!"
He opened his eyes to see another man dragging Harry out from under him, both cretins attempting to prise Voldemort's fingers from the boy's filthy skin. No, not again, please, enough you have done enough—
He was screaming something, but they ignored him, arranging his unresponsive limbs against the empty far wall and then tying him with rope to keep him contained.
The ropes sliced through his abdomen, his neck, his wrists. The jeering crowd heaved, cracking his bones, crushing him against the frigid metal of the bars. He had no breath to scream, but the agony pulsing through him made him dizzy, the lack of oxygen saturating his mind with confusion—
"…care anymore, clearly. Maybe we should demonstrate to him what Potter is enduring for him."
What Potter is enduring for him.
Potter is enduring.
For him.
Voldemort's eyes snapped open, his body thrashing against his restraints. He found the boy, still unconscious and held in the arms of one of the men.
No. Not Harry.
"Take me," he tried again.
One of them laughed.
Harry's head lolled forward, his hair obscuring his face and chest. His delicate hands hung limply, his legs dragging on the floor.
"Nope. You'll watch him bleed for you until you use that brain of yours to come up with a plan to convince him to kill you."
Voldemort lowered his eyes in frustrated defeat, but then forced them open.
"That is impossible. There must be something else you would accept. I can make a Vow, you can keep me here asleep—"
He tried to push aside the debilitating panic at that horrific thought— always pliant, accessible, vulnerable—
He shook his head, squeezing his bound hands into fists.
"I will negotiate," he said, looking up and picking a man to address. "Someone is in charge here. Who are they."
The men looked uneasily at each other and Voldemort felt a spark of hope. Jeffers had known nothing whatsoever therefore whoever it was likely mistrusted the Minister, which narrowed it down significantly. Robards. That fool Percy Weasley. Chatham. The two men working with him.
"She won't agree," one of them said to their companion.
"She," Voldemort repeated, his mind seized by the word, flying through possibilities. "The Granger girl."
He did not require their startled expressions as confirmation. Only Granger would have had access to the boy. Only she could have caught him unaware.
It made sense. Harry, the recklessly trusting innocent, would never have suspected that his friend would betray him, but Voldemort was well-acquainted with traitors.
The girl believed that she was acting in Harry's best interests, he was certain. She wanted to remove Voldemort from Harry's life to protect him and her ignorant determination made her vicious. Gave her the cruelty that allowed for her best friend to be tortured for the greater good.
And Harry despises my methods.
He would never hurt the boy like this. Perhaps she meant to Obliviate Harry after he killed Voldemort. For nothing but that would save the boy or the girl from death. Harry could be deliciously vengeful when protecting those he loved, but then even if he followed through and killed her, Harry would be inconsolable after such deceit done to him. To force the boy to personally kill Voldemort was shockingly cruel for what Harry had told him of Granger.
"Let me speak with her," he said, his eyes riveted on the boy's broken form in an enemy's arms. "I can finish this today, I am willing to negotiate. I—"
"She's not going to want to negotiate," one of them interrupted.
"She wants you dead. We all do."
"He will not kill me," Voldemort repeated through clenched teeth, loathing communicating with imbeciles. "If you are colleagues, or friends of his, however ridiculous I find that term considering your actions, you must know that he will not harm someone in his stead."
The vermin holding Harry shifted his limp body, grunting and then lifting him to hang over his shoulder, the boy's arse in the air and the cur's filthy hand touching him, his putrid fingers splayed out over the boy's backside like he had the right; as if it were not fatal to touch the boy so intimately in his presence.
"Remove your hand," he growled, his body tensing and leaning forward as if to stand and fight, loathing his useless ankles that would make that threat impossible.
The man he was addressing snorted and then laughed.
"Watch gonna do about it, old man?"
The other pustule laughed too. Voldemort shifted his legs until he was balanced on his knees, trying not to put any pressure on the agonizing fractures. He would not face them sitting down.
"Come closer and I will show you," he promised, head tilted down, his hands clenched tight.
They both laughed and Voldemort refused to hear the derision in it.
"Pathetic," one spat.
"I think we ought to give him a show, Wilson," the other dead man replied.
They smirked at each other and then Harry was thrown— from shoulder height— onto the floor.
Voldemort shouted, rolling forwards and trying to catch him, but he was intercepted. A boot kicked out and slammed into his cheekbone, crashing him back against the wall and filling his mouth with blood. He coughed, shouldering off of the stones and inching back to where Harry lay spread eagled, the other man already looming over him.
Voldemort froze, horrified.
No.
Harry was exposed, his flaccid penis laying undefended against his hairy thigh. Voldemort stared, uncomprehending, his brain functions halted and retreating in denial because this could not happen—
Not Harry, I will slaughter them, not Harry, no please, I cannot watch this, I cannot, I cannot—
"Are you sure we should…?" a voice asked, hesitant and even worried.
"Stop," Voldemort commanded hoarsely.
"I'm sure it's fine," the other replied, completely ignoring him.
"But what if—"
"I said it's fine!" the other snapped, holding eye contact until he had subdued his target.
Then, he dropped to his knees between Harry's spread legs.
No.
"Me," Voldemort rasped, his eyes unable to look away as the villain touched Harry's precious skin, running his unworthy hands up his thighs. "Take me."
He swallowed his sob. Harry's eyes were closed, his mouth slightly parted as the man positioned himself over the boy's unprotected body.
Voldemort stopped breathing.
No.
"I will kill you," Voldemort promised in a whisper, his intestines twisting as he watched the boy's breath catch, his head tilt back with the movement of the body against him.
A small furrow appeared between Harry's soft brows when the cadaver breached him.
Walker and Harris, Shacklebolt and Grayson, Ms Cole and Billy Stubbs. Everyone tried to pull him under, drag him into gruesome memories of past horrors, but none of it scared him like what he was currently witnessing.
Harry's pained, quiet sounds pierced him and kept him present when any memory, any torture of his own would have been preferable because Harry was making shuddering, gasping sounds, more reactive to this than he had been to anything so far and Voldemort was shaking, powerless and impotent to stop the rape—
Rape.
Harry was being raped.
Voldemort had ripped apart every Death Eater's memories who had been present when Harry had been captured and held by Bella and had found no evidence of sexual assault. He had tortured them all, furious at what had been done to Harry, but had allowed them to live because they had not harmed him critically.
Yet now he had been.
Voldemort watched the boy's slack legs shift forward with every thrust, his bruised and lacerated body sliding closer every moment. He realized, then, what their intention was.
Hands reached out to hold Voldemort, pinning him to the wall, pressing his shoulders firmly against the cold stones as Harry's warm skin suddenly connected with his own shin. He bit back a sound, focusing on the boy's face, which was lifted by a fist in his tangled hair and released roughly onto Voldemort's lap.
He closed his eyes, heart thundering with fury and despair, as Harry was violated in his lap. The boy suffered this fatal blow while in the grasp of a man who had sworn to protect him.
You are safe with me, Harry. No one will harm you.
It had been a lie.
Harry's lolling head fell between his thighs and thudded against the floor. Voldemort hissed and brought his legs up, cradling the precious skull as effectively as he could manage.
When the first man was done, they traded places, turning Harry in his lap to lay on his front, his face nestled right up against Voldemort's flaccid penis. Then the beast rocked forwards and Harry made a startled, gasping sound that rent a chasm deep into his chest.
"Forgive me," he whispered, bowing his head and trying to block out everything but Harry. "I love you."
The impossible words had tumbled from his lips without making it to his brain first. It was a defence, a reflex, something a person said in times such as these.
Raucous laughter met this pronouncement and the body on top of Harry paused to jeer and mock him, but he closed his eyes, trying to dismiss and deny the startling feeling in his chest. The tingling of his fingertips. The writhing of his heart.
Even though he had said the words, he knew that they were not true. Lord Voldemort did not love. It was likely desperation that had expelled that word from his lips because surely, if anything would rouse the sentimental twit, it would be hearing him utter that phrase.
Furthermore, the two beasts who had heard him and continued to roar with mirth would soon be dead and Harry remained insensible so it was unlikely that his involuntary declaration would be remembered anyway.
The fiend collapsed on top of Harry, pushing the boy's sweaty forehead against his thigh, and Voldemort let his mind draw him back to the present. Watching the man pull out and leave Harry crumpled and used in his lap. That was what mattered. His murderous vengeance. His rage.
Not that fatal lie, the impossible madness that this cursed cell was responsible for spawning within him.
.
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"We've got him," Hermione said, unashamed. Daring to look him in the eye as she spoke.
Harry had been sitting on the floor with his back against the bed, but stood immediately at those words.
We've got him, we've got him—
Harry felt his knees hit the ground.
He allowed himself to be caught again for me, all for me, they'll put him in chains, whip him, rape him, cut him open, sell him out—
"No," he breathed, horrified.
His head swam. He leaned back against the bed, fighting the vertigo. His fingers grabbed the ring and twisted it.
"It's time to do the right thing, Harry. Finish this."
Finish this.
For Ron and Fred and Tonks and Cedric and Snape and—
"You know what kind of life he will have here. He can never be free, you know that. The only choice is to kill him. And you're the only one who can."
"Let me see him and I'll consider it," Harry whispered.
Hermione shot him an exasperated look.
"Nice try."
Harry growled, standing up and then flinging his uneaten lunch against the wall. Hermione stepped back.
"Take me to him, goddamnit Hermione, or I'll kill every person who has kept him from me!"
"Including me?"
Harry glared at her.
"Including you."
She looked shocked, hurt.
"Harry—"
"You kidnapped me, forcing me to condemn the man I love to an eternity of torture and death—"
"To save the world, Harry! To save everyone!"
"How many fucking times do I have to tell you that he hasn't touched anyone since he told me he wouldn't! Why don't you bleeding understand that he's changed?"
"Because he's the Dark Lord!"
"And yet he's not the one kidnapping people! Torturing them, killing them, abusing them. That's all you!"
Hermione opened her mouth and closed it a few times. Harry watched her, feeling like he'd won. But fuck, could he win at all if Voldemort was back at the Ministry?
He had to find him, but he doubted that they would let him anywhere near the man. His heart was racing, his panic quickening his breaths. They could be doing anything at this moment— and Harry saw it all, saw them chaining him to a table to rape him viciously, drowning him, cutting cruel words into his skin…
He needed a plan.
While he was thinking, Hermione turned on her heel and strode to the door.
"Let me out," Harry growled, low and dangerous, as he lifted his head to face her.
She spun to meet his gaze, determination flashing in her eyes.
"I have to speak with him," she said.
Harry froze. Hermione lifted her head, defiantly.
"You're always telling me how I can't judge him because I've never spoken to him. So, I will. See what he has to say for himself."
"Let me come with you—"
Hermione turned once more and made to depart. Harry stood to follow, but she was already closing the door as she spoke.
"I'll bring you some more lunch soon."
And she left.