CHAPTER 23

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Harry thrashed in his bindings, shouting around that fucking gag to alert his men who were helpless and unaware downstairs. Lord Voldemort was coming, and they didn't know.

He was fighting desperately to focus his wandless magic and release the manacles when he heard the first scream.

Harry's mind became a razor and cut through his panic.

They needed him.

They were no match for Lord Voldemort.

The chains fell away, clanking dully on the floor. He pushed against the wall and turned, but tripped over his still-bound legs and fell onto the floor in a heap.

More screams. Harry heard a struggle occurring. There was the banging of metal against something hard and lots of muffled scuffling.

With his free hands, he ripped the gag painfully from his mouth and dropped the privacy ward.

"Voldemort!" he screamed, his voice booming through the room. "Stop! Leave them alone!"

He concentrated and snapped open his ankle restraints. Quickly, he summoned his trousers and threw them on, his robes falling down around him as he vanished his pants.

He rushed down the stairs, tripping in his haste and grabbed onto the wall to keep going.

When he arrived at the landing, it was to carnage.

There was a body on the floor whose face had been smashed to a bleeding mess, brain tissue clumped on the stones.

Harry looked up and saw his Auror, Mateo, soaked with blood, but standing and staring in horror at him, his gaze blank. Harry's eyes travelled from his face to where his wand was pointing, at Voldemort's chest as the man lay on the floor, alive and staring at Harry.

"Oh my god," Harry breathed, feeling everything in him want to fall apart, but Harry Potter didn't have that luxury.

He sent a quick Patronus to Kingsley, telling him to come quick and to bring reinforcements.

They would need to collect the parts of their colleague that were clinging wetly to the wall.

"Mateo," Harry rasped, and then cleared his throat. "I need you to go to St Mungo's. You're in shock, okay?"

He stepped closer to the man, placing his hand on Mateo's shoulder.

"Listen," Harry said firmly, and Mateo's gaze snapped to his. He looked more alert. "Go to St Mungo's. Tell them you're in shock and let them help you, do you understand?"

Mateo nodded, his eyes sliding slowly back to stare down at Karim's body, but Harry stepped in front of him, blocking his view.

"Go," Harry commanded, and physically pushed the man towards the door down into the main entryway. "Do you think you can Apparate?"

Mateo stumbled back a few paces and then took a deep breath.

"Yes, sir."

Harry nodded.

"Alright. Go do that."

Mateo nodded vaguely and then turned and left.

Harry slowly released a breath.

He stayed facing away from the carnage. From the man who'd just told him that he'd wanted him and then bludgeoned one of his workmates to death with a chair.

What did you expect? He may not have magic, but he's still the Dark Lord Voldemort.

Harry had been a naïve fool. To have forgotten what Voldemort was capable of was a failing that would haunt him forever. He had been selfish. Blind.

And now Karim was dead.

His blood was on Harry's hands.

Footsteps thundered across the flagstones and Harry forced himself to put on his Harry Potter mask.

He pulled out his wand and pointed it at Voldemort, but he didn't allow his gaze to linger.

He felt mildly betrayed, and yet that was unfair. It was not the Dark Lord's job to protect the guards— that had been Harry's job. Voldemort had never said he would stop killing; Harry had just assumed that their weird relationship would earn him some consideration.

A dangerous wager that he had lost.

Well, not him.

Never him.

An innocent had died and Harry was required to add another name to the list of people that he had killed.

Karim Farsi. Six years as an Auror. A husband at home, no children. A good worker.

A victim of Harry's ego.

"What happened?" Kingsley said, suddenly at his side, and Harry startled.

"Voldemort got out," Harry replied, resolved to tell what he could of the truth.

Enough to get him in trouble, but not enough to lose him his job. It wasn't time yet. Once Voldemort was killed, he would admit to everything and gratefully accept the death penalty that would surely follow.

"How?" Kingsley asked, sounding floored. He scrutinised Harry's face. "You're hurt, too. Your teeth are broken. Was there a battle?"

Two more Aurors came into view and stopped in shock, staring at what was left of Karim.

Nausea churned within him rabidly, yet Harry refused to show weakness. He would bear the discomfort. He deserved it— this and more.

Much more.

"Let's get Gillian and Kendra here to deal with this," Kingsley said, beginning to exit the area as four people from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement came into the room. "I want you in my office, Harry, so you can tell me what happened."

"I can't, sir. I've got to organise my people. We—"

"They'll figure it out. They know procedure. I need that report."

Harry nodded, about to follow him, but he couldn't. Not yet, not without—

"What's going to happen to him?" Harry asked quietly, gesturing towards his feet were the Dark Lord still resided.

Kingsley turned his gaze to Voldemort, his eyes hardening with contempt.

"If I could kill him myself, I would," Kingsley said grimly, and then sighed. "As it stands, I suspect they'll just put him back and make him sorry for what he did."

Jesus.

Harry couldn't leave. He couldn't, not when he knew that they were about to torture Voldemort again, and sure, the bastard deserved to be punished, but he still couldn't leave him.

"Let's go," Kingsley prompted, turning back to raise his eyebrows at Harry, a few feet from the exit.

He said he wanted you.

You can't leave him.

Harry glanced behind himself to see Jessica taking photos of a chunk of Karim's hair and scalp that was still stuck to the chair leg.

Bloody fucking hell.

He can't die. He can suffer, and maybe he deserves to for a bit after what he did.

I'll get him back tomorrow and heal him and then I'll deal with the rest.

Before he left, Harry's gaze helplessly fell to Voldemort, allowing himself to look into the man's intense eyes. Words pushed into his mind.

I had to try.

Harry stared at him.

He nodded subtly, understanding.

The man wouldn't be Voldemort if he hadn't attempted everything he could to escape. Harry should have known better; it was his job to know better. To remember that Voldemort was an accomplished manipulator.

Like how he convinced you that you were wanted.

As Harry followed Kingsley out of the prison, his mind was clumsily piecing together that Voldemort had used him again. Harry had actually fallen for the same act, like a complete tit. Had let the man fuck him. Had felt liberated and connected for the first time in so long—

And it had been a lie.

Voldemort had just wanted him distracted so that he could escape.

Harry wrapped his arms around himself as the bitter wind outside blew through his robes.

Fool.

Why would anyone ever desire you?

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That night, he couldn't sleep.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Karim's mangled, caved-in face. He saw the pool of blood congealed with chunks of pink brain tissue. He saw Voldemort on the floor— perhaps understanding that he'd messed up, but only because he had failed.

He couldn't shake the images.

Harry was at fault. He had killed someone and Kingsley didn't know that he had orchestrated the whole thing.

You need to tell him. Admit that you're responsible. Tell him that you had needed Voldemort free so that he could fuck you chained to the wall.

He should.

Yet, if he did that, then he'd be fired. And no one would be able to handle the Dark Lord. No one else would be able to find his last Horcrux or make him listen.

So Harry Potter would remain the hero. Karim's death was being spun as a tragic accident and the public would take their vengeance out on Lord Voldemort instead of punishing who actually deserved the blame:

Harry.

No one had questioned why Harry had bite marks all over his neck.

He stood from the bed, his mind roiling with sickening visions of the hunks of Karim's hair and flesh that had been splattered bloodily on the wall; Voldemort's face as he had said the words I had to try; Kingsley's troubled expression as he had listened to Harry lie about why it had taken him so long to respond, how a battle between him and Voldemort had even been possible considering the man's lack of magic...

No one wanted to challenge him.

He threw on a robe in his bedroom and ran down the stairs. When he left the house, he pulled in his magic and Apparated to London, appearing with a crack! next to a pub he sometimes visited.

Not a gay pub. A straight one.

He knew suddenly why his magic had brought him here.

Pushing the door open, he went inside, searching for what he was after.

And there it was.

A group of young men, watching a TV screen and cheering for a football team. They were all wearing matching kits and drinking lager.

Harry's eyes honed in on the biggest one. He was over six feet tall, bearded, and had to weigh at least seventeen stone.

The man had a tattoo on his left arm of a naked woman with enormous breasts and a vapid smile.

That's the ticket.

Harry walked right up to this man, sliding through the group until he was face to face with the stranger.

"Hello, big boy," Harry breathed, adrenaline rushing through him.

Brazenly, he grabbed the man's shoulders to pull himself up and then snogged him messily.

There was a frozen moment where Harry continued to suck and bite at those rigid lips. He could feel the horrified tension. He knew this was going to be just what he needed.

When he was finally ripped off and thrown to the ground, Harry smiled, which probably just drove them further into their frenzy.

"You bleeding faggot!" one man growled as he kicked Harry hard in the face.

Harry heard his glasses shatter, some of the shards gouging into his skin, and he momentarily lamented not taking them off first. But it didn't matter. He didn't deserve to see.

"Whatchu snoggin' Daffy for, eh, you tosser?"

He was kicked again in the stomach, his body jolting with the impact as his breath got knocked out of him. Tears sprung to his eyes. He closed them.

Karim was greeting him pleasantly before a meeting, asking him how his day was going.

Someone spat on him, the glob splashing against his cheek.

"Pooftah!"

"Sperm-burper!"

"Wearing a fucking dress!"

The big man that he'd kissed leaned down and grabbed his robes, pulling him painfully off the ground.

"What the bloody hell did you do that for, faggot?" he rasped in a menacing tone. "You messed with the wrong man."

Harry stared up into his eyes, waiting, hoping, needing—

"So that'll be a no to a shag, then?" Harry asked, his voice weak, but cheeky. He attempted a shrug. "Sorry. You just looked the type."

It was the building growl that alerted him that maybe he'd gone too far. The big one pulled his huge fist back, his expression twisted with hatred, and then he punched Harry hard in the face.

There was a burst of white, a blinding pain, and he knew no more.

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When Harry awoke, he was in an alleyway, all alone.

He couldn't move.

Everything hurt and he wanted to die.

I'm so sorry, Karim. It should have been me.

He lay there, eyes closed, loathing himself.

His body was in agony. He could tell that several bones had been broken, his face was throbbing and bloody, and yet, this hadn't helped.

There had been no one to take his guilt.

He blew out a slow breath through his swollen lips, and waited to see if he'd die.

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The trial the next day hadn't been until two in the afternoon.

That had given him just enough time to be woken up in the morning by a beggar as his pockets were being raided. He'd managed enough healing with his wand— that thankfully, had stayed put with the sticking charm that he always used— to get himself home.

Once there, he'd dragged his aching body to his stash and necked back what was needed. Magic did what it could, and Harry fixed up the rest with a shower and a few more healing spells.

Somehow, he'd made it to the Ministry on time to see that familiar form being brought into the courtroom.

Breathe.

Everyone's attention was instantly diverted and silence fell.

Lord Voldemort was being held up by two Aurors, who dragged his limp, upright body towards the heavily chained chair at the centre of the polished floor.

Murmurs broke out, angry muttering and some shouts that Harry heard despite his rapt focus on the man who was dropped heavily into the Accused's Seat.

"You worthless sack of shit!"

"Death penalty!"

"I hope you burn, you bastard!"

Harry watched as the thick chains slid across Voldemort's chest, stomach, legs, and feet, surrounding him on top of the already present magical cables and wards placed securely around the man.

The still unconscious man.

It's okay. He'll be home soon and then I can help.

"Order!" Kingsley called firmly, and Harry realised that the courtroom was reverberating with acrimonious yelling.

A few people listened, but most did not. Some had their wands out, as if ready to curse the Dark Lord.

Harry stood and stepped in front of Voldemort.

"Order, now," he demanded, not removing his own wand, but meeting all the anger head on, challenging them to cross him.

He stared down each person until they sat. Then he turned, adrenaline pumping through him, and went back to his seat.

They're gonna think you're protecting him, they're gonna know—

"Thank you, Head Auror Potter," Kingsley said, and then he looked over at Voldemort. "Wake him."

Bailey nodded and hit the man with a Renervate.

Voldemort came to with a choking sound, his eyes wide, his body jolting as if to flee or fight.

It was impossible to watch, and yet he must. This was what Harry's stupidity had purchased. If he hadn't let Voldemort manipulate him, then Karim would still be alive and Voldemort would not look like this.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle," Kingsley said, his tone full of disgust. "You stand accused of the murder of an unknown number of innocent magical humans, Muggles, goblins, house elves, Veela, giants, centaurs, and merpeople. Our speculation has the total amount at around two hundred and forty-five lives, yet we will likely never know the exact number."

Harry took that sobering figure and used it to fuel his own self-loathing.

Two hundred and forty-five lives.

And that didn't even take into account the thirty-two murders he'd committed as a snake.

Harry closed his eyes for a moment.

The man that fucked you, that had seemed to innately understand you, that had made you feel seen— had killed almost three hundred beings.

But you knew this.

Don't act like this is shocking. You knew who you were letting touch you, who you begged to touch you.

"This total," the Minister continued, his voice dropping darkly, "includes the recent murder of one of our brave Aurors, Karim Farsi."

The courtrom broke out in angry muttering, but Kingsley got control again fast. Harry felt that crime corrode his insides, eating him up from within.

"We have enough eye-witnesses and evidence," Kingsley went on, "to make your guilty plea moot. Therefore, I shall take a vote on your culpability, which, obviously, is purely a formality."

He turned to the Wizengamot.

"All those who find the accused guilty of the unknown number of murders— the confirmed total resting at thirty-one human lives, three house elves, twelve giants, and nine goblins?"

Every single person on the bench raised their hand.

An older man in that group, who Harry did not know, stood.

"We find Tom Marvolo Riddle guilty of all charges and recommend that he be sentenced to execution."

Applause broke out from the crowd. Standing ovations. Cheers and cries of joy. Harry stayed seated, gripping the arms on his chair until it hurt.

His eyes slid to Voldemort, wanting to know how he felt, what he thought, but that bruised and bleeding face gave nothing away. His eyes were staring resolutely ahead, head unbowed.

"Thank you," Kingsley said, gesturing with his hands for the court to settle. Harry gave his attention to the Minister again. "I support this verdict and sentencing. However, as we are all aware, Tom Marvolo Riddle cannot be killed at this time due to his remaining Horcrux. Mr Potter?"

Harry stood quickly, ignoring the weight of Voldemort's sudden gaze.

"Mr Potter has committed to locating and destroying the last part of this monster's soul. Until that occurs, this sentence cannot be carried out."

Harry remained standing, knowing that the next part involved him anyway and he might as well save his energy. The public were not going to be happy.

Kingsley met his eyes briefly and there was something in his expression that instantly alerted Harry of danger.

The Minister stood and faced Lord Voldemort, who met his gaze steadily and with a hint of his unshakeable arrogance.

"I, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic, hereby convict you, Tom Marvolo Riddle of several, and perhaps hundreds of counts of murder. The most recent being our colleague Karim Farsi."

Voldemort's swollen, bloodshot eyes sparkled with amusement. Kingsley bared his teeth momentarily and then looked away.

"I will now move to sentencing."

This was all happening so fast. Kingsley was about to tell the world that he, Harry Potter, their Saviour, would be taking the Dark Lord Voldemort into his home. He'd have to explain to Hermione why—

"Until Mr Potter can find and destroy Tom Riddle's last link to life, we will need to hold the man securely to avoid his obvious desire to return to his former position. A petition has been put forth by Head Auror Harry Potter to receive the convicted murderer into his home—"

Voices cried in denial, in offence, and Harry tried to set his face into weary resignation. Pretending that this was just a duty he was forced to bear, not one that he coveted. Not a reward for being Harry Potter.

"However—"

And Harry froze.

"—in light of recent events, and taking into account this criminal's dangerous past behaviour, it has been decided that Tom Marvolo Riddle shall submit to being Obliviated before he continues his stay in Azkaban prison."

And how was it that this pronouncement didn't merit an uproar? He vaguely heard Kingsley continue speaking, saying things like easier to control with no memories, and has no magic.

Yet none of that made it past his eardrums. All he could hear was the frenzy of panic that was clamouring in his head.

They'd lied.

Oh god, they had never meant to give him to you.

Find the Horcrux Harry, but take nothing for yourself. Do our work always, tirelessly, selflessly, and do it alone, you're alone and you always will be—

"Mr Potter?"

Lydia was supporting his weight as he was standing half-slumped against his chair. Many people were looking at him strangely and Harry fought to force his legs to hold him.

"Sorry," he muttered, and disengaged from her.

He stood properly and his gaze immediately went to Voldemort. The man looked livid. When Harry met his eyes, words were shoved into his head.

Fix this.

Harry stared, knowing it was impossible and yet also knowing that Voldemort didn't tolerate that word.

"Minister," Harry began, tearing his attention away from that accusatory face and looking instead towards Kingsley. "A moment, please. I don't understand."

Kingsley frowned unhappily.

"We can talk later. This is the decision of the court and the Wizengamot and I find it fair."

Kingsley turned back and addressed the public.

"Those of you who wish to witness the Obliviation may return this evening at eight. That is all for this trial. Good day."

And Kingsley left the dais and began walking towards the exit.

Harry stared, feeling like the room was spinning, and then his body jolted.

Fix this.

"Wait!" he shouted, and the people in the process of departing, stopped.

Turned to him. Listening.

He jumped down from his seat and walked across the floor to stand facing Kingsley, who was almost at the exit. But the Minister for Magic was waiting for him.

Harry could feel Voldemort's eyes boring into him and he tried to ignore it, even though his position brought him almost within touching distance of the Accused's Seat.

"You lied to me," he began, his voice shaking with anger. "You want to Obliviate him, but then what?"

"I already explained," Kingsley said. "He will stay in Azkaban—"

"Then why Obliviate him?" Harry interrupted. "That will just confuse him. He has no magic. He'll have no memories. He won't understand."

"It will prevent him from becoming Lord Voldemort again."

Harry heard many in the crowd gasp.

I can stop him from doing that. Just me. You said it would be me.

"Why," Harry asked quietly, his betrayed gaze riveted on the man he'd fought with. Someone he'd trusted. "After everything I've done... After..."

"It's not about that, Harry," Kingsley said gently.

"Of course it is. You lied. Why tell me that you would give him to me and then do something else?"

"Why do you even want him?" Madame Bones asked from where she had seated herself back down on the bench. "He does not deserve your concern."

Harry faced her.

"It's not concern." His words were measured and firm. Commanding. "I have given the wizarding world everything. I have found every Death Eater. I brought you peace. I have never requested anything for myself in return."

He looked down and met the Dark Lord's burning gaze.

"I ask now that you give me him."

"But why?" Kingsley reiterated, sounding confused and angry.

Harry tore his gaze from Voldemort's wild stare and fixed it onto the Minister for Magic.

"Because I am asking for him. Because you owe me. Because if anyone deserves to make this man pay for his crimes, it's me."

No one spoke, not a sound broke the silence as everyone stared at him. Harry kept his focus on the Minister, waiting.

"We will have to confer once more before we come to another verdict, Mr Potter."

Harry nodded slowly, willing to work to put more pressure on this decision.

"While we deliberate, he will be retuned to Azkaban. I want you here, with us. We have much to discuss."

Harry inclined his head. The Minister mirrored the action and then they both turned away.