CHAPTER 8
.
.
He'd forgotten.
How had he forgotten?
After a whirlwind of interviews and press photos, he'd been pushed onto a stage and made to give a speech that he ought to have been rehearsing for weeks.
It was Harry Potter Day.
And he was hungover and still wearing robes that smelled vaguely of puke.
"Mr Potter," someone said, touching his back. "Would you mind answering a few questions for me?"
Harry looked over dazedly and saw a woman he did not recognise. He'd been on his way to his office. He felt lightheaded, likely from a risky combination of nerves and a complete lack of food and water.
"Of course," he replied with a smile. "Can it just wait a moment so I can grab a quick drink?"
The woman's face became anxious.
"It'll be fast, I promise. I have to get this out before two!"
Harry nodded, pushing down his panic at the very real possibility of himself fainting when he ignored his body's needs.
"Thank you so much," the woman said, and immediately pulled out a notepad. "First of all, great speech, but I noticed that you didn't mention all of the deceased heroes by name. This is a deviation from your norm. Why make that change?"
Harry stared at her, striken.
She thinks you don't know them, that you haven't committed to memory every single person whom you killed during the war. She thinks you're unaware of your price, of your culpability—
"I... couldn't bear to say their names today," Harry replied tonelessly.
The woman gave him an odd look.
"How come?"
Harry felt his facial muscles tightening.
"How... come?" he whispered, almost breathless with astonishment. "How come?"
"Harry, mate, there you are!"
Harry looked over and saw Ron running towards him.
"Do you mind if I steal the hero of the day for a moment?" Ron asked the woman, and then grabbed Harry's elbow and yanked.
Harry felt his legs catch him as he stumbled after his friend.
"Thanks!" Ron shouted behind him, as he dragged Harry along. "Merlin's pants, you look like a wreck. Have you eaten?"
Harry shook his head. Ron snorted.
"Course not. C'mon. Let's get you taken care of."
Numbly, he allowed Ron to lead him somewhere with a door that shut. He was guided into a chair and then a plate was pressed into his hands.
"Chips with loads of salt. Your favourite."
"No," Harry resisted, trying to push the food away. "I—"
"You'll eat," Ron said firmly, taking the plate from him and placing it back onto his lap, "or you'll get me in trouble with my wife."
Harry looked up to see Ron smirking. His smile fell when he took in Harry's face.
"C'mon mate," he said gently. "I know it's hard. Just eat a few."
Harry looked away, ashamed that his eyes had somehow become watery.
He was terrible at letting people take care of him. It felt wrong. It felt like another failure. This was Harry Potter Day, a day to commemorate the people who had died for him, who'd paid his price during the Battle of Hogwarts, and here he was, hiding away. Crying. Taking care of his own needs.
Worthless. After all the pain you caused, you're going to let others mourn without you. It's your job to hear their stories, see their sadness. To apologise until they believe you, until the hatred and blame in their eyes lessens. You have to take their pain until they feel a sliver of relief and you accept your due. You're a failure, pathetic—
Strong arms gripped him and then drew him into a tight embrace. Harry let his head fall onto those broad shoulders, let his face bury into his best friend's robes.
"Wanna piss off?" Ron whispered into his hair. "You don't look so well."
Harry squeezed his eyes closed, his breath hitching.
Get it together. These people need you, they—
"Harry, you're shaking," Ron said, pulling back to look at him, but Harry kept his eyes closed, ashamed, apologetic— "Alright, enough of this."
Ron lifted him by the underarms and pulled him to his feet.
"Let's get you home."
The relief of someone taking charge had Harry all the way to the door before he remembered why Ron could not escort him back to Grimmauld.
Lord Voldemort was tied to a bed, those thin arms pulled up, his delicate wrists crossed submissively—
Harry caught himself on the doorjamb.
"I'm fine!" he blurted out, turning to face his friend. "I don't need to leave yet."
Ron gave him an exasperatedly skeptical look.
"Sure," he said. "And the crying was happy tears, right?"
Harry shook his head.
"I just got overwhelmed. I'll... eat something. That'll make me feel better."
Ron frowned suspiciously.
"You'll eat?"
Harry nodded, feeling bad for lying to him.
"Yeah. Then I'll head back out and do a few more interviews. Give it another hour or so."
"Fuck em, Harry," Ron said firmly. "You've done enough. Just go home."
Harry grimaced.
"I'm fine. Really. I'll just stay a bit longer then head out. Promise."
Ron glared at him, his blue eyes searching Harry's face.
"It's your call," he said grimly, and then backed up to keep him company.
"Actually," Harry added in desperation, "would you mind grabbing me a glass of water?"
Ron snorted, but moved back towards the door.
"Wish you would just drink conjured water like the rest of us."
Harry forced a smile.
"It tastes weird."
Ron laughed.
"Be right back," he said, and then left.
Harry waited, holding his breath for long moments in the sudden silence of the room. When Ron did not poke his head back in immediately, Harry released a heavy breath.
He needed some alone time to think about his options.
Fuck. Who was he kidding? He didn't have a choice.
He had to stay. They needed him and it was his job to be available. It was the very least he could do after what he had cost.
Barely seconds later, the door flew back open, but it wasn't Ron standing there. A young man gasped when he saw Harry and dropped the parchment he'd been holding.
"Mr Potter, sir!" he cried, executing a rather deep bow and then reaching down to collect his papers. "What good luck! I— would you mind terribly? My fiancée is a huge fan of yours. She fought with you ten years ago and I know she would be flying over the moon if I got her an autograph of yours."
The man shifted his papers and reached into the pocket of his robes, pulling out a quill.
"If you could just write a short message. Maybe say something about your experiences on that day. What it was like to kill He Who Must Not Be Named."
Harry felt his legs tremble.
Nothing much, just your innermost thoughts. Cut yourself open and spill onto this page your heartbreak and humiliation so that I can have proof that we met, that you—
"Here's the program," the man interrupted, thrusting a pamphlet into his hands.
Harry looked down at it and saw his own face beaming up at him, looking much more handsome and put-together than the one that stared blankly back at him in the mirror every morning. Over his head were the words, Harry Potter Day! then below it, 10th Anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts.
Harry flipped it over quickly.
"Anywhere is fine," the man said, handing Harry the quill. "Just say something meaningful. She really loves you."
Harry blinked, his mind wiped clean. Something meaningful—
What about, "Sorry for killing all your friends"? Or "How the fuck can you love me if we've never even met?"
"Right," Harry muttered and scratched out something trite, something about working together, but it was the best he could do.
When he handed it back, the man read it and then squished his lips to the side.
"Oh." He turned it over. "You didn't even sign your name."
"Oops, sorry." He scribbled it underneath his message and then handed it back. "I really have to go, sorry again."
Harry sidled past him and strode down the hall.
He'd forgotten it had been ten years. No way could he leave early now. Not today, not without accumulating more guilt than he could manage. It helped him to shift the pain of others onto himself, where it belonged.
The hallway opened up into a room packed with people. When they saw him they began to walk towards him, some smiling, others looking upset.
Although his instinctual response was terror and a screaming aversion to their unwanted touch, he forced himself to greet them. He owed them his attention and his body and would surrender them both for as long as he was needed.
.
.
It was well after two in the morning when Harry finally Apparated home.
He was exhausted. Without the need to hitch up his smile or clench his fists to keep from howling, his muscles liquified.
Stumbling downstairs to the kitchen, he necked back two glasses of water and then slid to the floor. He closed his eyes.
"You are home late."
Harry jumped to his feet, wand in hand and ready to battle. That voice, that sodding high, cold susurration always sent him right back to his adolescence. Back to desperation and panic.
"What are you—How—?"
Harry took a moment to collect himself, his gaze sweeping the man before him.
"You're free," he said slowly, narrowing his eyes.
He glanced down at Voldemort's hands and saw bloody gashes in his wrists, the skin saturated with red. It looked like he'd clawed himself loose.
His eyes returned to the Dark Lord. The man was studying him with some amusement.
"Surely you did not believe that you were the first person to attempt to restrain me with rope."
"But—" you have no magic, he had been about to say, though luckily he'd caught himself just in time.
Something in Voldemort's gaze sharpened, but he couldn't muster the energy to care what had caused it to.
His aching body believed the danger to be done and so his muscles began to tremble with fatigue once more. He leaned heavily against the countertop and felt his legs slide slowly out from underneath him until he had returned to the floor.
"I don't even care right now," Harry muttered, closing his eyes. "I'll deal with you in the morning. Piss off."
In the silence, Harry let his mind drift, hoping it would carry him to sleep, but instead he saw Garret Mables asking him for the twentieth time why no one had informed him about the Acromantula that lived in the Forbidden Forest before his mother had been devoured by one of them; or Mrs Brown who told him she wanted to push through prejudiced legislation to cull all werewolves after her daughter's fatal attack; or Mr Diggory, who still insisted on torturing him with talking about Cedric's death every chance he got.
It all came to the same thing: if he'd gotten his shit together sooner, if he'd put in any work at all instead of arsing about, then none of these tragedies would have happened.
Your fault, it's all down to you, their Saviour, their only hope and you fucked it up, you—
"Would you like to give some of that to me, Harry Potter?"
Harry looked up to see Lord Voldemort standing over him, his gaze dark and hungry.
Give it to me, give it to me— the words swirled around him and he didn't know what they meant. He didn't want to make a choice or come to a decision because that meant responsibility and they all knew what Harry Potter had done with that, he'd fucked it all up, he'd—
"Heal my wrists."
Harry looked up and got caught in that red stare for long moments.
An order. He liked those. What had it been for? The man's pupils were large, hidden half under his high cheekbones. Somehow, the weird, flat, alien face was still handsome. Tom Riddle was gone, but the starkly white skeleton man's air of danger was incredibly compelling.
"My wrists, Potter," Voldemort reminded him, his voice low, extending the injuries closer to Harry. "Heal them."
Harry's hand moved to his robes and pulled out his wand. Without thought, he mended the wounds, and even managed to clean them. Once the skin looked flawless and pale again, he returned his wand and looked up, waiting for further instructions.
"Good boy."
Harry cringed. Voldemort's finger tipped up his chin.
"You dislike that term," Voldemort observed.
Harry turned away, feeling awkward for his own reaction.
"My uncle..." he muttered.
He couldn't go on, it was too pathetic.
"Your uncle praised you similarly?" Voldemort ventured, and Harry snorted.
"Yeah, that would be a first."
"What then?" Voldemort persisted.
Harry shook his head, but Voldemort grabbed his chin securely.
"When I ask you a question, you answer. Why does that term bother you?"
Harry didn't talk about this— never talked about his time with the Dursleys. He wanted to slink away, but Voldemort held his face firmly.
"My uncle," he began, not knowing how to explain that embarrassing conditioned response. "He... he never called me by my name. No one there did. I was always just, boy."
Harry looked up at Voldemort to see the man scrutinising him intently.
"I was told you were treated well at your relatives'."
Harry laughed out loud at that.
"That's a good one. Did Snape tell you that?" He laughed again at Voldemort's bewildered expression. "Well, sorry to contradict your information, but I was treated like a slave. They starved me and smacked me around. Made me work myself sick. I was an unwelcome burden. My uncle said I was useless. Worthless. Tainted. A freak—"
"Enough," Voldemort interjected and Harry shut his mouth, realising he'd said those words aloud.
The Dark Lord walked to the kitchen table, pulled out a chair, and seated himself regally. Harry could not take his eyes away.
"Your uncle is a Muggle, Harry. You should know better than to listen to his braying."
Harry's gaze roamed the man's long legs, his posture so frustratingly arrogant no matter what Harry did to him.
"Come."
Harry searched that face, noting the crimson eyes that narrowed when Harry hesitated.
"Crawl to me," Voldemort commanded. "I will take your pain and then send you to bed."
Harry could crawl. He could do that to receive a restful sleep. Last time he'd agreed to this, he'd slept blissfully.
He shifted and moved awkwardly across the dirty tiles. It felt wrong to be doing this, crawling for this man, but Harry just wanted to sleep. He didn't want to think anymore. It was weak, but who cared if he was weak before this man? No one would know. It was safe to fall apart here.
Voldemort hummed in approval and Harry hated the jolt of pride he felt at that, but whatever. Fuck it. So what if he got off on Voldemort praising him? No one had to know.
"I think I would like to see you bow for me," Voldemort mused, spreading his legs to make space for Harry between them. "Forehead to the floor, Potter."
As his body moved into position, he became aware that he was exposing his neck to his enemy. Leaving himself wide open for anything. He wouldn't even be able to keep the man in his sights.
The implications and dangers of this screamed caution into his ears, but then Voldemort's bare foot nudged his shoulder and he instantly bent, sinking down and pressing his face to the cool floor.
He closed his eyes.
Fear and shock slammed against him, but he just took a deep breath and settled in further. Let his mind blank.
I am bowing to Lord Voldemort.
A fact with no emotions.
He let his thoughts quiet, relaxing his muscles.
A warm, heavy weight suddenly appeared against his spine, pressing him further down.
Lord Voldemort's legs are on my back.
The image of what the two of them probably looked like popped into his mind: Harry, curled into a ball with Lord Voldemort's legs upon his back, using him as a footrest.
Harry let the picture go without judgement.
He felt small. Like he was invisible, or perhaps he was just there with the simple purpose of lifting up someone's legs.
And footstools didn't have prophesied responsibilities.
He could do this mundane task. So long as he stayed still and didn't disrupt the man, he could do something right. He closed his eyes and concentrated on that, on pleasing the Dark Lord.
"How readily you obey me, Harry Potter," Voldemort said softly, and a creaking sound alerted him that the man was moving.
Not yet! I don't want to come back, don't make me, please—
Fingers sunk into his hair and began gently stroking his skin. He froze, unsure if he could trust it, but when no action was taken to force him up, Harry closed his eyes again, accidentally letting out a low moan of relief.
"You like this," Voldemort whispered, his fingers meandering over Harry's scalp.
Harry knew he was expected to answer, but found he didn't want to speak out loud in this position.
Footstools didn't talk.
Instead, he pushed his head against the hand in his hair. The action made him feel like a kitten and that was a hilarious image, but he just let it go. So what? It felt good. And no one would know.
A soft chuckle met his ears and that almost snapped him right out of his daze— the Dark Lord laughing? Was he mocking him? Was Harry doing something embarrassing?
The other man must have sensed his unease because he made a shushing sound.
"None of that, Potter. I am enjoying your responses."
Harry felt a contented smile cross his lips. He laid his head back down and let himself sink into this. It felt natural, like a puzzle piece was finally locking into place.
"It would seem that you are eager to please," Voldemort remarked. "Would you like to serve me further?"
Harry was slow to take in the meaning of that. He ran it through his mind a couple of times and then opened his eyes. Voldemort continued before Harry could get lost.
"I require something from you. No need to speak, I merely seek your thoughts. Give me the memory of when you returned me to my body. Do this, and you shall be rewarded. You will have Lord Voldemort's gratitude."
Yes.
Harry clenched and released his fingers.
I want that.
"Good, very good," Voldemort said, and Harry felt the man shift.
His head was lifted off the floor by the hand in his hair. It hurt, but everything was strangely muted. The cool lip of a potion bottle pressed against his cheek, just under his glasses.
"Focus," Voldemort instructed him, his fingers tightening. "Think of the ritual and give me the—"
A sudden sharp knocking sound echoed down the stairs to where they were in the kitchen. Harry gasped and it was like being slapped awake. He made to push himself up, but the firm legs on his back did not recede. Instead, they increased the pressure upon him.
"Stay, Potter," Voldemort hissed.
Harry nodded, trying to relax back, but then another series of bangs on his door came crashing down the stairs. He pressed his hands to the ground, ready to stand.
"Do not move—"
Voldemort grabbed him by the front of his robes, pulling him up and forward. Closer. Harry's eyes flew wide, shocked to stillness at seeing the Dark Lord's furious face so close.
"Mr Potter!" a muffled, distant voice cried, and the spell was broken.
Someone needed him.
Harry struggled to get free, trying to weaken Voldemort's hold.
"You will ignore it, Potter," Voldemort commanded fiercely. "It is the middle of the night. What business could—"
"It doesn't matter!" Harry shouted, shoving the man's chest to no avail. "They need help!"
"And why from you? Why must you do this?"
Harry was so thrown by the question that he stopped struggling. He looked up at the man in confusion.
"Because it's my job," he replied, stating that obvious fact as if to a child.
Voldemort's gaze darkened.
"You owe them nothing, Potter. They owe you, you imbecile."
Harry shook his head desperately.
"No. No, I—"
"It is suicide that you are chasing."
Harry's lips parted.
No defence came to him, because there was none.
"Do not think I do not see it," Voldemort whispered dangerously. "You offer yourself to these carrion birds so that they will pick you clean."
Voldemort bent down, his fingers releasing Harry's robes to sink back into his hair, but this time his hold was punishing.
"It is a waste. You—"
"Please," that distant voice begged, and Harry sucked in a gasp.
He yanked his head away and felt his skin tear where Voldemort had hung on. But it was enough. He broke free and ran up the stairs, his heart slamming against his ribs.
You couldn't even manage to do a footstool's job properly. Failure, fuck up—
He pulled the door open.
.
.
Voldemort watched the boy run upstairs. Towards the worthless, disposable disruption and away from him.
It should not be thus.
The boy was his.
Insatiably curious, he followed.
"...moments, I promise," a voice he did not recognise said imploringly.
The boy did not respond and Voldemort yearned for his camouflage spells and Legilemency. He took two steps closer, careful not to be seen.
"It's late," Potter replied, sounding nervous, which would only make the visitor hungrier. "Now is not a great time, but—"
"We saw you running away."
Voldemort did not like the stranger's accusatory tone. Harry Potter had never run away from danger in his life.
The silence was maddening. Voldemort quietly crept back down into the kitchen and selected a large silver spoon. When he had reached the top of the stairs again, he used the convex side of the metal to peer around the corner.
Potter was standing with his back to Voldemort and another person was facing him. A young woman, perhaps a decade or so older than the boy.
She stepped closer to Potter and he stepped back.
Fool.
"There were explosions everywhere," the woman said, daring to take yet another step forwards and Voldemort burned to feel Dark magic fly from his fingertips, "and we needed you. I saw you flee into the forest. The giants— they were... They..."
The woman trailed off, choking on her ridiculous sobs and Potter moved towards her, perhaps to offer her undeserved coddling.
"Here," the boy said, backing up and opening the door wider. "Come in. Just—"
He looked behind himself and towards the stairs where Voldemort stood concealed.
"Stay here, in the foyer."
The boy conjured a chair and the woman fell into it, still heaving and gasping obscenely.
"Can I get you some water?" Potter quietly asked, standing awkwardly at her side. "Or—"
"You can get me my sister back!" the woman shouted.
People yelling always made Voldemort lean away in distaste, but he watched as Potter leaned in. Going towards the censure. Towards the threat. It perplexed him. Voldemort was no coward, yet neither would he place himself in danger unnecessarily.
"I'm sorry," Potter whispered, and his broken tone made Voldemort scrutinise his face.
The boy trusted too easily. This could be a lie. Her performance had earned her special treatment from the Chosen One and he was accepting her words as fact with no evidence.
"I..." Potter began, tears on his face, "I am so very sorry that I couldn't save her. I know it's not enough, it's—"
"You didn't even try," she interrupted, and Voldemort's fingers clenched. "I saw you run away into the forest. We were calling out to you for help. She was... she was trampled to death by your giants. She stayed behind to protect you and you ran away."
Potter was nodding at the lies. They had not been the boy's giants. The girl had not stayed behind for Potter. She had stayed behind for a naïve, idealistic yearning. She had stayed for herself.
"She was— she," the fool stammered, and Potter's legs buckled.
Voldemort watched him kneel, holding on to the arm of the chair, but Potter's eyes stayed riveted on the woman's face. Ensuring that he bared his chest for every hit.
Voldemort was done observing.
If the boy would not put an end to this, then Lord Voldemort would.
He released the spoon, rounding the corner into their sights, but before his presence could be detected, the fiend had pulled out her wand and shot a spell at Potter directly into his bewildered face.
Voldemort reached instinctively for his magic as he strode towards the beast who still had not looked up to see him. Potter fell back, unresponsive, his body thudding on the wood heavily.
The contemptible woman raised her wand again and dishonourably hit the unconscious boy with another Dark curse.
Voldemort bared his teeth.
The cadaver finally saw him. Her eyes grew huge and she began to recede, but Voldemort simply followed.
As if she could escape him.
"No," she denied in obvious horror, collapsing against the closed door, her wand useless at her side. "But you're... You're—"
Her terror pleased him, invigorated him. He would enjoy this.
"The Dark Lord Voldemort," he confirmed, close enough to touch at last.
"Please," she sobbed, her body pressing futilely against the wallpaper in a pathetic attempt to disappear.
He had always enjoyed begging.
Regarding her for a moment, he let himself savour this unexpected opportunity. Her snivelling was irritating, but he allowed his mind to wander onto what this situation had unlocked.
Potter could be dead.
Voldemort had recognised both curses and one, at least, had the potential to kill outright; the other would kill in days if left unlifted.
If the wards placed upon this manor were tied to the boy alone, then his death would break them and Voldemort would be free.
He felt his expression shift with excitement. The look must not have been comforting because the woman began to beg again through her craven tears.
He finally granted her his full attention.
Some familiar actions, he did not require magic to accomplish. Killing was one of his many proficiencies. Although he preferred the entertainment of psychological trauma to precede it, his current needs limited his options.
Reaching forward, he simply pressed hard against the throbbing arteries in her neck, cutting off both blood and oxygen to her brain. She struggled, of course, but her need was less than his, and her fear made her weak.
When her body became limp, he followed it to the ground, continuing his hold just to make sure. Extra caution and preparedness had always served him well.
At last, she was quiet. He stood and took in his triumph over the woman. Even without his magic, he was far superior. She had managed to incapacitate and perhaps even kill the Boy Who Lived, and yet Lord Voldemort had exterminated her effortlessly.
Victory suited him.
He would have more of it.
Turning, he went to the boy and crouched down. Those penetrating eyes were closed, his face slack and open, but his body was twitching slightly.
That would be the Boiling Curse. It would be searing his skin intolerably right now, and the only reason his body remained impassive was due to the advanced Paralysis Curse he had also been struck with. The twitching was involuntary because the boy would have no present ability to control his movements.
Excellent.
He stood.
It was true, he could ameliorate the boy's condition. Maybe even save his life. He looked down on the spasming body.
But killing him would be wiser. With the boy gone, the prophecy would be broken at last.
Lord Voldemort would be indomitable.
With the boy dead, the ward's on this manor would fall and he would be free. He could create a way to bring back his magic and then pay an overdue visit to Lucius. The traitor would die both for being the only remaining person with knowledge of his return and also to atone for his disrespectful words.
His gaze remained rapt on Potter's flickering eyelids. Unfathomably, the spectacle was not pleasant to watch. It created a discomfort. A pull that jarred with his retreating momentum. His victory.
He forced himself to turn away and strode to the door. Closing his eyes, he placed his hands upon the wood and felt for the wards. They were there, pulsing with energy, ancient and strong.
Lowering his arms, he glanced behind himself to check the boy's status. The skin on those cheeks trembled, the fingers jolting at random.
Still alive.
Voldemort leaned his back against the wall, his fingers weaved in front of himself, and waited for the boy to perish.