Chapter 43

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Harry raised his wand instinctively when Robards and Percy entered the cell, accompanied by a very disconcerting unconscious copy of himself, though his twin looked thoroughly beaten and starved.

Voldemort gasped and began to shout for Harry to be brought to him, but everyone ignored him. He was still forced to comply with Hermione's command to be still so he could not get there by himself.

Robards eyed Harry's wand and frowned.

"You would turn your wand on me to protect this creature, Potter?"

"I would do more than just point it at you if we weren't in this room, Sir," Harry said, lowering his wand, ready to pummel him unconscious.

He turned to face Percy and his adrenaline spiked.

"You are dead for what you've done here. What is wrong with you?"

Percy sneered.

"I'm a hero, Potter. Guess you don't recognize what a good person looks like any longer, considering what you've been doing." Percy laughed, crossing his arms. "And you faggots are just too easy to catch! Merlin, it would be almost romantic if it wasn't so vile."

Robards gave a hum of agreement and turned to Hermione.

"Granger. I'm surprised to see you turned traitor considering this whole operation was your idea."

"You took it too far, Gawain," she said heatedly. "I only wanted him recaptured. What you did with Percy is sick and I will not stand behind it."

"So what is your alternative?" Robards shot back. "Are you two here to free this filth again?"

His eyes slid to Harry and he raised his eyebrow condescendingly.

"Is his prick really that compelling that you'll enslave yourself to him for it? You'll endanger the whole world to get a chance to bend over for this disgusting freak?" Robards chuckled. "Funny, when I had him, it wasn't—"

Harry's stomach clenched.

When I had him.

I had him.

Harry made a strangled, pained sound and ran forward, pulling out his sharpened toothbrush and stabbing it into the man's neck. Hermione screamed and Percy quickly hauled him off, punching him in the face, but Harry struggled with him and then pinned the asshole onto his back, striking him repeatedly.

Hermione was shouting at him to stop, but he was lost to the satisfying sound of his fist smashing into that sanctimonious face, revelling in the blood that soaked his skin, the pain in his knuckles as he made contact again and again—

Hermione struck Harry once just over his eye and Harry was so shocked by it that she succeeded in grabbing him by his hair and yanking him off.

"You're going to kill him!" she screamed.

Harry was on his back, breathing hard. Eyes closed. He was trying to block out all the images that Robards's words had created, but it was no use. He saw his boss, a man he used to respect, holding Voldemort down as the Dark Lord begged him not to, plunging his unworthy cock deep inside his lover, raping him, hurting him—

He opened his eyes.

"Let me," he said.

"No, Harry!" she said, crouching down and shaking him by his shirt. "We are not here to kill them!"

She looked back at the other two and then went to them. Harry rolled over to watch, but he didn't really care about their condition so he shuffled to look at Voldemort who was staring back at him with wide eyes.

"I'm the real, Harry," he said, pointing to his own chest. "Only I would kill two Ministry workers to save you, you bastard."

Voldemort's expression did not change, but his eyes did flick over to where Hermione was still fussing over the other men.

"I have to get them out of this room so I can heal them," she said and began to drag them out.

"Let them die," he urged, sitting up and then standing.

"Help me get them out," she implored him. "I'll heal them and then we can worry about Voldemort."

"Let them die, Hermione," he repeated, irritated that she didn't get it. "I don't care—"

"Well I do!" she shouted, turning to him with wild eyes. "I have children, Harry! I can't go to Azkaban and lose them! I can't— I—"

She began to sob. Fuck. She has a point.

He left her to cry while he dragged Robards by the hands and was about to throw him out the door none too gently when he remembered about the guards. Cursing, he grabbed his Cloak, opened the door and ducked out quietly. Both men peered suspiciously around the door with their backs to Harry as he hit them with Stunning Spells.

They fell to the ground. Harry threw his Cloak back into the cell and went to fetch the other two men. Once he'd dragged them into the corridor he cast a quick diagnostic spell. Percy was fine, moderate concussion or something, but he'd live. Unfortunately. Robards was another matter. He had lost a lot of blood and his blood pressure was dropping.

"Hermione, I have no clue what I'm doing here. If you want him alive, you'll have help."

She hurried to him and took out her wand, muttering a bunch of spells that he had no idea about. He allowed himself to marvel at how much she had actually absorbed from reading the thousands of books she always had around her and then he went back into the cell.

Voldemort was watching him.

"Are they dead?" the man asked.

Harry studied him, trying to see if he could detect the person he loved in there somewhere.

He shrugged.

"Not yet. Percy will be fine, but Robards might snuff it."

His body was desperate to touch Voldemort, to reassure himself that the man was alright, but Voldemort seemed more coherent now than he had been yet, so maybe he could get through to him this time.

"Voldemort. I need to get you out of here. You can bring the Muggle. The other Harry, if you want. But we are out of time and I don't know how long it will take me to get a second chance to rescue you."

Those red eyes were scouring his face, narrowing with an unknown emotion.

"Please," Harry said, stopping his hand from reaching out. "I have five marks of yours, including your Horcrux which the other Harry does not have. You kissed me first, but I probably wanted it for longer. You… call me your soul."

Harry's throat closed before he could continue. Voldemort seemed to be listening and his body was relaxing, the trembling ceasing completely.

"I am your Harry, baby. Please. Let me take you home."

Voldemort continued to examine him, his gaze dropping to trail over his body.

"Bring the other," that high voice commanded, and Harry almost groaned in relief at hearing Voldemort call the Muggle simply, the other.

Harry smiled, his chest feeling lighter than air.

"Okay. Let me grab him first. Be right back."

Harry tore his eyes away and went to the Muggle, hating that this man had been so cherished and protected by Voldemort these long months. It was only because he knew the Muggle was a victim too and unaware of what was happening that stayed his hand, saving him from a petty kick to the face.

It was strange, dragging his own body. The copy looked just like him except for the pierced nipple. And the loss of his glasses. Polyjuice was so weird.

"What are you doing?" Hermione asked, sounding panicked. "You're not—"

"I'm taking them home," he replied firmly. "You can heal those two and then Obliviate them, right?"

She nodded.

"I think so. I've healed Robards's wound, I think he'll be okay, but what do I do with them?"

"I'd say leave them where they are. Voldemort will be gone, they can assume he attacked them as he escaped. You just have to act like you're shocked by the news and they shouldn't suspect you."

Hermione hesitated, looking back at the unconscious men behind her.

"Yes, I suppose that could work. I'll try and implant a memory in someone upstairs, too, so they can vouch for my whereabouts during this time."

Harry nodded.

"Good idea."

He went back into the cell where Voldemort was waiting for him. His eyes got caught on that gleaming band of black cutting across his neck and his teeth ached with a desire to press his face against it. Jesus, he would never get used to seeing Lord Voldemort collared. What the mere idea did to his body.

"I'm going to lift you up gently, okay?" he said, forcing himself to concentrate on saving the man first before he began planning how he was going to delicately bring up asking the Dark Lord to wear a Muggle collar for play. Merlin, just the thought of Lord Voldemort at his mercy... "I'll try not to jostle your ankles too much, but they're still going to move. Once you're out of this cell, I'm going to heal you and then take you to my place."

"With the other."

Harry nodded.

"Yeah. Him too."

He had just crouched down to pick the man up when Voldemort spoke.

"Cancel the imperative upon me to remain still."

Harry considered that, wondering if it was a wise move. Hermione had warned him that Voldemort was a liability until he could shake off the oppressive confusion from the cell. But Harry badly wanted to do something nice for him as an inadequate token of apology.

"Sure, okay," he said, pushing down his unease. "Just Finite?"

"That, or issue a command to give me back control of my body."

Harry fished out his wand and said, "Finite."

He saw the body relax a fraction, and Voldemort flexed his fingers, but otherwise he remained still. Cooperative. Harry helplessly let his eyes rake that familiar form one time before he pulled them back to focus.

"Ready?" he asked, his voice thicker than he'd like.

Voldemort kept his eyes riveted on him as he inclined his head once.

Harry bent down and carefully scooped up the thin, but heavy body and slowly lifted him off of the floor. Voldemort did not make a sound as his ankles swung, but kept his face turned in towards Harry, as if unconsciously seeking comfort.

When they got out of the cell, Voldemort froze, his body tensing and Harry gently laid him down.

"You okay?"

Voldemort remained silent. Harry wiped his own brow of perspiration and checked his watch. Bugger, they'd been here too long.

"I'm going to heal you now, okay? Or, actually."

He turned to Hermione who had stopped what she was doing to stare at Voldemort.

"Mione? Can you heal him?"

He turned back to Voldemort.

"She's better at this kind of stuff."

When seconds passed without her coming over, Harry glanced behind him to see her eyes full of reluctance and fear.

"I'd really rather not—"

"We're here to rescue him," Harry said firmly. "He can't even walk. C'mon Hermione. I promise he won't hurt you."

"That's not my concern," she mumbled, but Harry had no idea what she meant.

Hermione closed her eyes briefly, taking a deep breath, then shuffled over and pointed her wand at Voldemort's ankles.

"You used Finite?" she asked, and Harry nodded. She grimaced. "Brackium Emendo."

Harry watched the man's feet snap back to their proper angle and the bones that had protruded grotesquely from his skin disappeared back into place. Voldemort gasped at the sensation, but was otherwise silent. He wasn't watching his ankles at all, but still studying Harry.

"They're going to be tender," Hermione said, "so he probably shouldn't put weight—"

"Stupefy!" a voice shouted from behind her, and Hermione went rigid, her face a mask of shock as she fell forward.

Harry caught her with one arm and struggled to retrieve his wand from his pocket with the other.

"Expelliarmus!"

He felt his wand pull free from his trousers and watched it betray him and fly through the air to Percy, who caught it, grinning triumphantly.

"Accio Invisibility Cloak!" he shouted, and the silvery material flew from the cell and into Percy's outstretched hand.

"Accio Resurrection Stone!"

Harry's heart went cold as he felt his ring slide off his finger. He bent the digit, trying to keep it on, but it simply ripped through his skin and bone, taking off the tip of his finger in its path towards the redhead.

He hissed in pain, but it was inconsequential against what was happening. He took a step forwards so that Voldemort's prone figure was behind him.

Percy.

Percy is the Master of Death.

The piece of shit was laughing, pointing Harry's own wand at him.

"You're such a fool, Potter!" he exclaimed, continuing to laugh. "I told you, I said you'd pay for what you did to my family."

"I haven't done anything to your family," Harry replied, his mind searching for a way out of this.

"You killed my brother!" Percy shrieked, and then with a stabbing motion he cried, "Crucio!"

Harry fell to the ground, Voldemort's body underneath him, as jolts of fire ignited his nerves, piercing his lungs and blinding him with agony. He cried out, his fingers scrambling on the stones, his eyes pounding with pressure, his blood searing through his veins—

And then it stopped.

He rolled over, panting, and searched for that serpentine face. He found it and pressed his forehead against the man's for a moment, taking a steadying breath.

He's okay. It was just me, he's fine.

"You're a traitor," Percy spat, and Harry looked up at him.

Fix this, fix this.

"You're angry at me," Harry rasped, pushing himself up to sit. "This is about me. How about this." Harry's body was still trembling from that sodding curse. "You want your job back, right? Your reputation? I'll go with you, anywhere you want and give you my memories. You can prove that you were telling the truth. That I'm a traitor."

He took a breath, searching his mind for more because no fucking way was Voldemort about to die here.

"I'm sure you know that the Veritaserum I took last time was fake. I'll submit to proper Veritaserum, you can ask anything you want. You might even get a Kiss order for me."

Harry placed his hand gently on the naked body beside him, trying to draw comfort and resolve from the man he loved. If this worked, he would buy them time and Voldemort could be free. It would all be worth it then. He would happily take the Kiss or Percy's vengeance if he knew that Voldemort was no longer suffering.

"But this only happens," Harry went on, "if you take me away and let Hermione go. She can deal with Voldemort. You can have me. I won't fight you. You have my wand, you have everything. I'll come."

Percy was glaring at him, but seemed to be considering the offer.

"Hermione wants Voldemort dead, too," he lied, hoping she would tell Voldemort when she got him out of here that this was not true anymore. "She'll hold him here, until you get back. You get me. You can do whatever you want."

Percy smirked.

"Fine. Get up. You're coming to my house."

Harry nodded slowly, turning back quickly for one last glimpse of the Dark Lord. Voldemort's eyes were calculating and he opened his mouth as if to speak, but Harry placed a single finger over those lips that he was immensely privileged to be allowed to touch.

"I love you," he whispered.

Percy made a noise of disgust and Harry stood, breaking that intense gaze.

"Weasley," Voldemort suddenly intoned in his cold, commanding voice, and Harry turned back.

The Dark Lord was sitting up, naked and starved, but suddenly imbued with an aura of power and malice that made Harry's skin erupt in goosebumps.

Lord Voldemort was back.

"Let's go, Potter," Percy said, keeping his eyes on Voldemort, but extending a hand to Harry. "If you want to do this smoothly, we leave now."

"He will not be going anywhere," Voldemort threatened in a low voice.

Then he stood— slowly and with unfurling menace, all the while keeping his eyes upturned and piercing Percy. Harry held his breath.

"Now," Percy said, darting a quick look at Harry before returning his nervous gaze to the Dark Lord.

"Harry, do not move."

The redhead flinched as if hit, but did not back down. He stood with the Cloak draped over his arm, the ring in his fist, and Harry's wand pointed back at its owner.

"Fine," Percy replied steadily, speaking to Voldemort. "You don't scare me. If I can't have him, neither can you."

And before Harry could react, a jet of green light shot towards him.

His mind went blank.

There was nothing— and then clawing, gasping fear. Fear for what would happen to Voldemort, who would be next in line to face the Master of Death, able to be killed at last. Fear for Hermione, Stunned and forced to witness another loved one dying. Hopefully she would live, maybe she could even help negotiate Voldemort's safety.

And then, in the moment before that familiar green light hit his chest, a blur of white flew past him. Instead of feeling the impact of the curse and the rushing sound that accompanied it, he heard a sharp gasp and saw Voldemort crumble to the stone floor.

Bewildered, he looked down and saw the Dark Lord's lifeless body at his feet. The man's blazing red eyes unfocused and dull, his mouth slightly parted.

No.

Harry's knees hit the floor. He numbly touched the pulse point under the mans's jaw and felt nothing.

Voldemort was dead.

Dead.

Dead.

No.

Harry saw Voldemort smile at him over the top of his book, reacting to Harry's joke with surprising indulgence. He saw Voldemort chopping onions, teaching Harry a useful charm to avoid watery eyes. He saw Voldemort's expression darkening with hunger as he teased Harry mercilessly before he sunk inside, claiming him, making him scream in pleasure—

Talking.

Someone was talking. Harry looked up to realize that the man who had killed his lover was still alive.

Harry stood. Percy fell silent.

Harry took a step forwards, feeling his frothing rage and misery explode inside his nerves, boiling for blood payment. Percy's eyes went wide and he gripped his wand tighter. Harry knew what was coming, but he didn't flinch when the Cruciatus hit him.

Pain ignited in his chest and Harry staggered, but it quickly faded, not even having managed to bring him to his knees. He continued to advance as another spell hit him, a burning hex, yet it barely singed his clothing before it, too, disappeared.

None of Percy's spells were sticking.

Impossible.

The thought floated to him through his haze of vengeance. Hermione had told him about this phenomena years ago when she had been researching his mother's protection during the war. But it was inconceivable that it could be happening again now.

He laughed at the unbelievable truth, the only explanation.

Percy was frozen when he reached him and Harry ripped his wand out of the thief's fingers. Percy made a noise of protest and fought him, but Harry head-butted him in the face, shutting the fucker up.

He tore the Cloak out of Percy's arms, plucked the ring from the palm of his lax hand and gently tossed both items behind himself. Then, he faced Percy, one hand around his throat and the other fisted in his hair.

"You should have killed me when you had the chance," he whispered dangerously, somehow rasping out another laugh. "Don't you see what he's done? He's died for me, like my mother did, and now you can't touch me. So go ahead and try, but know that you're not getting out of here alive."

Percy made a strangled sound and Harry let up on his windpipe so he could hear the cretin beg.

"Finite," Percy wheezed.

Harry cocked his head, snorting at the man's odd choice of spell.

"What—"

"Harry, no!" Hermione shouted, and Harry looked back to see her climbing to her feet.

Percy used his distraction to shove Harry off of him and retrieve his own wand from his pocket, pointing it at Hermione.

Harry seethed.

"You're a disgrace, Potter," Percy spat, his eyes darting between him and Hermione. "What kind of sick homosexual affair were you two having that the Dark Lunatic would sacrifice himself for you?"

"Harry," Hermione said imploringly. "I'm so sorry about Voldemort. What Percy did was awful, but if you kill him they'll send you to Azkaban."

"I don't care!" Harry shouted, his own wand pointing straight between the redhead's eyes. "I want to die and I'm taking this motherfucker with me."

"Listen to yourself!" Percy laughed with disdain. "You're sick. You're so eager to bend over for him—"

"I love him!" Harry shrieked, tears springing to his eyes.

Percy's face fell with revulsion, but he didn't care. He was tired of everyone assuming he was with Voldemort because of the shagging, like he was some kind of desperate, danger-seeking sex addict.

Dumbledore had once said that their destinies were wrapped together more securely than ever two wizards were joined in history. And it was true. With the prophecy and the twin wand cores, the Horcrux and their similar childhoods, they were joined by both nature and nurture. Voldemort had even created his new body with Harry's blood. Their coupling was fated. Inevitable.

But not protected.

And now it was over.

"That's disgusting," Percy said, and then turned to Hermione.

"Granger, I'm disappointed in you. You're smarter than this."

"Stop it, Percy. You've done enough. We got what we wanted, he's dead. Let the rest go."

Percy shook his head.

"No. I never really cared about He Who Must Not Be Named. What he did was expected, he's a Dark Lord. But Potter? His betrayal cannot go unpunished."

"He didn't kill Ron," Hermione argued. "Voldemort did. Harry was devastated—"

"He was fucking him!" Percy shouted. "Probably playing house with the man who killed him. Loving him. How can you forgive that? He was your husband."

Harry could not look at Hermione, scared to see the hatred on her face. In any case, it was taking all his willpower to keep upright and pointing his wand at Percy when his entire being was aching to kneel and cradle the figure at his feet.

"Your brother died trying to save Harry," she whispered. "You're attempting to commit the very act he died trying to stop."

"He hated it," Percy sneered. "Them. Together. I know he did, don't tell me he didn't."

Hermione hesitated.

"Yes, he did," she admitted and Harry withered, full of self-loathing. "He wanted Harry to change his mind. But he would never have wanted him dead, Percy. Never. And he'd never want his brother to become a murderer in his name."

"Maybe you're right," Percy said, but Harry did not trust his agreeable tone. "Who knows. We can't ask him because he's dead. Someone has to pay for that. And maybe I can't kill Potter here, because his gay lover died for him, but the monster sure as hell didn't die for you, Mudblood. And you're clearly one of his now too."

Before the fatal spell had even fully left Percy's mouth, Harry had shot his own Killing Curse at the redhead, but he didn't pause to see if it landed. Instead he turned and ran to Hermione as fast as he could, but luckily she did not freeze as he had and instead adeptly lunged out of the way.

They crashed into each other, Hermione's forehead knocking his nose and bringing tears to his eyes. Harry righted himself first and spun to face Percy who stood there, an expression of shock on his face before crashing to the ground.

He wasn't sure how he felt about that. He was going to Azkaban for sure and yet that didn't really matter. He didn't intend to live long enough for the trial to begin.

He slowly walked back to that broken form, falling to his knees and bowing down low over his chest.

Gone.

He's gone.

"Harry," Hermione rasped, sliding forwards to touch his hand.

"There's a chance," she said, somewhere near his side. "Percy was the Master of Death, but he didn't use the Elder Wand. I don't think that would be enough to kill Voldemort with his prior claim to immortality and with his Horcrux."

The words made a kind of sense, but he couldn't grasp them against the thundering of the mantra in his head, He's dead, he's dead, he's dead.

"Harry!" Hermione shook him. "He might be alive! You need to get him somewhere safe and then give him a chance to wake up. It's a long shot, but I think Percy needed to be wielding the actual Elder Wand to have complete Master of Death powers. It would have killed a normal man, but maybe not one with Voldemort's safeguards."

He might be alive.

Alive.

Harry spun to look at her, his heart pounding in his throat.

Before she could say another word, he took out his wand to cast a Disillusionment Charm on all three of them so they could get out of there, but Hermione grabbed his hand and squeezed it.

"Harry. You go. Take him, see what you can do. I have to stay here and try and arrange this mess so we don't get thrown into Azkaban. I have to report Percy's body."

Harry hesitated.

"I can't leave you here to deal with all that."

Fuck. Voldemort or Hermione?

"It's alright. I have a bit of a paper trail with Robards and I think I can spin it that Voldemort escaped on his own, injuring Robards and killing Percy in the process. After I modify everyone's memories, I should be clear. And there won't be any record of you being here, Harry, so please don't tell anyone else about any of this."

He nodded, so grateful that she was able to consider the bigger picture.

"Okay. Thanks, Hermione."

He looked down at Voldemort and his stomach lurched with anxiety. What if he doesn't wake?

Hermione seemed to read his mind.

"If this doesn't work, it's not your fault, Harry," she said, watching him linger. "His last act was to save you. That's incredible. You truly did have an affect on him."

Harry ignored her words. They were hollow. Offensive. They reminded him of the reality that, had he not influenced Voldemort, the man would still be alive. The Dark Lord had thrown away his meticulously protected life because Harry had ensnared him.

The possibility that Voldemort had loved him in return hurt even more because what had that gotten him? An early grave. Never mind that he was immortal twice over or that it was not in his nature to put others before himself.

Harry had made him reckless. Careless. And now he was dead.

Voldemort had been right all along. Love was destructive.

"I'll come see you once I'm done here," Hermione said, and then pulled him into a hug.

He allowed it, but did not relax into her embrace, refusing any comfort from her. He did not deserve it.

He broke away. Taking a deep breath, he looked down at the lifeless body on the floor. He felt hollow. Nauseated.

Bending down, he gathered the Cloak and the Gaunt ring, remembering how Voldemort had liked to idly caress it on his finger—

He looked down, remembering that his own finger was lopped off at the tip. Weird. It didn't hurt as much as he would have expected it to.

"See you later, I guess," he muttered.

"I'm so sorry, Harry," she blurted out, just as he bent to lift up the cold, still body.

He turned back to her.

"About Voldemort," she breathed. "It's my fault that he's… if he is. I—"

He shook his head, terror gripping him. I can't do this right now.

"Don't worry about it," he managed, and bent to pick up the body again.

"No, wait!— I thought this was the right thing to do! I wanted—"

"I know, Hermione, okay? Forget it."

He slid his arms under the body of his lover and tried not to flinch.

"Listen to me, Harry. I'm sorry for all of this. For abducting you and keeping you here. For what we did to Voldemort. Luring him here and then… torturing him."

Harry slammed his eyes closed.

He had thought they were raping me. They lied to him, starved him, forced the Dark Lord Voldemort to exist on piss… He must have been so scared. So conflicted. Desperate. To have given his life to save a version of me that he wasn't even sure was the real one. To save me from something I wasn't even enduring.

All because Hermione had interfered. Because she didn't believe me.

Harrry snapped.

"Stop apologizing, Hermione! You're happy he's dead, I know you are, so can we just stop with all this?"

He stared at her for long moments, daring her to deny any of it.

"I'm not sorry he's dead," Hermione whispered, maintaining eye contact, but she looked shattered. "If he is. But I am sorry you're heartbroken. I'm sorry you're suffering. I'm… I'm just so sorry for the way all of this turned out."

It didn't help, nothing would. What was he even supposed to say to that? It's okay? I forgive you?

"Well, bully for you," he replied, all his self-righteous rage leaving him. "You're sorry."

He snorted.

"And I guess now we're even. My lover took yours and now you took mine."

Hermione looked as if he had struck her.

"Harry! That's not— I didn't do this for revenge! Is that what you think?"

Harry pulled the motionless body close to his chest, trembling with rage and despair, and then stood.

"It doesn't matter," Harry rasped. "I don't blame you, either way. He came for me. He died for me. The rest is just noise."

He Summoned the Cloak, cast a Disillusionment Charm, and then left.

.

.

Harry tiredly brought the noodles to his mouth, sucking a few in and trying to remind himself to chew. He had to eat because the sleeping body in his bed needed him to stay alive.

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and sighed, looking down at the pale form. It had been almost three weeks of stagnancy. Twenty days of hopelessness and helplessness and fervent, desperate wishes. Of Healers and specialists that could be paid off to consent to being Obliviated after treatment each day, but who brought him no closer to waking the man.

Of loneliness. Guilt. Misery.

Voldemort was alive, but only that.

Hermione maintained that this was normal, though how she could be so certain, he had no clue. He knew that she had researched the Hallows obsessively in their seventh year, but after three weeks with no improvement, he was beginning to doubt her.

It was torture. The man he loved— who miraculously might love him back!— was alive and within reach, safe and free, but untouchable. Unreachable.

Harry studied that face, the serpentine features, the transparent eyelids, the gently dilating nostrils, and every familiar detail was agony. Every inch of skin that he may never get to caress, every obnoxious thought in that genius brain, was lost.

At least the man was truly liberated now. If he woke it would be to find that there were no more chains upon him— well, other than that collar, which he had no idea how to remove, but luckily Voldemort didn't need help with that one and as soon as he came to, he could simply take it off.

To distract himself from his pessimistic, unhelpful worries, Harry had taken to researching Vows and had managed to release Voldemort from his.

It was long overdue. He didn't want to be just another person trying to control the Dark Lord. Voldemort knew what Harry asked of him and, after his unexpected sacrifice, Harry was ready to believe that the man wanted to change. Wanted to choose a different way.

If he ever awoke.

Sometimes, Harry thought he'd even rejoice at the Dark Lord killing again if only to see those impassioned red eyes and agile body move.

.

.

He awoke to Harry's voice.

The action of coming to was like struggling free from a sinking, bottomless quagmire of thick, unctuous mud, clinging to his skin and trying to pull him back under. He stole consciousness abruptly, seizing it and breaking the surface, his mouth gasping open to draw in his first, lightheaded breath.

Harry stopped talking and grasped his arm, saying words he could not hear.

Alive.

Voldemort was alive.

But that could not be correct.

Harry's taut face, earnest and beseeching, speaking calmly to that swine. Harry, stepping over his vulnerable body like a shield. Harry, sacrificing himself, as always.

You can have me, the boy had said to someone other than himself. I won't fight you. You have my wand, you have everything. I'll come.

He turned to take in the figure seated beside him. His wide, exhausted eyes burned into him, his mouth still moving with words that Voldemort could not decipher.

Weasley.

Weasley, daring to insult the boy. Perilously directing his wand at him, firing to kill.

If I can't have him, neither can you.

Harry had stood incomprehensibly unmoving, watching that green light shoot towards him. The imbecile had not been intending to block it.

Voldemort had—

His magic ignited around him and he Apparated closer, racing to beat that horrifying rush of sound, that endless, ignominious surrender because he would not allow the boy to succumb, could not stand idly by while Harry abandoned him, lost forever, ignorant to what Voldemort was prepared to sacrifice—

He flinched, clenching his eyes shut, denying what his memory supplied to him.

It was impossible.

"Is it your head?" Harry asked, touching his fingers to Voldemort's brow.

Weasley had stolen the Hallows. He had defeated Harry and wielded the singular power to execute Voldemort.

I love you, the boy had said. I love you. And then turned to face his utterly mortal demise, ready to leave with the Master of Death, to leave him so soon after insinuating himself into Voldemort's life, giving him peace and understanding, exhuming a long-forsaken power within him, and Voldemort would not allow it, how dare the boy make such a decision without consulting him—

"Voldemort," the boy said, "your pulse is too high, you have to calm down, okay? Healer Genevieve said if you don't then she will have to give you some sedatives, do you understand?"

The boy smoothed his fingers gently down Voldemort's cheek and he felt his eyes flutter closed.

No.

He forced them open. Harry was smiling indulgently at him.

"You've always got to fight, don't you, baby?" the boy said with a wry, affectionate smile.

Baby.

I'm here, baby. I'm here.

I am your Harry, baby. Let me take you home.

The moniker was preposterous. Puerile. He loathed it, abhorred the way it made him feel.

"That's it," Harry soothed. "You're doing so well."

He drew away, flinching, and Harry's fingers slid off of him. He did not lament their loss.

"Easy, now," the boy soothed. "You're safe."

Safe.

Alive.

"I'm so happy you're awake," the boy whispered. "I was worried the Healers were wrong. How do you feel?"

He had killed himself for this boy.

He, Lord Voldemort, had thrown his life in the way of the Master of Death's Killing Curse.

He should not be alive. He had not expected to be. And yet, he had still done it.

Harry was fatal. He had known this, of course, recognized his defences lowering around the boy, but never would he have expected himself to forfeit his own life for anyone.

He sat up, abruptly clutching at the collar still around his neck.

Restrained. Trapped.

But, no. The runes still protected him. He reached out for his magic and felt it surge up to meet him, cascading over the extensive wards placed upon the metal and whipping around him.

Harry's eyes flew wide and he gasped. Voldemort's teeth clenched around the sound that almost escaped him in response. He took in Harry's dilated pupils, his parted lips, and hitching breath.

He must go. Before he reclaimed that mouth, bit into the tender flesh, pushed the smaller body under him, pressing him down and taking everything, everything he deserved. Everything he had missed.

"Voldemort," the boy whispered, closing his eyes and leaning forward slowly.

His blood ignited, fingers twitching, but he jolted himself back with an effort that almost snapped his neck.

He stood.

"I cannot."

The words were ragged and raw. Painful in a different way than he was familiar with.

Harry sat staring at him, his hand drawn like a magnet to his quivering chest, over his heart. Voldemort stuttered a breath.

"Don't do this," the boy breathed, his eyes pleading. "You're awake. You made it, I made it. We can be together."

Voldemort turned his back on him, forcing his weak legs to carry him from the room.

"Please!" Harry shouted, catching up and grabbing hold of his elbow lightly.

The shocking memory punched the air from lungs.

Harry wrestled him to the ground, one hand around his neck, the other flinging his legs up over the boy's shoulders. Voldemort keened, begging him to stop, but the stabbing erection pierced him and he choked, feeling the intrusion all the way to his chest, all the way through his soul because Harry was raping him, poisoning everything, beating into him that he should have expected this, should never have trusted, that this was inevitable and preventable and Voldemort's fault, his weakness, his folly—

A sound like a strangled, penetrating sob rent the air. His throat seared and he realized it had been his own.

He was on his knees and elbows, crouched on the floor, heaving.

"Let me help you," the boy whispered, directly beside him.

Voldemort saw Weasley's curse fly out, honing in on the other part of himself and he made an instinctual decision, accepting the curse because he was terrified of what its success would mean.

He had chosen death rather than face life without Harry.

Ropes lurched up and staggered him, binding him, trapping him and he suddenly felt what his life would be like if he stayed— defanged, vulnerable, and weak. He refused to go back to being the nobody, Tom Riddle, constrained by circumstance, required to follow the rules or at least pretend to.

He was the Dark Lord Voldemort, infamous and omnipotent. Ruthless.

Solitary.

Immortal.

And if he wanted to remain thus he had to put himself first. Correct his mistake.

"I do not love you," Voldemort rasped, feeling his chest crack raggedly down the centre.

He used the boy's maimed silence to flee, somehow managing to pull his grieving, thrashing magic around him and Disapparate.

As he was squeezed into nothingness he recognized that that was perhaps the first time he had lied to the boy since their reunion. And it would be the last words he ever spoke to Harry Potter.

END OF PART III