CHAPTER 28
.
.
When Harry's feet hit the ground, it was to the roaring sound of the waves hitting the cliffs all around them. The abrupt change was disorienting, and Voldemort used Harry's distraction to run.
Harry turned to see that tall form speeding across the grass towards the rock ledge— and, according to Kingsley, the six-hundred and fifty foot drop.
"Wait!" Harry shouted, bolting after him, but the man's legs were long and he was likely terrified of what he'd just experienced.
Voldemort was going to plunge right into the torrid ocean below. Would it kill him? Would Harry have to jump in too?
And then he remembered that he was a wizard.
He stopped running and pulled out his wand.
"Petrificus Totalus!" Harry shouted, and watched as that desperate body froze and then fell rigidly to the ground.
Fuck.
Not a great start.
When Harry reached him at last, he saw that the man's head had struck a larger rock amidst the gravel. He was bleeding and panting with the likely effort of having run so fast after not moving for so long.
"Shit," he muttered, and then took out his wand again to heal the cut.
Voldemort's eyes were round with bewilderment and fear. He was studying Harry's wand intently.
"Sorry 'bout that. I didn't mean to scare you."
He pointed his wand at Voldemort's chest.
"I guess... hopefully this is the last time you have to get this done to you. Obliviate!"
Harry watched those narrowed eyes relax, the frown disappearing. He released him from the spell and watched as he came back to himself. He was studying Harry with increasing concern and then suddenly pushed to his feet and bolted away yet again.
Harry sighed, watching him run.
Would the wards protect him? He decided that he couldn't spend all day catching the man, so he'd have to see what happened if he succeeded in escaping. Kingsley had mentioned he'd set deterrent wards, and Harry knew some of them could have calming or almost drugging effects to keep a person contained.
Voldemort got to the edge of the rocky cliff, seeming about to throw himself off, but then he halted. Harry watched him stare into the abyss, breathing heavily, as if contemplating his options.
After about ten minutes of observing the brutal wind whip around the Dark Lord, Harry determined that the man had accepted that to jump would be suicide, and Voldemort was anything but ready to die.
Or, the repelling wards had intervened. Either way it looked like Harry wouldn't have to jump in after the man.
Guess I should go introduce myself.
He walked slowly towards the Dark Lord, watching that blank face stare into the crashing tides of the ocean. It was impossible that the man didn't notice Harry's approach, and yet he let him come to stand right beside him.
He waited for Voldemort to give him his attention, but that moment never came.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he said loudly, studying the man greedily and wishing that he could touch him.
Voldemort ignored him. Harry wanted to blame the thundering waves for the lack of response, but the other man was likely just trying to pretend that Harry didn't exist. Though it was unnerving that he wasn't more scared considering that he'd just had his memory wiped.
It has to be the wards.
"Can you come with me into the house so we can talk?" Harry asked, gesturing to the single-story flat of rooms, even though he knew it was likely futile to ask.
Voldemort gave no reply. No acknowledgement.
Right, so that must be a no, then.
"Look," Harry began. "I know this is confusing for you. I'm sorry about that. But I promised to take care of you and I will. I... there's some things I need to do and then I can help you get back all of your lost memories, okay?"
Voldemort's eyes twitched and Harry assumed that the man was likely unhappy that Harry knew of his condition.
He concentrated and tried to break into the man's mind even without eye contact, but it was no use. There was nowhere he could push, no opening he could sneak through.
"Let's go inside. It's too noisy out here," Harry tried suggesting, one last time. "I'll make us some food. You can pick out which room you want. There are five, but two are kids rooms, so I'm guessing those don't count."
Voldemort didn't move, just continued to gaze out into the roiling waters.
Harry sighed and left him to it.
.
.
He had meant to jump.
As a child, he had learned to swim in the ocean and white-capped waves did not scare him.
He had meant to jump.
And yet, as soon as he had achieved the precipice, all the desire for freedom that had been thundering inside of him, receded to a dull throb.
A man had approached and spoken to him. The same stranger he had encountered when he had awoken on the ground outside.
Why had he been supine underneath the man? Had something been done to him?
It had seemed wisest to feign ignorance and not respond to the man's insensible words.
A house. Food.
Where was he?
I promised to take care of you.
And I will.
Those had to be lies. He did not recognise the man.
I can help you get back all of your lost memories.
But there would be a price.
He would never submit to anyone. It would seem that this person had information that he needed. Yet to engage with him was perilous.
He glanced behind himself, watching the man disappear into a white building at the base of a lighthouse.
Now was his chance.
He slowly walked towards the edge of the rocky ground, instantly feeling struck with an overwhelming sense of calm. Of equanimity.
Why leave? He was in no danger here.
He beat that back, forcing his legs forward, against the crushing weight of inexplicable tranquility. It felt impossible, unnecessary, and yet he knew that it was imperative that he fight it.
There was something wrong.
His feet slid against the exposed rock, getting closer to the edge and spying some paths that could be navigated to bring him closer to the water.
To get away from that man and that building.
Placidity soothed through him, urging him to rest. Reminding him that food sounded wonderful. Safety was close by. There was nothing for him beyond the edge of this cliff.
As if by reflex, his bones refused that logic.
There was food there, perhaps. Shelter.
But not safety.
There was only safety in solitude.
He could not—
Resisting the power of optimism was causing his limbs to tremble. It felt insurmountable to keep moving, and his body thrashed against it.
His foot slipped on a patch of loose gravel and he tried to find purchase on the wall, but the face was smooth and he plummeted into the open air.
He fell.
Looking down, he saw that the ocean was not too far away and braced for impact. He hit the water and the cold felt like a vice around his chest, stealing his air and feeding him panic.
He struggled to find the surface, swimming hard towards the light, but his limbs were frozen and stiff.
He kept fighting, not willing to do otherwise. He clawed at the water, at the churning currents around him, and finally— he broke free.
Gasping, he searched the cliff and saw a small outcrop where he could rest. He swam towards it, letting the waves propel him in the direction of the rock. He was close, and the surge of water crashed him against the cliff, but he was not fast enough to grip it tight. The second buffet brought him higher and he was able to hang on, sinking his unnaturally long fingers into a crack in the rock.
Frozen and exhausted, he pulled himself out and away from the crashing waves. The outcropping was just above and he crawled to its sanctuary.
Heaving, he leaned against the cliff, closing his eyes and waiting for his heartbeat to slow.
The burgeoning of the abhorrent peacefulness seemed to have abated. He was able to recognise that there was perhaps a gas leak at the top of the cliff. A bizarre soporific inebriation that had been able to—
"Hey!" someone shouted from above, and he looked up to see the stranger peering down at him with alarm.
It struck him suddenly that his eyesight was better than he had expected. He rubbed his eyes, attempting to determine the cause, when he realised that his nose was missing.
His exploratory fingers found two sensitive slits where his nose should have been. He let his hands smooth over the rest of his face, searching for other surprises and found suddenly that he was completely hairless on his head.
He did not know what he looked like, yet this had not been expected. It was not familiar.
"Are you hurt?" that incessant voice asked with alarm. "Fuck."
He watched the other man scour the cliff face below him.
"Look away for a sec?" he asked nonsensically.
That was obviously not happening. He continued to stare and then heard the man curse again.
"Fine. You're gonna make me jump, eh? Brilliant."
And then the man was backing up and abruptly hurtling himself off the edge of the cliff.
It was startling to watch. He did not care about the man, yet it was still disconcerting to see someone commit suicide.
When that body hit the water, the impact was loud. Reflexively, he winced, knowing that had to have hurt. After a time, the man did not rise and he took that as a victory.
Perhaps now, he could explore the island.
A sharp gasp and the man's head broke through the frothing water.
"Help me!" the man shouted desperately.
He found that command mildly amusing. He had no intention of intervening.
Indifferent, he watched the man drown.
The stranger's black hair began to sink under the surface— and then inexplicably he was suddenly next to him.
Panting and gasping— but out of the water. Without having made the journey.
He stood fast, backing away.
How had he done that? It was impossible. He should be dead.
"Don't leave," the man choked out, reaching a hand forward as if to grab him.
He turned and had meant to climb away, but his muscles locked.
He couldn't move.
Panic seized him and he fought with everything he had, yet his body would not obey his direction.
Had the man...?
But, no. Of course not.
"Shit," the stranger said. "I shouldn't have done that. Bugger."
So it was him. How could this be possible?
His back was to the man still, as he had turned to climb away when he had been rendered motionless as if time had stopped.
"I've... Uh," the fool struggled for a lie. "I've drugged you. It's... It'll wear off. It's not harmful. I just needed you to listen."
So this man was the sort that used force to get others to take heed.
The sort that would impair someone to get what they wanted.
"Look. I know it's in your nature to try to escape,"— again, that allusion to this man somehow knowing him— "but you can die here, okay? If you hurt yourself, you'll die and I won't be able to help you."
That thought pierced him.
He did not wish to die.
"I'm going to... carry you up the cliff, back to the house. I'll have to cover your eyes, though. Just in case you get seasick or if you're afraid of heights."
The words were so obviously false that he wondered why the man bothered with them. He was a terrible liar, yet what need had he to lie? Why bother interacting with him?
Hands were suddenly on him and he felt his terror explode, thrashing to fight, to gain freedom, but his body somehow refused his instruction and let the stranger place a blindfold over his eyes.
His body was shaking with anger and fear. How dare he manhandle him this way? It was—
He was lifted up, his body rigid like a board, and carried smoothly higher. He could hear the crash of the waves receding, but he had not seen any paths that would have taken them back up so directly.
There was something about this man, something different and... powerful. How had he survived the waves? How had he moved so fast and managed to carry him so adeptly up a steep rock cliff?
When his feet again made contact with the ground, his blindfold was removed.
"I'm going to... give you the antidote to that freezing drug now, okay? Please don't run again."
The man moved behind him, shifting his clothes until he found the skin of his nape. He paused, his fingers gently gliding over his skin, almost... tenderly.
Then a sharp pinch and his body was freed.
He stumbled back a pace, swiftly turning to face the man.
The stranger had his hands up, indicating that he meant no harm, which was absurd. He had drugs that could force him to be completely vulnerable. He could move so fast it was invisible, and his agility was inhuman.
Of course he was dangerous.
His eyes scanned the ground. And there it was. He knelt for a moment, having seen a rock the size of his hand. Ragged.
Perfect.
When he looked up, the man's eyes were wide with astonishment and... lust? Was that a blush to the man's cheeks?
Irrelevant.
He knew what he had to do.
He stood again, meeting that gaze levelly.
"Just stay on the island, alright?" the stranger asked. "If you need more space or... if you want to explore a bit, that's fine."
That's fine.
As if he were granting permission.
"Now, we should get you into the house. I can—"
Gripping the stone tightly, he brought his arm forward and smashed the jagged side against the man's head.
He felt it crack the skull. Blood began to seep out and he watched that face go slack with shock and perhaps brain damage. A pitiless shove to the man's chest toppled him back into the churning ocean, and— hopefully, to his death.
Harry felt the cold water catch him as he fell.
.
.
At first, the water felt good. Invigorating. It certainly woke him up.
Then he realised that he was drowning and all he could see was his own red blood seeping into the ocean.
Fuck.
He forced himself to concentrate.
If you die, Voldemort will never get his memories back. You promised. You told him he could trust you.
Harry pulled together his magic and brought it inwards, to heal what he could. It wasn't enough. He had to get back to the house and his cache of healing potions if he wanted to live.
Somehow, he landed with a crack! outside the blurry white building. The pain in his head was excruciating. He could hardly see from the blood pouring down his face and into his eyes. His glasses were gone and he felt like he was about to vomit.
Merlin, I'm going to die.
He staggered into the room he'd claimed and fell against the closet door that held his stash of potions. He lifted the one that looked close enough to the right colour and necked it back. The movement of his head made the world tilt and he puked all down his front and then collapsed against the wall, his vision and brain completely shutting down.
.
.
"So it's going well?" Kingsley asked with an eyebrow raised.
Harry plastered his best smile onto his face. At least through the Floo, it was easier to hide his exhaustion. It was well past midnight, though this weekend he had been granted two days off his Horcrux search so that he could settle in.
"Yeah. I mean, there's really not much more to report. Like I said, he's nervous, but adjusting well."
Kingsley eyed him, seeming unconvinced.
"I wanted to ask about the wards, though," Harry said, hoping to change the subject to what he'd called about. "What is stopping him from jumping off into the ocean?"
"Oh, don't worry about that, Harry. I asked some of the best Wardsmasters to help and they assured me that he wouldn't even be able to approach the edge. They set up some of the most advanced Emotional Repelling wards I have ever seen." Kingsley chuckled. "He's not going anywhere."
Harry struggled to keep his face even.
They'd gotten in Wardsmasters, and Lord Voldemort had broken through their work on his first attempt. Immediately after being Obliviated and with no magic.
Oh my god. The man was unstoppable.
Fuck, he wanted to kneel for him so badly. Just sink to the ground and kiss those feet, show him—
"Is there anything else?" Kingsley asked. "I'd like to get back to sleep."
"No, sir," he hastened to say, ashamed still that he had woken the man. "I apologise. I just wanted to ask about the wards."
"I appreciate you keeping me updated, Harry. Don't stop that. When it comes to Voldemort, I'd always rather know."
Harry nodded and then the Floo connection cut.
He leaned back and blew out a breath.
Fuck.
Today had been challenging.
Lord Voldemort was finally asleep. Harry had spent most of the day under his Invisibility Cloak, making sure that the man didn't escape.
The Dark Lord had refused to come into the house, or anywhere near where Harry had been at all. Instead, he had walked to the opposite edge of the island, the wind whipping about his form relentlessly, to camp there.
Which was ridiculous considering he had thought that he'd killed Harry.
Bloody bastard.
He was furious that the man had done that. Harry was the only person Voldemort had access to. Why not try to manipulate him instead of just outright eliminating his one source of help?
But then, Voldemort didn't want anyone's help. He couldn't know that Harry was his. And the Dark Lord did not trust easily.
Harry had lingered, fascinated to watch Voldemort when he wasn't aware that he was being observed. He kept touching his face, as if worried it would change. He didn't talk to himself like Harry did when he was alone. He often stared out into the thrashing ocean, his face troubled and open.
Voldemort had collected fish that had been thrust up onto the orange lichen by the smashing waves. This side of the island, the east side, was more flat, though the raging waters were still inaccessible. Harry had watched him ponder his options and then take a bite of the still-moving— still alive!— fish.
It had turned his stomach.
Harry had a fridge full of proper food back at the house, and here was this stubborn git, eating a struggling creature raw, his thin lips curled up with distaste, but obviously hungry enough to bear it.
And yet, there was something compelling about his perseverance. His mania to be independent at any cost.
After eating, the Dark Lord had broken through the Emotional Repelling wards again and braced himself against the wind nestled up to the cliff face. He was managing to hide himself from the lighthouse, even though Harry was sure that Voldemort thought he was dead.
Once he had been perched as safely as he could get, the Dark Lord had closed his delicate eyelids and fallen right to sleep.
Harry had watched him for a concerningly perverted amount of time. He'd walked closer, coming near enough to touch, but not allowing himself to disturb the sleeping man.
He wanted to hold him, to reassure him, but knew that was a selfish wish. Like this, the man would recoil from him.
Harry sighed.
He shuffled over to the the threadbare sofa and picked up the book he'd been reading earlier. He adjusted his glasses, grateful that he had remembered to pack seven extra pairs, having anticipated Voldemort's violence.
He looked down at the pages, chewing idly on his cuticles.
He needed to perform the Memorias Occultatum Unveiling Ritual, yet every time he read about it, it worried him.
He had not given much thought to this part before because Voldemort had insisted that the ritual was simple. That had been his word. And yet, now that he was reading what was needed, it was obvious that Voldemort had believed that Harry was vastly more proficient than he actually was.
This bloody ritual required that he brew an elixir with several ingredients that he'd never heard of, and instructions that required he somehow stir and incant over the liquid at the same time. It looked incredibly complicated and Harry had always been pants at potions.
Sure, he'd managed the potion to give Voldemort back his body alright, but that was because the actual procedure had been easy— it was the ingredients that had made it so complex. The instructions were just, plop in this ingredient, say some words, plop in another ingredient— voila! New body.
This Unveiling Ritual potion required actual skill, which he did not possess.
And who could he ask for help? Hermione? She could certainly do it, but she'd know right away what it was for. Draco had always gotten great marks in Snape's class, but again, he too would hate Harry for what he was attempting.
So, what did that leave him with?
If only I could get Voldemort to help me.
Harry leaned back, massaging his head.
Voldemort had clearly thought that he could do it. Maybe he should just try. If it failed, he'd figure something else out.
Stifling a yawn, he Noxed the lights and fell into bed, fast asleep.
.
.
He stared down at the man, his mind struggling to comprehend.
The stranger was alive.
Unhurt.
His head looked flawless, as if it had never been cleaved open. The man slept soundly, as if he had not been pushed backwards into the unforgiving ocean to die.
Was he losing his mind?
He had no memories. It was possible that there was some medical explanation for his unfathomable reality.
Perhaps he was in a coma. This could be simply a dream, a hallucination. What else would account for this man's apparent indestructibility? Or for his own presence on this unknown island so far from London?
For his abnormal appearance.
He looked down at the sleeping form.
He had to see it with his own eyes. He must watch the man perish.
Moving quietly into the adjacent room, he collected the rope and knife he had found earlier and brought them back to the man. He would have to be quick and finish before the stranger was startled awake.
He gently manoeuvred the lax body until the hands and feet were close together. He then made a slipknot and gently glided it to encircle those four limbs. He did not need to tighten it yet. Finally, he made a noose and lifted the man's head carefully to slip it around his neck.
He transferred both ropes into his left hand and held the knife in his right.
Now, to watch a miracle.
Without waking the man, he plunged the blade straight into that chest, aiming for his heart, but the blade encountered a rib and shifted at the last moment, piercing too low and too shallowly to be fatal.
Those eyes flashed open, startlingly green, and the man screamed, trying to fight. He tightened the ropes, forcing the man's body to curl, his breath to grow tight.
"Stop!" the man shrieked, thrashing against his bindings— and it was with a strange detachment that he realised that this sight aroused him.
He paused, looking down at the stranger, struggling and bleeding. Fearful. Vulnerable.
His hitherto irrelevant cock began to throb.
He could remember hurting other children in the orphanage where he had lived, yet never had it excited him sexually.
Was it something about this man? Or had he just grown to be a deviant?
His distraction had allowed the man to liberate one of his wrists. That hand rose and yanked at the noose, succeeding in loosening it.
"Voldemort!" the man panted— and then something shifted.
Voldemort.
Was that his name? Was—
"Let me go, you idiot— fuck! Stop trying to kill me!"
He finally took in the man's face. It was not terrified as it should be, nor agonised. In fact, when he looked down, the man's chest had stopped bleeding.
Impossible.
"What are you?" he demanded in awe, hearing his own voice for the first time.
It was higher than he had expected. Unfamiliar and eery.
The other man froze when he had spoken, and— bizarrely, a small smile tilted his lips.
"Gods. I missed your voice."
After almost being killed, the man could smile.
He scoured that face.
"Do I know you?" he asked.
The stranger hesitated. Waiting for a reply was inconceivable.
"Why will you not die?" he breathed, and this was the answer he was after.
This was crucial.
Did this man have the ability to cheat death? And, if so, could it be stolen?
The man had stopped struggling.
"I'm hard to kill," he replied with a grin, as if it was amusing and not an enviable panacea. "You've tried often enough, to prove that."
He did not like these allusions.
"You know me."
The stranger nodded slowly.
"Yes."
"How."
The man's lips pressed together, and he found his own gaze straying there, getting caught. There was something... compelling about this man. Not familiar, of course. But something that drew the eye.
"We're... friends," the man offered.
Friends.
A sinking feeling settled in his stomach.
And now I know it is a lie.
He may not remember much about himself, but he could never imagine requiring a friend.
Unnecessary.
"How do you do it?" he asked, refusing to be deflected. "What do you possess that grants you such powers?"
The man laughed— laughed.
"Of bloody course that's the only thing you care about." The man's expression was inexplicably fond. "Even like this, you're still Vol—"
He cut himself off, looking anxious.
"That name. What is it."
The stranger looked away, but that would not suffice. He tightened the ropes again, watching the man arch enticingly.
Enticingly?
His mind was faulty. These inanities were frustratingly distracting.
"It's nothing," the man lied.
"You have said it twice now. Voldemort. What does it mean?"
The man attempted a shrug.
"You tell me."
So it is my name.
Voldemort?
It did not fit. He was almost certain that he had been called Tom, yet that name did not resonate with him either.
"What is your name?" he demanded.
"Harry," the man responded immediately, and he believed him.
Harry.
It meant nothing.
"Look, can you let me out?" The stranger shifted in his restraints. "This is pretty uncomfortable."
He glanced down, suddenly aware that he held this immortal being in his hands. He was in control.
"You cannot die, and I must understand why," he mused, enjoying how the stranger's expression grew uneasy. "I believe an experiment is in order. Unless you are willing to divulge your secret?"
The man spluttered indignantly.
"Jesus, you want to cut me up? Stab me again?" He chuckled mirthlessly. "No matter the situation, we always come right back to this."
Right back.
That, combined with the detail that he had tried to kill this man many times before, alerted him that they were enemies.
"Did you do this to me?" he whispered dangerously, feeling the need to put murderous hands on the man. "Impair my memories? You can heal your fatal wounds. Memory erasure must be easy."
The man looked exasperated.
"Oh my god, V—" That nervous glance again. "I didn't do it."
"Yet, you knew about my condition before I told you."
"Yes. Because we are friends."
"Friends who routinely try to murder each other."
The stranger laughed, and this time it was more relaxed. Almost affectionate.
"Yup. Fucked up, right?"
His gaze was caught on... Harry's forehead, where there was a curious scar in the shape of a lightning bolt.
Unthinkingly, he reached out and touched it. The man tensed, but did not pull away.
"Do you recognise it?" Harry asked hesitantly.
"Should I?" he vaguely replied, enjoying the feel of the raised tissue under his fingers, his eyes rapaciously studying the unusual mark.
"You gave it to me," Harry whispered.
He hummed, somehow already guessing that.
He knew he had put it there. And he did not regret it.
"Another attempted kill?" he asked.
Harry smiled up at him, seeming so young all of a sudden.
"The first one."
"Did you ever unwisely try to steal my life?"
That smile grew cheeky. It was irritating and yet it made him feel uncomfortably warm.
"Sure did. And I succeeded once."
He frowned.
Succeeded?
Excitement flooded him.
"Am I..."
—immortal too?
He needed to know, but the question was so implausible that he could not even speak it.
Harry was staring at him intently, as if watching to see what he would do.
Was he like Harry?
Could he also astonishingly close his own fatal wounds?
He looked down and placed the knife against his own skin.
"No!" Harry shouted. "Voldemort, stop! That's gone too, with your memories!"
Gone too, with your memories.
So, he had once held that power.
The power to heal.
The power to conquer death.
"Give it back to me," he breathed, placing that knife instead to Harry's throat.
The man's eyes flew wide.
"I'll just heal," he insisted. "There's no point trying. And I'm the only one who can help you, so if you kill me, you're stuck."
He paused, considering his options. The stranger's gaze became heavy.
"And I mean that. Don't kill me anymore. I'm the only one who is helping you. I'm all you've got."
He tilted his head.
"Perhaps you are lying. You could be here to attempt to slaughter me once more."
The man had the audacity to snort with disdain.
"Right. Because you'd be so hard to kill right now." He smirked. "If I wanted you dead, I would have just—"
Harry cut himself off, as if he could not say the ways in which he would kill him.
He yearned to know these secret methods that he had once possessed.
"Show me," he breathed, coming closer, drawn to the seduction of that power.
"How?" Harry asked, his eyes widening.
"Show me something non-fatal. Hurt me, then heal me."
"Hurt you?" Harry rasped, and he could tell that that suggestion enticed the man.
That face flushed deliciously, his pupils blowing wide. It was impossible not to touch him, and so he reached out and fisted the black hair at the base of his head.
"Hurt me," he commanded. "Show me what you can do."