CHAPTER 27
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He stood against the wall, fighting the compulsion to sleep, because he knew that he was not safe here.
His memories were gone.
He did not know where he was. He could not recall what he had been doing before being brought here. To this cage. The people he saw spoke not a word to him, as if he were insensible.
His hands were... odd. Long and thin and unnatural to his eyes. His head was hairless and— most distressingly, his nose was missing, though it did not feel wounded.
Something had been done to him, yet he did not know what. Or why.
Sometimes, he recalled glimpses of memories. He thought his name was Tom, though no one addressed him by that moniker. He remembered being poor. Living in a home with other children. He knew he had been alone there and it seemed as if he were alone here as well.
How many years had passed from then til now? Why could he not recall what had occurred?
Today, he had heard the whisper of a name from someone loitering outside of his cell.
Harry Potter.
Was that his name?
They had said it with mild fear, and the people he encountered certainly seemed to fear him, so perhaps that was it. But the name meant nothing to him. It did not feel correct.
Though, neither did Tom. Perhaps he was someone else entirely.
He could not know, and the loss of his memories was a harrowing blow. He had nothing to work with, no clues as to why he was here or why they all feared him.
And there was something strange about his body, more than the skeletal fingers and animalistic nostrils.
He had found a burn on his lower stomach in an unfamiliar shape that looked like an ancient symbol. Odder still, the man that had come earlier to stare at him had inexplicably touched his own skin in the exact spot where the burn resided. Coincidence? Did they both have the strange marking?
His fear was that it was a religious symbol and that he had somehow gotten involved with a cult.
Was he a human sacrifice?
His clothes were strange, too, and supported the religious theory. He was wearing black robes of some kind, loose and of a high-quality material, not likely made as a costume.
Was he the kind of person who dressed like this willingly? And if so, why?
Not knowing vital, basic details about himself was terrifying. He was in danger here, it was obvious, and his lack of knowledge about anything useful was a critical disadvantage.
He knew they were watching him and so he remained pressed to the wall, motionless, waiting for his chance to escape.
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Harry knocked on Kingsley's door and pushed it open at the man's invitation.
The Minister was seated at his desk and gestured for Harry to use one of the chairs nearby. Harry remained standing.
"Your Patronus has changed," Kingsley remarked reprovingly before Harry could speak.
This instantly diverted him.
Did he understand why? Was he about to tell Harry that he was no longer allowed to accompany Voldemort?
Like that would stop me.
"Yeah," Harry said, trying to sound nonchalant. "They do that sometimes. I killed that Basilisk when I was twelve."
There. Let it sound like it was a feat of strength and not of devotion that had changed his guardian. That he wanted to defeat serpents and not ally with them.
"Strange timing for it to have been because of that," Kingsley pressed, leaning back and regarding Harry.
"What else would it be, sir? I used to speak Parseltongue. Maybe it's a homage to that."
Kingsley firmed his lips together, not seeming convinced.
"In any case," Harry went on, like it was no big deal that his Patronus had changed to a bloody great snake, "that's not why I'm here. We need to decide where to send Riddle."
Kingsley stood as well, coming around to sit on the edge of his desk.
"What do you propose?" he asked.
Harry shrugged.
"I haven't had time to look. I think it should be away from people so that he can't hurt anyone else. I think it's essential that we don't disclose the location to anyone. His... stay in Azkaban has demonstrated that people will break rules to exact their vengeance."
"And who can blame them, Harry. After what he did."
Harry nodded reluctantly. He understood. Of course he did. But that didn't mean he was about to allow it.
"So what are our options?" Harry asked.
Kingsley studied him before responding.
"I was thinking Barra Head in Scotland. It's an abandoned island with a lighthouse and sleeping quarters, difficult to access by Muggles. If you like it, I will ask the First Minister to declare it unsafe and close it to the public. I will then, obviously, set up extensive wards and magical deterrents around it to ensure everyone's safety."
An isolated island. Just the Dark Lord and I.
"Is it safe? Will he be able to leave the island?"
"Not unless he wants to swim in the raging Atlantic Ocean crashing against the steep cliffs on all sides. There are no boats and no bridges. He's as contained there as anywhere like it. Maybe more so, with the tempests all around and three other abandoned islands between him and the next person some eighteen kilometres away on an island with about ninety people."
Kingsley rubbed at the golden hoop in his ear idly. For a moment, the man reminded him so much of Jamal from the BDSM munch, that it distracted him.
"It's as isolated as it gets," Kingsley finished, and then dropped his hand.
Harry tried to get back on track.
"So... we'll go there, then. When can we leave?"
The other man frowned.
"Don't you want to see it first? You'll be living there until you can find his Horcrux."
A bolt of shame went through him because he had no intention of trying to destroy the last piece of Voldemort's soul anymore. He was turning his back on his prophesied duty. He was putting himself first.
"It doesn't matter," Harry said, shaking his head. "I just want to move this along."
Kingsley's eyes narrowed, but after a few tense moments, he nodded.
"I understand. Well, I can probably get the island ready in a week. We can go over more details in the coming days, but Harry."
Kingsley stepped closer, his gaze serious and heavy.
"Are you sure this is what you want? You'll be all alone out there. You can't make contact with Riddle, and you'll be Apparating pretty far twice daily as you search for the Horcrux."
Harry nodded once.
"I know, sir."
Kingsley rubbed the sides of his mouth.
"I have also been thinking about your position as Head Auror. With you dedicated to this special project, you'll not be able to fulfil your duties to your team. I believe it will be best if I appoint an Acting Head in your absence, just until you fulfil this task. You'll be reinstated as full Head once you return."
A demotion.
It was a bit of a slap in the face, yet he deserved it. He certainly hadn't been focused at work lately. And this development of moving to Scotland would only take him further away.
"I understand, sir," he said, and he meant it.
In a week's time, he would be landing on Barra Head island with the Dark Lord and everything else would fade into insignificance after that.
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Harry tried to keep an eye on Voldemort as much as he could in the coming days. He wore his Cloak so that the man couldn't see him, because he knew that they were Obliviating him daily anyway, and introducing himself each time would have been tedious.
There were now three days left until he was meant to leave. Kingsley had slated it in for August the twenty-fourth. A Friday, so that Harry could have the weekend to settle in before his work began.
He knew he would be unreachable once he left, and so he'd decided to set up a farewell dinner with Ron and Hermione.
They had not spoken since Harry had fled to Malfoy Manor last week. Neither had he spoken to Draco.
Should I grab a drink with him, too, before I go?
No, probably not. Harry had a bad habit of spilling more than he'd meant to lately when faced with those penetrating grey eyes.
When his watch struck nine, he Apparated to Ron and Hermione's house, knocking quietly so as not to wake up their kids.
Ron opened the door. His expression was guarded and it immediately alerted Harry that this visit would not be fun.
Ron stepped back without greeting him. Harry hesitated, but he owed them an explanation, and so he crossed the threshold determinedly.
When he got to their sitting room, Hermione smiled warmly at him.
"Hey Harry. What do you want to drink?"
"Um. Maybe a cuppa?"
Ron made a scoffing noise and Harry glanced over at him.
"I'll get you a Firewhisky, mate. You're gonna need it."
With that ominous pronouncement, Harry wished he had begged off tonight.
She's gonna accuse you of working with Voldemort again. Of... being with him. And what are you going to say? It hadn't really been true before, but now? You wear his mark and told him you loved him! Your bloody Patronus changed form! You're completely lost.
Harry sat himself in an armchair so he'd be separate from them. Hermione was on a love seat and Ron was still preparing the drinks.
"How're Rose and Hugo?" Harry asked awkwardly.
Hermione smiled.
"They're great. Though Hugo is going through some sleep regression, so he may join us for a bit."
Harry nodded, not really knowing what that meant and not really caring to ask.
Ron set a tumbler on the table at his side and then sat himself on the sofa to Harry's right.
"We started yet?" Ron asked, looking around at them both.
"Oh, Ron," Hermione sighed with exasperation.
"Brilliant. I'll start then," he said, and then turned to Harry. "So, you're pissing off to god knows where with You-Know-Who and that's that? You're just leaving us forever?"
"Not forever," Hermione corrected him. "Just until he finds the Horcrux. Right, Harry?"
Harry took a swig of his drink, letting the sting of the alcohol burn his throat, and then bobbed his head in agreement.
"Right," Ron said with mocking understanding. "So what are we supposed to do with that? Just let you?"
Harry rubbed his finger against the glass in his hands.
"I mean, yeah. I've got to keep him away. Keep people safe."
"Uh huh," Ron said sarcastically. "And yourself? Who will keep you safe?"
Harry put down the tumbler.
"I keep myself safe," he said firmly. "I always have."
"Bollocks!" Ron spat, slamming his glass down and facing Harry angrily. Hermione shushed him, but he ignored her. "We've always done this shit together. You can't take on You-Know-Who alone—"
"And why not?" Harry interrupted.
"—without—" Ron pivoted. "Because we're a team! We do things together!"
"Stop saying that!" Harry shouted, and then heard a piercing wail cut through the air.
All three of them froze, and then Ron bowed his head.
"Bugger."
He stood and went to see to his son. Harry grabbed his glass again, cradling it against his chest and trying to ignore Hermione's scrutiny.
"He's worried about you," she whispered. "We both are."
Harry gritted his teeth.
"Great. Thanks."
Harry could feel Hermione searching for something to say.
"I know you feel obligated—"
"It's not an obligation, Hermione," Harry whispered harshly, trying not to exacerbate the noise problem, but needing her to understand. "I will be going wherever he does."
"Because you think it's your duty?" she asked apprehensively, and Harry snorted.
"Because I want to. I want to be with him."
Harry heard a sharp intake of breath. He looked over at Ron who was holding a sleepy Hugo in his arms.
"What does that mean," Ron demanded, his body motionless.
Harry was caught in his appalled gaze.
"Give me Hugo, Ron," Hermione instructed, and Ron walked to his wife and handed over their baby.
Then he turned back to face Harry, the two Weasley's positioned side by side against Harry.
"Are you with him?" Ron challenged.
Harry didn't know how to lie to them. He didn't even know the answer to that question. All he knew was that to deny it would be impossible, because the mark he bore from Voldemort still burned brazenly on his skin.
"I want to be," he whispered, and watched his friends' faces fall in horror.
He stood.
"I'll leave."
Ron came towards him, placing two of his hands down firmly onto Harry's shoulders and pushing him back onto the sofa.
"Ron," Hermione hissed, but the other man just shook his head, his eyes closed as if in pain.
"Don't run away again, Harry," he implored, not taking his hands off of Harry's body. "Just... give us a sodding minute to process that fucking statement, please."
Harry sat still, waiting, expecting to be hit or cursed as soon as Ron's blue eyes opened.
"Can I ask you to clarify that, Harry?" Hermione asked quietly, her voice tight.
Sure. Easy. Let me just explain the unbelievable situation I've found myself in.
"You love him?" Ron rasped, his eyes still closed.
That question jolted him, his body twitching, but Ron did not let him go.
His throat was agony, but he forced the word through.
"Yes," he breathed, and Ron's hands tightened, but did not pull away.
It was both a comfort that he was still willing to touch Harry, and a threat, because at any moment, he could throttle Harry like Uncle Vernon used to do.
"Oh, Harry," Hermione choked, and Harry glanced over to see that she was crying, Hugo nursing quietly as she held him.
Harry looked away, hating himself. He wished he could be more normal, have morally acceptable desires. He felt like he was infecting their idyllic life and putting them in danger with his proximity.
"You love him," Ron said again, but this time it was a confirmation.
Harry let his silence answer for him.
"So you forgive him, then," Ron surmised, his tone jarringly light. "For your parents. And... Fred. And for putting you through hell all your life. For making you have to live with the Dursleys. None of that matters to you."
Harry felt each accusation sink deeply into his flesh.
"Of course it does," he muttered.
"Then he's apologised," Ron went on. "He feels bad about it."
Harry felt himself wither.
"We haven't talked about the past," Harry admitted.
"But he's changed. He doesn't want to be a murderer anymore, right? He's stopped wanting to rule the world and kill Muggles and... and people like my wife."
Harry's chest wouldn't move enough to take deep breaths. He felt like he was hyperventilating.
"Right, Harry? Because you wouldn't love someone who was evil. You wouldn't."
Harry felt hot tears run down his face.
I'm a monster.
If I can love someone so damaged, so horrible, then I must be the same. Oh gods, what does that make me?
"I'm sorry," Harry breathed, shifting to get out from under those gripping hands.
He had to leave. He was disgusting and a traitor and he couldn't bear their judgement.
He tried to break free, but Ron's hands tightened. Harry panicked, feeling lightheaded because he couldn't breathe, couldn't think—
Pulling in his magic, he somehow managed to Apparate away.
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It was the day of their move.
Everything was sorted. His duties at work had been shifted off of his shoulders for now, he had cleared out everything he'd need from Grimmauld and carried it all shrunken in his pocket. He had just said goodbye to his grateful and slightly awed colleagues.
All that was left was Apparating to Azkaban and taking the Dark Lord to their new home.
He glanced around his office one last time, ready to leave, when there was a soft knock at his door.
His stomach clenched with apprehension.
Using magic, he let them in.
Hermione stood there, a broomstick in her hands. Harry gestured her inside, tilting his head in confusion. She smiled and extended the broomstick to him. He took it and recognised his old Firebolt right away.
"I gave that to Rose," he said, trying to pass it back to her.
"She doesn't need it, Harry. But you do."
He frowned, not understanding.
"I don't want you to forget the things that make you happy. You used to love flying. Do you remember?"
"Of course. And I still do, I just don't have time for it anymore."
"Well, you're bound to have some time now. How many hours a day can you spend watching someone?"
Harry looked away, knowing that that wasn't his plan anyways.
"Will you come back to visit us?" she asked tentatively.
Harry sighed.
"Yes, of course I will." He suddenly remembered how he'd left their last conversation. "I mean. If you want me to."
Hermione shot him a pained grimace.
"We will always want you to. Even Ron— especially Ron." She hesitated. "He wanted to come too, to see you off, but I told him to wait. He... he meant well with what he'd said. He's just so worried about you."
"I know," Harry said sadly. "I... I don't deserve you two."
"Don't be stupid, Harry. We will always be here. No matter what. And I mean that. Whatever is happening, you can talk to us. We just want you to be happy."
Harry very much doubted he could talk to anyone about his feelings for Voldemort. Just mentioning it to Draco had nearly sent the man into cardiac arrest.
"I want you to know that we are okay with you... loving him," Hermione said, and Harry flinched. "You don't get to choose those things. He obviously means a lot to you and, although I don't understand it, I can accept that I don't have to."
Harry closed his eyes for a moment.
This kind of unconditional love was sweet. He appreciated it, but it always came with that tiny stab of sorrow.
Because it was complete bullshit.
If she truly knew him— all the parts of him that he hid so carefully from everyone— she would be revolted. She would know that he was weak. He wasn't the hero that they all thought he was. He needed help, needed guidance that he could never ask for. Needed pain. Needed someone to see his failings, how horrible he was, and still want to touch him. And sometimes, sometimes there were darker parts of him that wanted to hurt someone else, too. He was damaged and achingly lonely and resentful of everyone's ability to move on so effortlessly while he had been flailing and numb for so many years—
"If you want to live with him forever," Hermione went on, and Harry's body jolted, his eyes flashing open. Pay attention. Don't scare her— "then that's okay and we'll still be here."
She smiled at him, but Harry couldn't return the gesture, knowing that his face would crumple if he moved it.
"But you need to do it right, Harry. You can't try to figure out how to give him back his magic or his memories. I'm sure there's a way for both, but you have to let that go."
Harry tilted his head, suddenly realising something.
No one had ever asked him his opinion on why Voldemort had no magic. Everyone had just accepted it. There were rumours that Malfoy was responsible for his return, but Voldemort's lack of magic had never been questioned.
Did they think it was irreversible?
Or were they just happy to not give it any thought, secure in the knowledge that Harry would protect them either way?
"You can start fresh with him," Hermione went on, sounding encouraging, and Harry tried to pay attention. "See who the man is without his past. You won't have to worry about forgiving him all of his terrible deeds because he won't remember them. And with your help, he won't ever want to be that person again."
Harry inhaled deeply, trying to keep the placid smile on his face.
She didn't get it at all.
He didn't want someone else that looked like the man he loved. He wanted Lord Voldemort. With everything that came with. His terrible deeds. His ego and his rage and his unstoppable ambition.
Harry had tried to accept stand-ins and that had never worked.
Their past was perilous. Unforgivable. And they'd never talked about reparations or apologies. He knew he wouldn't get them anyways. Lord Voldemort probably didn't comprehend the idea of regret.
What Harry wanted from him was just to be able to be himself. Broken. Built for war and unable to comprehend peace.
There was no place for him in this new world.
And Voldemort understood that. He was anomalous, too.
There was a profound contentedness in not needing to explain all of his little quirks. Like his trouble with eating. His need to surrender control sometimes. Or to control others. How attached he was getting to Voldemort because he had never had someone that was his— just his.
Voldemort got it. He was unnaturally obsessed with Harry too, and maybe Harry had always been just the same.
"Harry?" Hermione asked, touching his arm, and he looked up to see her concerned expression. "Are you okay?"
Harry nodded, stepping back.
"Thanks for coming to see me. Tell Ron thanks, too. But I have to go."
Hermione looked worried.
"Don't let him manipulate you, Harry. Remember what's important to you."
He is.
He's important to me.
Harry smiled sadly.
"Goodbye, Hermione. I'll talk to you soon."
And without looking back, he walked out of his office.
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When Harry got to the landing at the bottom of the stairs near Voldemort's cell, the Minister, Robards, and a few other officials were there. They stopped talking when Harry approached.
"Good afternoon, Mr Potter," Madame Bones said, giving him an appreciative smile. "Are you still certain that this is what you want? No one but the Minister himself will know where you are."
Harry nodded.
"I understand. And yes, I'm still resolved to see this through."
She turned to address Kingsley.
"Well, Minister, it would seem that we are ready to begin. You have the Portkey?"
Kingsley nodded and held up the yellow umbrella in is hand.
"I'd like to thank you on behalf of the wizarding world," Elphias Doge said, and he bowed slightly to him.
Harry startled and stiffly returned the gesture.
"Too many tasks have been put onto your shoulders," Doge continued, "and I regret that, though I am very grateful for your service." He smiled kindly at Harry. "Albus would have been so proud of you, Harry."
He didn't know what to say to that.
Dumbledore would have loathed him now. Would have condemned him for how he felt and what he was doing. He would never have understood, as his motto had been For the greater good. And what Harry was doing now, was all for himself.
Not to mention, Dumbledore had been stronger. He had locked up his lover when he'd seen what a monster he was. Harry was doing the opposite.
Selfish. Tainted. Evil—
Robards clapped him on the back, startling him.
"Now, Harry. You mustn't make contact with him. That has to be paramount. Your job is simply to keep watch— and," he lowered his voice conspiratorially, "make his life a living hell for all he's done."
Harry pushed aside his desire to curse the man for that.
Just get through this.
The umbrella was pushed into his hands. He looked up at Kingsley who gave him a tight smile and a hard look.
"I trust you, Harry. Don't make me regret that."
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Harry stood before the cell containing the stranger who wore the face of the man he loved.
Voldemort was standing against the wall, pressed into a corner. His eyes were the only animate part of him, as they had followed Harry's approach and now stared intently at him. As if he somehow knew the importance of what was to come.
The Dark Lord had been put into Muggle clothes. Black trousers and a grey, loose, long-sleeved shirt. It was jarring, but also felt strangely intimate. He looked different. Less menacing.
Someone had stripped him to change his clothes.
Harry felt fury rise up in him, but he breathed it out. It wouldn't happen again. They were going where no one could touch them.
He let his anger go. He wanted to say something reassuring, yet he knew he'd have to wipe the man's memories the second they landed anyways, so there was no point in explaining anything.
And that also had the added benefit that he could say whatever he wanted to right now, without it being remembered.
"Hello," Harry said softly. "I'm going to take you to your new home."
Those eyes narrowed with suspicion and Harry smiled at the familiarity of that expression on the man's face.
"You can trust me. My name is Harry and I'm in love with you."
Those red eyes flew wide in shock and Harry felt his heart swell with fondness. He stepped forward and opened the lock. When he got to the stunned man, he held out his hand.
"Trust me," he said resolutely. "I'm on your side."
Voldemort stared at his open palm as if it could divulge a secret he knew had been kept from him. Those eyes raised to pierce him and Harry held them calmly, trying to project his confidence and capability.
"Let's go," he encouraged.
Voldemort looked back down at Harry's open hand— and then, astoundingly, brought his own up stiffly to cover Harry's. The jerk behind his naval of the Portkey was immediate and sucked them both into a swirling mist of colour.
Taking them home.