CHAPTER 17

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There was a knock on his office door. Harry quickly hid the incriminating documents on his desk with magic before wandlessly clicking the lock open.

Hermione entered— with Ron.

Uh oh.

Fuck. Look awake. Look normal.

Harry stood, setting his features to seem concerned.

"Hey, what's up? Is everything okay?"

Hermione's gaze swept over his body and then took in his immaculate desk. Harry forced himself not to fidget under her careful scrutiny.

"Yeah," Ron replied, coming in and leaning against one of his chairs. "Everything's fine on our end."

Ron shot a look at Hermione, raising his eyebrows and pursing his lips.

"So why are you here, then?" Harry asked slowly.

Had he been sloppy? Had Lucius finally found a way to tell someone what Harry had done?

Had Voldemort been found?

"We got a letter from Selena, Harry," Hermione said, finally meeting his gaze. She looked troubled. "She said you weren't doing so well."

Harry made an indignant sound, crossing his arms.

"That's ridiculous. Why would she—"

"She's said you've stopped eating."

Harry froze, taking that like a slap to his face. How the fuck would she know? He never ate with anyone on principle, so how could she—

"She's worried about you, Harry."

Hermione moved closer, reaching out her hand and Harry took it automatically.

"You look unwell," she whispered, squeezing his fingers. "Are you sleeping? What's been going on?"

Harry gently pulled his hand away.

"I'm fine, but I'm also at work, so can we do this some other time?"

"We've tried, mate," Ron muttered, not meeting his eyes. "We've come by your place two times and knocked. We called for you..." Ron glanced up, a guilty look on his face. "We set wards. To tell us when you got home and—"

"What the fuck?" Harry demanded, backing away. "You're spying on me now? What—"

"You haven't been home for days—" Hermione began, but Harry cut her off.

"So what? That's none of your business!" Harry shouted.

Ron suddenly hit him with a mild shocking spell, the one he used on his kids to reprimand them sometimes. Harry halted immediately.

"Don't yell at her," Ron warned him, his expression hard.

Ron held his gaze until Harry nodded and quietly apologised to Hermione.

"That's okay, Harry," she said, smiling at him, but Harry felt horrible.

He was just like his uncle. Verbally abusive and aggressive. Violent. He—

"I'm sorry we placed the wards," Hermione said tentatively, "but you stopped answering my Floo-calls. You haven't replied to any of my letters. And you've been behaving really strangely at work."

Harry fought to rein in his temper.

"I'm fine. I appreciate your concern, but I've just been busy. In any case, my job doesn't have anything to do with you, so how could you possibly know how—"

"People talk," Ron said, and Harry was still too chastened to meet his gaze. "Famous Harry Potter and all that. I've heard you're distracted. Irritable. Someone told me that you yelled at a bloke who asked for an autograph yesterday?"

Ron walked forward and Harry tensed, expecting pain, but Ron simply put his hand on Harry's shoulder, gently this time. Harry couldn't control his flinch, which made Ron drop his hand.

"That's not like you, Harry," he whispered. "I know your fame bothers you, but everything together—"

"I'm just busy at work," Harry repeated.

"But that's the thing," Hermione said delicately. "With what? Your team said you haven't been calling meetings. You're not assigning them work. They say you're always in your office busy, though no one knows with what."

Harry balled his hands, furious at this betrayal. So everyone talked behind his back? Wonderful. They joys of being a celebrity. They were all whispering that he was not fit for this job. That he was failing them.

"I've been—"

"Busy," Ron finished, and Harry looked up to see a soft, wry smile on his lips. "You've said. Busy with what?"

Harry's face twitched.

"Nothing important."

"And yet it's making you so busy that you are forgetting to eat again," Ron persisted and Harry looked away quickly. "And sleep. And go home."

"It's not your problem— I'm not your problem anymore. You've made that quite clear."

Hermione made a soft sound, an inhale, and Harry looked up at her.

Oh, fuck.

"I'm sorry," Harry said quickly. "I didn't mean that."

Hermione nodded, but her eyes looked wet.

"You're upset we got married," Ron said bluntly, and Harry felt a thrill of horror go through him.

Fuck, what are you doing?

"No," Harry denied, meeting his gaze with fear. "Of course not."

"Then what did you mean?"

"I just— I'm not your problem anymore."

"Our problem?"

"Look," Harry said, fucking it all up, "I know that you care about me, but this is my life. My job. My... everything."

He looked away, hating himself.

"I appreciate your concern—"

"That's fucking bollocks," Ron said forcefully, and Harry turned back to him in shock. "Don't say stuff like that to us. We're not your throngs of nameless fans. We're not concerned. We love you. You matter to us and we're confronting you like this because you are our family. You matter."

Harry looked away again, mortified that his throat was tingling, his eyes welling with tears.

Don't you fucking cry, you worthless baby. Suck it up. They don't mean it anyway. You don't matter. That's why they left you out. You're on your own now, so fix this. Stop whinging and get them out of here.

"Oh, Harry," Hermione whispered, and then he was pulled into a tight hug, her arms coming around him first and then immediately joined by Ron's.

Harry choked, pushing back against them weakly, but Ron just gripped him tighter and the compression felt good. It felt real and overwhelming and then Harry was sobbing, gasping on his breaths, and clinging to them tightly.

They were murmuring words to him, but they didn't matter. What mattered was that they were there. Holding him and seeing him. Being okay with Harry Potter not being okay.

When he finally got himself under control, he realised that he and Hermione were sitting in Ron's lap, while the red-head used one of his office chairs to hold them. Harry quickly made to get up, humiliated that he had imposed in such a way, but Ron just gripped his scrambling hands and held them tightly.

"You're good, mate," Ron reassured him. "You weigh less than Hermione."

"Hey!" she said indignantly, but then leaned over and kissed her husband on the nose.

Harry closed his eyes.

Let them love each other. See if there are scraps here for you, too.

This was nice. It was comforting, but his fucked up mind couldn't help thinking about how perfect it had felt kneeling at Voldemort's feet. How all of his problems had seemed to melt away as he gave the Dark Lord his heavy burdens.

Thinking about Voldemort hurt.

The man was gone.

Two weeks ago, Harry had finally returned home, drunk and angry, the day before he'd meant to turn Voldemort in. He'd gone back, planning on a confrontation, but really he had just needed Voldemort's help. He'd been feeling out of control and had stayed away as long as he could. He had desperately needed to surrender. He'd needed the penance.

The quiet.

But when he'd gotten home, he hadn't been able to find the man. He'd looked everywhere, tried every revealing charm, searched every alcove. He'd scoured the area outside. He'd even gone to Azkaban and the Ministry's holding cells and yet, Voldemort was nowhere to be found.

So he must have run away.

Harry had been doing a good job of ignoring the sharp pain of betrayal that he'd felt at that realisation. The hurt.

The heartbreak.

Although Harry had resolved to divulge the secret of Voldemort's survival the following day, he hadn't been completely self-unaware. He'd never have fucking done it. He was a coward through and through. He always put himself first and he knew that he had gone home that night hoping that Voldemort would talk him out of his plans.

But the house had been empty.

And now, Harry spent every moment of the day and night searching for him.

Guilt drew him, sure. He was worried that his blunder would result in hundreds of innocent deaths. Of course he was.

But he also just wanted the man back.

He missed the purpose the man gave to his life. The banter, the danger. The house was lonely without him.

He missed the peace he had found on his knees. Harry had lied to Voldemort when he'd said that he could pay for this shit. The truth was that Harry would never allow himself to submit to any other person.

No one else understood Harry's needs. He wasn't allowed to have needs. He had to be flawless.

But with Voldemort, when he was forced to the floor, everything else fell away. He was able to just exist, separate from Harry Potter, the Chosen One, and just be boy. A regular person with no responsibilities. Who didn't fuck everything up that he touched. With no crushing guilt that followed him relentlessly, like a shadow.

No one else could give that to him.

And now he was truly alone.

He began to cry again, softly, and Hermione burrowed her face into his neck. It felt nice, but it wasn't what he wanted. He didn't want soft and kind.

He wanted pain. He wanted to forget.

"We're taking you home, Harry," Hermione said, kissing his cheek as she pulled away.

Panic drew him back, and he looked up at them in fear. It was the middle of the day, he couldn't just skive off work!

"No. I'm fine."

Ron made a disparaging sound in the back of his throat.

"Sure. Totally fine. Because that is absolutely going to work on us."

"No, I—"

"Harry," Hermione urged, and he stopped to listen to her. "We're taking you home. Let us get you into bed and then we'll leave."

Harry hated this, hated being looked after. It made him feel like a failure. It wasn't right.

He opened his mouth to continue arguing, but Ron pinched him hard in the side.

"Ow!" Harry yelped, turning to face his friend with a look of bewilderment.

Ron was smirking.

"Not a discussion. Come on, let's get you home."

Something about Ron's rigid attitude reminded him so painfully of Voldemort. It felt wonderful to have someone just tell him what to do. Ron was here at the moment, but his friend's priority was Hermione, so Harry couldn't let himself get lost in the feeling.

Absently, he found himself being brought to standing. He watched his things get collected and then he was shepherded out of his office.

Some of his team were loitering outside and a panicked terror seized him thinking of his colleagues seeing him like this.

He tried to force his brain to find something to say, but Ron beat him to it.

"Mr Potter is helping us with something important. He'll be out of the office for a few days taking care of it, but will be back Thursday or Friday."

"Is everything okay?" someone asked, and that fear built up again.

They'll know you're taking time off. You're not supposed to, you have a duty—

"Of course," Ron replied with a grin. "Or, it will be, once Harry helps us. Best Auror around, eh?"

And without waiting for a reply, Harry was ushered into the lifts and taken home.

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Voldemort lay still, his eyes closed, focused on his breathing.

The air was terrifyingly sparse, but he refused to allow his body to hyperventilate again and succumb to unconsciousness. Lucius would not kill him. Therefore, he must simply endure.

Potter will come.

He slowed his heart rate, working to control his breaths. This deeply buried coffin was charmed to provide the barest minimum of oxygen needed to live, but not enough to prevent the alarming symptoms of hypoxemia: the painful numbness in his head, the sweating, the fear.

His body warred with his mind, trying to panic him, yet he would resist. It had been days, and surely Lucius was growing bored of Voldemort's lack of reaction. The traitor would soon exhume him and recommence his other activities.

Thus far, his body had been commandeered with the Imperious Curse to obey clichéd instructions, such as kneeling and begging. His skin had been cut and bruised, and he had been commanded to parrot ridiculous phrases.

Lucius had learned nothing from the Dark Lord Voldemort.

The younger man had tried so hard to humiliate him, yet Voldemort was protected from shame. Any fool with a wand could make someone obey, make them bleed. A true Master made them seek the pain themselves.

Made them want it.

He was in no real danger here. Being buried alive had been his punishment for laughing at the man's last pathetic performance.

Though, he could admit that this acute sensory deprivation affected him more than he would have liked. He was able to hear nothing at all but his hitherto unnoticed bodily sounds— his blood slushing through his veins, his raspy breathing, his twisting stomach feasting on itself...

And he was in a coffin. Buried deeply.

He gritted his teeth and forced his mind to calm. He was superior. Untouchable, and this cage, like all others, would never hold him.

Lord Voldemort was immortal.

All of these puerile acts were, in reality, serving himself. The longer he could incite Lucius to pursue vengeance, the less likely he was to go to Azkaban. The more time he gave to Potter.

The boy would be searching for him. They had too much between them left unresolved.

Voldemort huffed out a short breath. He would strive to be patient. These irritants were nothing against what he would do to Lucius when he finally reclaimed his powers once more.

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Harry stared at the soup he'd made.

It was steaming still, thanks to magic. He held the spoon in his right fist, poised to dip into the liquid, but he couldn't will himself to move.

Voldemort had said that he would take responsibility for Harry's eating going forward. It wasn't Harry's job any longer to have to worry about it. Voldemort had said he would see to Harry's needs.

But he was gone.

He had left, right in the middle of everything. Sure, Harry had taken some time away to get his head sorted, but he'd always intended to come back. How could Voldemort have abandoned him like that?

Harry slammed the spoon down onto the table with self-disgust.

Merlin. Voldemort had really warped his mind. The man was a murderer. An egotistical tyrant. Why did Harry daftly believe that the Dark Lord meant any damn word he'd ever said? It was manipulation, all of it.

It was clear that Voldemort had always just been looking for a way out.

Harry stood from the table. He had work to do. Hermione thought he was sleeping right now, so he had at least four nag-free hours with which to work.

If he couldn't find the man, then he had to keep searching to locate and destroy his last Horcrux. By then, the Dark Lord would likely have been caught and Harry would have to face him again. He'd have to point his wand straight between those confusing, lying eyes and end him, at last.

He closed his mind against the rebellion that clanged to life at that image.

Voldemort had left him.

He had lied.

Therefore, whatever Harry wanted to preserve or cling to, was futile.

Voldemort didn't want him.

And that was all that mattered.

Harry turned away from his untouched meal and went back upstairs to his notes.

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The sizzling burn of the metal brand against his skin was blinding, but he denied his muscles the opportunity to pull away. Voldemort grimaced tightly and forced himself to maintain eye contact, refusing to look away.

"There's a mark for you, my Lord," Lucius sneered, as Voldemort tried not to inhale the scent of his own cooked flesh. "Burned onto your skin like cattle. Like the Muggle filth you came from."

Lucius ripped the metal away and Voldemort glanced down to see parts of his skin peeling off with it. He clenched his teeth to stifle his hiss of pain.

"It was ridiculous that you pretended to belong to the pure-blood elite," the dead man whispered. "You, with your filthy Muggle father and tramp mother. You were never one of us."

A bolt of shock went through Voldemort's adrenaline-saturated body. He dragged his eyes away from the large red Malfoy wound on his left inner forearm, and pierced the other man with his stare.

"What?" Lucius asked, a smile curving those lips. "Weren't you aware that Potter had divulged all of your secrets years ago?"

Fury and agony battled within him. Voldemort had killed many for that crime. Or, more precisely, had killed them to ensure that that crime would never be committed.

Potter would pay for his insolence.

But first—

"You were always unremarkable, Lucius," Voldemort said quietly, slowly, trying to suppress the searing pain of the burn rushing through him. "As if your lineage was anything to be proud of. What have the Malfoys done, beyond pointlessly accumulating wealth?"

The blond sneered.

"Wealth brings power," he enthused ignorantly. "I own the Ministry."

Voldemort made a disparaging sound.

"That is not power," Voldemort informed him. "Your affluence earns you favours, certainly. But true power is making the laws, not tweaking them. Leading the people, not influencing their leaders. Your brand of power is, as always— unremarkable."

Lucius kicked him then, sprawling him onto his back, but the action was petulant. Voldemort was getting to him.

"Everything you have, was given to you," Voldemort continued, enjoying the traitor's discomfort as he stood once again. "You have never had to work for anything. Therefore, none of it is truly yours."

"That's right," Lucius agreed in a satisfied tone. "I was born into privilege. My status is unshakable and legitimate. You were born into poverty. The son of inbred criminals, descended from a famous teacher."

Voldemort's murderous rage thrashed inside of him.

"Everyone could see that you were unworthy," the imbecile went on, "thus you had to create an absurd new name and identity, then shout it into crowds hoping someone would listen. You're not entitled to greatness like I am."

"My greatness was prophesied," Voldemort countered, yearning for his magic so he could end this exchange properly. "If you are heeded, it is merely because they respected your father. And his father. Because your forbears bought their influence."

It was nothing but lazy nepotism. Pure-bloods had no ambition because they already believed themselves at the summit. True drive came from wanting more. From that hunger to shatter everything into dust in order to mould it into your liking.

"People listen to me," Voldemort whispered, feeling that energising sense of purpose burgeoning inside of him, "because I make them want to. If I had to convince them to follow me, as you say, then they decided to. They learned that I was right. You?" Voldemort allowed his gaze to slide down Lucius's form derisively. "Listening to a Malfoy is simply bad habit."

"Enough of this!" Lucius shouted, pointing his wand again at Voldemort's face. "You will make this Vow with me, or I will hold you under the Cruciatus until that demented mind of yours shatters!"

Reining in the murderous momentum that had been gathering, he forced himself to focus.

This Vow. He would rather not entangle himself in an Unbreakable Vow of any kind. Especially one that guaranteed no harm being done to any Malfoy. That was a promise he refused to keep.

Pain was nothing. It was insignificant— transient, to an immortal. He could endure it if he must to safeguard his options.

Voldemort shook his head slowly.

"So uninspired," he condemned with disappointment. "Harry was far more competent at this than you."

Lucius bared his teeth and raised his wand, but before he could utter a single spell, another voice froze them both.

"Father?"