CHAPTER 21

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Suddenly, his work was bustling.

He had been given two assistants whose obvious purpose was to keep him focused at work. They constantly hovered, reminding him of upcoming meetings or just asking him leading questions to steer him back if his mind began to wander.

Which it did.

Every moment of the bleeding day.

It took incredible effort to resist the pull of the man, knowing that Voldemort was waiting for him to come. He expected a rescue and Harry was nothing but a disappointment.

So far, he had made it five days without going back to him.

Yet he was still powerless against the thought of that tall, alluring body demanding that he kneel. Of those expressive eyes that shamed him for his disloyalty.

As he meandered through the crowds of people in his department now, he saw maps pinned to walls and lists of possible Horcrux locations— and he hated it. This undertaking was something that Harry had always done in private. It had been his job.

But not anymore.

Everyone was eager to be the one to locate that last Horcrux for Harry. So that he could do what they all expected him to do— as the prophecy promised he would do— and use his power to defeat the Dark Lord.

And that power, according to Dumbledore, was love.

Which was just the funniest fucking thing imaginable.

Love.

Dumbledore had actually tried to convince him that his goodness was what would kill Lord Voldemort.

His goodness.

Had the man not known him at all?

There was nothing good about Harry. Nothing that would help him kill someone. It had been a dishonest way to get a child to agree to murder— tell him that it was love that would do it.

But if love was what kills, then Voldemort must be supersaturated with it.

What utter rubbish.

Dumbledore had known nothing about either of them. He had never cared to. Tom Riddle had been a lost cause at the age of eleven, and Harry, merely a weapon to correct the mishandling of Tom.

He—

"Harry?"

Hermione pushed the door open, a cup of tea in both of her hands. Harry stood quickly and ushered her into his office.

"Thanks," he said, taking one of the cups from her with a weak smile. "What brings you by?"

"Oh, you know," she said evasively. "They asked me to come in again to go over that list. Ron's still in with them."

Harry tried not to let his distaste show.

Hermione and Ron had been called in to give their opinions on Horcrux locations, which was just absurd. Any information they'd ever acquired about Voldemort had come from Harry. He was the source, not them.

Hermione put her teacup down onto his desk and then met his gaze.

"I actually wanted to ask your opinion about something," she said, and Harry put down his own cup in trepidation.

Has she found out where his last Horcrux is?

"Okay," he said slowly.

"It's about that snake," she began, and Harry tensed further. "I never got a chance to tell you, but those mysterious deaths in Cove Bay stopped occurring around the middle of May."

Hermione gave him an embarrassed smile and Harry reluctantly nodded once to encourage her to go on.

"Now, we don't know how long Voldemort has had his new body for, or why he has no magic, but..."

She trailed off and Harry waited as long as he could.

"What, Hermione?" he asked impatiently, after a few seconds.

He'd never been good at waiting for things.

"Well, do you think that it's possible that he was the snake and whoever helped him get his body back found him like that?"

Harry felt her eyes judging his reaction carefully.

"I mean, maybe," he hedged, trying to sound skeptical. "But who would do that?"

Hermione held his gaze for too long, and then shrugged.

"Ron thinks it was Lucius," she replied. "I keep telling him that his wife surrendered Voldemort, so it's unlikely that it's him, but— you know Ron." She rolled her eyes. "He'll never forgive the Malfoys."

There was silence between them and Harry tried to figure out if that was Hermione telling him she suspected him. Harry picked up his teacup again, resolved to act normal.

Hermione leaned back. They sat together in silence, drinking their tea, Harry agonising over what subtext he was missing out on.

"Have you been to see him?" Hermione asked, and Harry tried to control his reaction.

How would a normal person respond to that?

"Yeah," he replied, taking a quick sip of tea. "Work made me go once."

Hermione nodded, but her expression was troubled.

"It's disgusting, isn't it?"

Harry put down his cup lest his shaking hands spill the liquid.

"What is?"

She frowned at him.

"What they're doing to him." Harry stopped breathing. "I'm sure you know. The guards are having a hard time protecting him from citizens flying into Azkaban and—"

I'll kill them.

"Harry?"

He looked down and realised that he was standing, rigid and poised to run. He froze, knowing that he should say something to assuage her worries, but nothing came to him.

Of course he had known it wouldn't be fun for Voldemort at the Ministry. But Harry had a job to do. He couldn't help.

Yet if Hermione was concerned, if she was allowed to care, maybe he could be allowed, too. Maybe his interference could be mistaken for compassion and not desperate sorrow.

"Have you seen the pictures in the Prophet?" Hermione asked, and Harry reminded himself to breathe.

No, he had not. He had been intentionally avoiding the papers.

"They're repulsive," she said, and Harry flinched. "Especially the ones of people posing next to his tortured form, as if he were an animal in a zoo."

"I have to go," Harry rasped, but Hermione grabbed his arm.

"Harry wait. Do you know something?" she asked boldly, and Harry worriedly met her gaze. "I can't shake this feeling that you're protecting someone."

Harry just stared at her, hardly hearing her words. She kept talking.

"Does this have anything to do with why you were so upset on the night that you came to us? Had you found something out?"

"Hermione— I can't. I can't talk about this."

"I know your job requires you to keep secrets, but you shouldn't have had to bear this alone. It's—"

"I have to go, I'm sorry," he interrupted, taking her hand off of his arm and kissing her knuckles apologetically before rushing out the door.

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Voldemort was unconscious, hanging limply in his restraints.

Harry pressed his bloody thumb to the lock and then shoved the door open.

"Voldemort?"

There was no response. He crossed the cell and touched the man's burning throat.

A pulse, though a weak one.

He released a rough breath of relief, leaning the hand not touching Voldemort against the wall to support himself.

Fuck. The man looked dreadful. Unlike the last time, Harry couldn't pretend that this situation was tenable. It wasn't fun or arousing anymore.

It was dire.

Voldemort's robes were filthy and stunk like piss and blood. His face was swollen unevenly, his lips split, and his beautiful bald head—

Beautiful?

— was bleeding in several places.

He hadn't known— he hadn't known. And that was no excuse, because Voldemort needed him to know. It didn't matter that the Dark Lord was using him; no one deserved to be treated like this.

Harry touched that hot cheek gently. The man's temperature was definitely raised.

"Wake up."

Nothing. Harry lowered his hands to place them both on those broad shoulders.

"Wake up," he repeated, shaking the man lightly.

Fucking hell.

He got out his wand and pointed it at Voldemort's chest.

"Renervate!"

A tight gasp rent the air and then those wild red eyes locked onto his, the corners pinched with pain.

Harry froze, not knowing what to do.

Heal him! Merlin, you should have done that before you woke him up.

Harry mended what he could see of the man's wounds as best he could without potions. It was enough to slow down the Dark Lord's rapid breathing.

"Can I do anything else?" Harry asked quietly, feeling lost and scared and useless.

Voldemort was scrutinising him deeply, that damn plug still between his lips.

"Can I... Can I take that out?"

He gestured to the man's mouth. Two breaths passed before Voldemort slowly inclined his head.

Harry pushed a single finger between the Dark Lord's teeth and gently hooked it to pull out the ball, but it would not move. The thing was wedged in there and Harry bet the man's jaws were seized from holding the same position for so long.

"Merlin, okay," Harry said, removing his finger and meeting Voldemort's fierce eyes again. "This might hurt. I have to force open your jaw to get it out. I'll heal you as soon as it's done, I promise."

Voldemort continued to stare at him and Harry took that as the only confirmation he was going to get.

Slowly, he put both index fingers and thumbs between those dry teeth and then pushed them carefully apart. There was a popping, grinding sound and then he was able to work the metal out. When he had pulled it free, Voldemort's mouth remained open and off-centred.

"Fuck— sorry."

Harry healed his face and watched as Voldemort delicately closed his jaws.

When Harry met that gaze again, words were pushed into his mind.

Water.

Harry quickly conjured a glass and then filled it with magic. He clumsily passed it to Voldemort and then swore when he realised that the man was unable to take it from him.

"Here," Harry said, and stepped closer to slowly tip the water against his lips.

Most of it spilled out and soaked his robes. Harry had to refill the cup three times until he could be sure that the man had managed to drink a sufficient amount.

He dried Voldemort's clothes and then stepped back, waiting to be told what to do next.

The man was panting, his eyes livid and trained onto him.

Get me out of here.

The words crashed into his mind and Harry jumped.

"I..."

Harry had been about to say, I will, but then realised that he couldn't. He had a job to do.

"Look," Harry said instead. "It's not that easy. I—"

It is. Release me and we walk out of here. No one will challenge the great Harry Potter.

Guilt and desperation warred within him. He wanted to help, he really did. But if he broke the man free... what then? What about Hermione and Ron and—

"Draco said that you want to kill his son," Harry blurted out, suddenly remembering the promise he'd made.

He searched that furious face. The man's eyes narrowed, those long fingers clenching.

What concern is that of yours?

Harry scoffed in astonishment.

"I don't want you murdering people, Voldemort!" Harry said, frustrated with the man's casual brutality.

Voldemort's face softened slightly. A small smile curved those cracked lips.

I have missed hearing my name.

Harry pulled back, confused.

Ah fuck. I don't even think of him as Tom anymore. Bugger.

"Never mind that, what about Scorpius?"

Voldemort's eyes grew dark.

Who is the boy to you?

"He's an innocent child," Harry emphasised, hating that this had to be explained. "I—"

Not the brat. His father.

Harry tilted his head.

"Draco?" At Voldemort's darkening stare, Harry assumed that that was who he'd meant. "What does he have to do with anything? Draco said you're threatening to kill his son, Scorpius. You can't do that."

Can't?

Harry growled.

"Can't, you fucker. I'm serious."

Or what?

Harry wanted to scream.

"Why does everything have to be a sodding trade agreement with you? You can't because then I won't trust you anymore! I won't help you!"

You will, Harry Potter.

Harry exhaled a sharp breath in incredulity. The blasted, unshakeable confidence of the madman was infuriating.

"Not that there's much I can do here anyways," Harry muttered, running a hand through his dirty hair and backing up towards the cell bars.

Unlock these restraints. We leave now.

Harry shook his head, not looking at him.

"I can't. I have a job to do."

Can't. You say you can't, yet you expect me to spare the infant.

Harry snorted out a bitter laugh.

"Is that our deal, then? I get you out and you leave the Malfoys alone?"

You would accept the boy's safety as payment for my release?

Voldemort did not sound happy about that.

"No. I guess I..." He smiled up at Voldemort, refusing to use the word can't. "Won't."

Voldemort did not smile back and Harry let his own fall as he considered his next words. Guilt and aversion churned nauseatingly within him.

But he had to do what was best for everyone else. Voldemort was just using him and Harry couldn't trust anything he said.

He resolutely met the man's hard, unforgiving gaze.

"I can't free you, Voldemort," he whispered with abject sincerity.

That intense stare held him, making Harry want to cower, but he forced himself to take the censure.

"The trial is in nine days," he went on. "I'll... come by when I can. I'll see if I can get them to stop... whatever they're doing to you. I'm—"

What— Sorry? You think that's good enough? The man's been beaten and abused and you think he wants your worthless apologies?

"Get me out of here, Potter," Voldemort rasped, his voice a thin wisp compared to its usual high, ominous susurration.

"I'm..." Harry rushed on, unable to acknowledge the command he was so desperate to obey, "I am still looking for your Horcrux. I have to—"

"You cursed me into this vulnerable body," that faltering, grating voice accused, "and then you have the cruel audacity to throw me into lethal situations. I would not have had to endure these violent tantrums if you had not critically wounded me."

Harry let that roll over him, tearing into his skin, flaying him.

You are the reason he's here. You're to blame for everything, every injury on that body—

But wait.

They were hurting him because Voldemort had hurt them first. He'd killed countless innocent people. Started two wars.

"I didn't force you to become a Dark Lord," Harry muttered slowly.

His awareness was starting to return to him, the debilitating guilt beating back.

"And when I tried to help," Harry reminded him, hoping the man remembered how Harry had given him a room and had planned on keeping him indefinitely, "you used me."

"Help," Voldemort scoffed roughly. "You stole my magic, Harry Potter. Struck me, starved me. And then abandoned me, leaving me vulnerable to abduction from a man I loathe. Now, you allow others to punish me for crimes that belong to you. No one but you can make me kneel. They are pursuing a futile endeavour— and you are letting them."

Harry shook his head.

"No."

He'd tried to punish the man and that had backfired tremendously. He was too gullible to handle the Dark Lord. Too susceptible.

He pushed off from the bars and walked out of the cell. He had to leave. Already, Voldemort's words were getting to him, making him feel responsible and guilty. If he stayed any longer, the man may just convince him to set him free.

Turning, Harry gently closed the door, hating himself viciously, yet knowing there was no other path.

"I'm sorry," Harry whispered uselessly.

As he walked down the stairs at a measured pace, he heard the Dark Lord cough and then speak quietly.

"You are not, Harry Potter. But you will be."

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Voldemort watched Potter leave, an incredulous fury raging inside of him.

That the boy would dare walk away, would dream of disobeying him at such a critical juncture, was unacceptable.

He closed his eyes, fighting the agony of his wounds once more. While Potter had been here, Voldemort had been too focused on the boy to acknowledge his body's condition, but now, everything came rushing back.

He breathed out slowly.

He had lost too much blood. His body felt volcanic, likely from the deep, infected lacerations on his back and stomach that had never been tended to. His arms remained painfully extended, taking all of the weight that his broken legs could not support.

Voldemort seethed.

It was not that he could not endure this; it was that he should not have to.

Potter was still obstinately insisting upon being upset about whatever it was that Voldemort had supposedly done— despite them both knowing that Potter would eventually come for him.

It was not in the boy's nature to continue to allow violence. He could not even tolerate aggression administered by his own hand.

Potter was making a point, clearly. He wanted to impress upon Voldemort that he was offended by their previous encounter. And Voldemort had graciously given him time to sulk. Had allowed the boy almost a week to come back, grovelling with apology.

He would wait no longer.

The pain, the hunger, the exhaustion— they were aggravating. Yet worse, was that he suffered them for lesser beings. The writhing masses did not deserve to be granted his blood, to see him falter.

That was for Potter alone.

And his injuries were becoming dire. These idiots did not possess the knowledge to prolong torture. They attacked him and then allowed his body to fester, which would soon end his precious life.

All of this, in a short week's time.

Amateurs.

Yet, no matter that he had ties to life that would save him, he still did not wish to perish and return to wraithhood once more.

It had been endless, with no body. Agonising, without having a source. He had been unable to sleep nor eat while bodiless, and yet his soul had yearned for both. His tormented mind had fixated upon the unlikelihood of his recovery. He had not been able to settle nor rest, but instead had been forced to endlessly roam, searching for someone to come to his aid.

And how that had rankled.

Lord Voldemort required no one, and yet wraithhood had forced him to seek assistance. It—

Footsteps upon the stairs diverted him. He waited, watching to see who would emerge.

"...not saying that he's losing it, Bethany, just that he seems off. I mean, what was that?"

One of his guards appeared and Voldemort studied him, listening.

"He's just busy," the other Auror stated, coming into view. "Don't take it so personally."

"Okay, but did he have to—"

The man had glanced at him and then frozen. The second guard turned to him as well.

"His gag is out."

They both looked perplexed.

"Did Mr Potter remove that?" the woman inquired nervously, not coming any closer.

Voldemort allowed all the rage he felt to bleed into his gaze. He watched the two peons wither.

"I know you names," he rasped, lamenting that his voice was rough. "I know your families."

The woman looked scared, but the man sneered.

"Yeah, sure you do. How could you? You're just a prisoner."

Voldemort smiled darkly, eternally amused when someone doubted his abilities.

"Tell the Minister for Magic that I have information for him. I am willing to negotiate."

The man laughed incredulously.

"Why should we? We're not your messengers. You can see him at your trial."

Voldemort pulled in all of his composure, ignoring his agonised limbs and ravenous hunger. He stared at the man, allowing him to see the peril of disobeying Lord Voldemort.

"You will tell him, or, when I get free, I will slaughter your daughter Keysha, and your darling wife Imani."

The imbecile's face fell in horror. The woman took out her wand and pointed it at Voldemort.

"How did you know—?"

"Don't confirm it, Bethany! Merlin."

Voldemort's smile grew.

The insects would spittle and rage, but ultimately, concede. He just hoped that Potter returned to fix this before Lord Voldemort was forced to act.