CHAPTER 31
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After a week of just watching and no contact, Harry was vibrating with impatience.
This wasn't him. He didn't wait and watch— he acted.
Having to stand by, invisible, while Voldemort still refused the house, was torture. He had to watch the man struggle to find food when there was a fridge fully stocked right there that the proud, paranoid bastard wouldn't touch. He had to let the man freeze from the thrashing wind, still in the clothes he'd worn at the start despite there being an entire closet full of warmer, newer, dryer items to wear if he just sodding trusted the house!
It was maddening.
This was a test that he was sure to fail. Every night he returned to London so that he could keep up appearances, pretending to search for that Horcrux. In reality, going back was torture too, because he was fucking lonely as shit and it was so very tempting to venture into a pub and let someone put him on his back for an evening.
Or ten minutes, he wasn't fussed.
One night, he'd even gotten so far as to let someone proposition him— and he'd almost said yes.
He'd wanted to.
Fuck yes, he'd wanted to.
But then he'd thought about Voldemort. All alone. Confused.
Waiting for Harry to save him.
It didn't feel right to fuck or be fucked when the man he actually wanted was suffering and lost, and not at all at fault for Harry's lack of satiation.
He was sure that if Voldemort had been himself, they'd be fucking like mad.
Harry groaned, thumping his head down onto the table in the white building.
He had just returned from London and was now faced with his usual two hours of sleep until Voldemort awoke at dawn and Harry's new day began.
He was exhausted, yet tonight, he couldn't sleep.
His mind had been fixated on an idea that he'd been trying to ignore for days now. It went against what he had committed to doing this time. It was irresponsible.
But each night, the idea became more compelling. The reasons why not got quieter and the possibilities swelled until Harry couldn't remember why he'd been against it all this time.
After all, it wasn't really that ludicrous. It may even be good for the man's mental health. It sure as hell would be good for his own.
And if it fell to shit then he'd just Obliviate the man again and start fresh.
Why not?
Thrumming with excited anticipation, Harry Summoned a piece of parchment and a quill, then watched them sail into his invisible hand. He grabbed them and brought them under his Cloak.
Right. How to begin?
He stared down at the paper, a small giggle escaping his throat. Fuck, it would be amazing to know Voldemort's thoughts. It would take time to gain his trust, but the man was insatiably curious and would surely be helpless against the possibility of information.
He put the quill to the parchment. How to start? The man would probably be afraid of this letter at first. He may not even read the first one.
Harry had a visual of sending Voldemort a flurry of letters like he had received from Hogwarts when he had been a kid. He imagined Uncle Vernon shouting at the Dark Lord, grabbing him around the waist and throwing him bodily from the room.
Harry laughed. That would be hilarious.
But then, Voldemort was stronger than he had been. He would have gotten that first letter and woe betide anyone who tried to stop him.
I wonder how many of my letters he'll throw into the ocean before he reads one?
Rubbing his tired eyes, he looked back down at the page.
Right. Let's do this.
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Don't be afraid.
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He snorted and then crossed that out. This would be his rough copy. No way was Lord Voldemort going to react well to that.
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I can give you information.
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That's good. Get him hooked at the start.
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I know who you are.
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He'd have to be careful with this. He couldn't be too honest this time or he'd end up giving the man an inflated ego again and convincing him that he could escape.
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Send me a return letter if you want to talk.
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He'd have to remember to leave some parchment out. Or— crap. He should be writing this with Muggle pens. Voldemort won't remember using quills.
A stab of sadness hit him at that. Poor Voldemort.
Harry needed to make some progress with that Unveiling Ritual potion. He'd collected a few easier ingredients and brought a cauldron to the island, but he had stalled after that. Without being able to talk to him, he couldn't determine if Voldemort intended to go back to killing people. It didn't feel right just giving him back his memories without knowing his plans because it would take Voldemort three seconds with his memories to get himself off this island, wards or not. Then he would just find another servant and go right back to being the Dark Lord.
And Harry would have to fight him.
He snorted. Like I'd have a fucking chance.
He didn't care if he died, but he didn't want Voldemort killing his friends.
Sighing, he glanced down at the parchment, suddenly feeling incredibly defeated.
What did all this matter when Voldemort was going to hate him for taking so long anyway? If he made friends with the man, all of it would go away when he got his memories back.
Whatever. Doing something was better than the agony of doing nothing.
He gave the letter one last read-through and then nodded.
Good enough.
He transfigured the quill into a pen and the parchment into a regular-looking white sheaf of paper. Then he rewrote the note, signing it simply, A friend.
Standing, he Disillusioned himself, readying to go find the Dark Lord and carefully deliver the note onto the man's person, tucking it in and hoping that that didn't scare him too badly.
The sky was already lightening. Harry accepted that this was going to be another night he'd make do without sleep, but his hopeful anticipation reminded him that it had been completely worth it.
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He re-folded the note slowly, holding it stiffly in his hand while he debated what to do.
It had not been there when he had fallen asleep.
He was being watched.
He was not alone.
Carefully, he placed the paper into his pocket and strode off to the cliff's edge. He needed to glance around himself and search the island, but refused to display his unease.
Someone was watching.
Someone who claimed to know him.
When he reached the precipice, he stopped right before the strange wind would propel him unnaturally back. No matter how often he approached, nor the weather when he did so, a huge gale always surged up and forced him away.
Testing its consistency and strength was part of his daily routine. It was concerning, but there had to be an explanation, and he would discover it.
Yet this missive was of more importance right now.
He knelt, inconspicuously digging a hole to bury it. The message had been easily memorised.
I can give you information. I know who you are. Send me a return letter if you want to talk.
Send a return letter— how? Should he push it through an invisible mailbox? Toss it into the sea? And what should he write on? Or with— his own blood?
And it had been signed, A friend.
Ludicrous.
His shoulders began to raise in trepidation, but he made himself settle. Perhaps the wind had carried it to him and he had not been its intended recipient.
Though, if it had been meant for him, it rankled that this person could know who he was when he himself did not.
Eight days ago, he had awoken inside the white building in a bed with no memories of the last unknown decades of his life. He did not know his age, his location, his name... He had discovered that his appearance was drastically changed from what he could recall, though there were no mirrors to further investigate.
His name was Tom, he was almost certain, but his memories ended before his adolescence.
All he could surmise was that he either had a terrible, disfiguring disease that had warped his facial features, or he had been in a horrific accident that had melted his nose and hair away. And both must have resulted in a coma that could account for his lack of memory.
Yet nothing explained the strange symbol he had found on his lower abdomen. It seemed fairly old, as the tissue was healed and not sore, but he had no idea how or why he had received it.
Was it a strange form of body modification? Could that be the reason for his nose and hair as well? Was it all just aesthetics?
That seemed unlikely. He could not remember placing any value on his appearance, nor did he particularly care about it now, other than it had to be a clue as to his current circumstances.
And now— this note.
Someone was on the island.
Which seemed impossible. He had searched everywhere diligently. Though, perhaps not the white building as thoroughly as the rest of the area. Something about it made him uncomfortable. The last time he had been inside, he had been searching for provisions and a floorboard in the adjacent hallway had creaked as if with weight.
He had immediately known that someone else had been in the house. Since then, he had avoided the place.
Was that where this stranger who knew him resided? What did they want?
He stood, wiping his dirty hands on his trousers, his mind swirling as he stared out across the sea.
Escape remained of utmost importance, even more so than this new threat. There was no way yet to breach the barrier of the island, but he had options. Today, he would move forward his plan to dig a tunnel near the east side, closest to the other landmass, and create an exit that bypassed the cliff's edge.
He would find a way out before this stranger thought to interfere.
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Harry watched Voldemort bury the letter.
The fuck is up with that?
At least he'd read it.
After several minutes of brooding, the Dark Lord walked off towards the far side of the island, Harry tagging along behind him. Once there, Harry sat while the man began digging again, this time making a far larger hole.
It was slow work. Without trees, there were no sticks. The house had one shovel, but obviously Voldemort refused to use it. Instead, he dug with his bare hands and Harry watched with concern as they became bloody and raw.
He must really want this hole dug.
Something suddenly occurred to him.
Was it a grave?
And if so— his own, or for Harry?
But that didn't seem to fit. He doubted that Voldemort would care to adhere to proper burial rites for his murder victims.
What, then?
Harry watched him dig for hours. Voldemort took no breaks for food nor water and he didn't seem to care how bloody his hands were getting. Harry surreptitiously healed them a couple times, but he couldn't do too much without it being noticed.
It wasn't until sometime after two in the morning that the man finally climbed out of the hole he'd dug. He looked knackered, yet there was satisfaction glinting in his eyes. The man walked back to the graveyard and fell asleep propped up against the wall, as usual.
Harry sat down beside him, invisible.
He carefully let his hand rest on top of those twitching, swollen fingers. Touching him, being close to him, was both relaxing and troubling in one. He could only be with him like this while the man slept.
And the aching longing at their lack of interaction was taking a toll on his sanity.
Or maybe it was just his exhaustion.
He hadn't slept properly since coming here. There just wasn't time.
It was possible that Draco had been right about a lack of sleep being a form of torture. He was beginning to feel... light. Kind of... drunk, almost. He'd actually stopped being tired, too. And when he did manage to sleep, it was almost like dozing. He had very vivid dreams, but he could snap out of them at the smallest sound.
Though, he'd always been a light sleeper. That condition had come from being in danger his whole life.
Before Hogwarts, sleeping had meant vulnerability to his relatives waking him with cookware smashed into his body, and as a teen, it had meant the possibility of war breaking out. Dreaming had also run the risk of killing someone, like when he'd seen Mr Weasley attacked, or when Voldemort had sent him false visions of torturing his loved ones and Harry had just ended up killing them himself. And he was never safe when he slept because someone could sneak in close, like Sirius had done in their Third Year, or he could be abducted by Snatchers.
Harry weaved his fingers through Voldemort's, yawning.
It felt amazing just to touch the man.
Fuck, what I wouldn't do for a handjob.
He looked over guiltily, taking in the proximity of those beautiful, long fingers.
Voldemort was dead asleep. No way was he waking up for anything.
But you can't sexually assault him. Forcing him to wank you would be close to rape.
Harry glanced down at his own body.
I'm invisible.
Maybe he couldn't touch the man, but there were no laws against having a go at yourself if no one could see you. It would be just like living in a dorm room with other boys. He'd wanked twice a day for four years at school with no one the wiser. This wasn't any different.
A giddy kind of excitement overtook him.
Am I really doing this?
His fingers slid into the waist of his jeans and it was convenient that he'd gotten so thin that he didn't even need to pull in his stomach anymore. He delved down until he got to his cock and then groaned, closing his eyes and banging his head back against the rock wall.
Merlin, it felt good to touch himself.
He looked over, taking in Voldemort's sleeping form. His eyes slid over that relaxed face, the high cheekbones, the hairless eyelids. He undid the zip on his trousers and shoved them down, then shimmied out of his pants.
Fuck, the air was cold on his erection, but it was bliss.
Voldemort was right there. He could pretend that the man was awake, that they were at Grimmauld like they'd planned and Harry had awoken in the middle of the night to his lover in his bed.
He bit his lip, stroking himself, picturing Voldemort waking up and smiling to see Harry so eager and willing. The man would shift forward, taking over and fisting his cock—
"Oh, gods," he rasped, and then bit his lip again to shut himself up lest he wake the other man.
But what if Voldemort woke now and wanted him?
He kept fucking his hand, imagining it— imagining Lord Voldemort startling awake and then turning to Harry with a cheeky smile, leaning forward— fuck!— leaning down and swallowing him whole, taking him in his mouth while Harry thrust up, choking the Great Lord Voldemort, making him gasp and cry out around his cock—
Harry moaned, banging his head back against the rocks again.
He looked over at Voldemort who was still sleeping and squeezed himself harder, knowing that Voldemort's mouth would be tight and wet—
But, fuck— what about his arse?
Harry reached down and grabbed his own bollocks, twisting them, imagining what it would feel like to get to fuck the Dark Lord Voldemort.
To see that powerful, untouchable man on his back, wide open and waiting for him— and Harry would press forward and sink into that heat, that fucking silky vice that would resist and then resist until it let him in, until Lord Voldemort finally submitted to him.
Harry groaned, feeling his body tense and then he was coming into the grass, still pumping his cock and staring at Voldemort who slept on, ignorant to what was occurring right beside him.
When he finally calmed down, he nonverbally vanished his mess and righted his clothing.
Merlin, he was tired.
The temptation to keel sideways and snuggle into that treasured form was almost impossible to ignore. Gods, it would feel so good to touch the man again.
He studied Voldemort's smooth brows, slightly furrowed with sleep, and wanted so badly to kiss away the frown.
He sighed.
Standing up reluctantly, he walked back to the white building.
All alone.
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He waited until the person departed and then allowed his eyes to finally flash open.
A man had masturbated next to him.
Surely. The sounds he had made, the scent...
The words.
Oh, gods, he had said. It had been low and throaty. Tight with agitation.
Why had this person come here to do so? Why had they insisted on touching him, weaving their hands together?
It had to have been the letter-writer.
Who else could it be? Someone had sent him a missive just that morning and then the same day he had been discovered and... assaulted with clandestine sexual activities.
His gaze tried to search through the grass for the man's emission, but the moon was not bright enough tonight to lend sufficient light to the task. He could feel around...?
No.
He had kept his eyes diligently closed so as not to give away that he had been awake and aware. It had been challenging to allow himself to be so vulnerable, to not satisfy his curiosity, yet it had been the right choice.
He stood.
His position was no longer secure. This person was going to continue to use his somnolence to molest him.
There was no choice but to eliminate them.
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Another letter came the following day. It had been tucked under a rock at the corner of the rainwater pond that had accumulated on the lower area of the island. It was right where he usually drank from.
So this letter-writer had been watching him drink.
When he found the second letter, he stashed it, unread, into his pocket and then behaved as if it were not concerning. Though he was parched, he merely pretended to drink because he was not a fool. If this stranger had discovered his only source of water, of course they would have contaminated it.
He would have to find another source of hydration.
After a sufficient amount of time, he stood and walked away to the south end of the island. The birds were particularly active and cacophonous here, but he ignored them, his mind rapt on the mystery of the notes.
There were no areas on the island where he could scale the cliffs. He was trapped, and the longer he studied the hindrances to his escape, the more suspicious they became. The wind was the most prominent as a deterrent, yet in certain areas, violent waves crashed onto the grass when he approached and forced him back, soaking him with cold water, disallowing his body to move through it.
He sat as close to the edge as he could get and used his shoulders to block as much of the island as he could from his actions. Reaching into his pocket gently so as not to reopen the wounds on his bloodied fingers, he pulled out the newest note.
Two pieces were revealed. One with writing and the other blank. A blue pen was also wrapped up in the paper.
He placed everything but the letter back into his pocket, and then read it, his body haunched for meagre privacy.
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I can tell you the year. Where you are.
Your name.
I will answer one question with each letter you write.
Ask me.
Write back. Leave it anywhere and I'll find it.
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-A friend.
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He carefully refolded the paper, no longer looking at it. His sightless gaze was over the water, as he thought hard.
One question.
As he went over his response, he thought about the many things he already knew.
He knew that this man had cameras or lived on the island.
He knew the man was queer.
He knew queer people often felt as if they had to hide.
He knew that this man was lonely, as evidenced by the letters and shameless stalking.
And because he needed to know more and was not above working to learn, he knew what he would ask for.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the blank paper and pen and wrote his reply.
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Let me see you.
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Fuck.
Of course the bastard would ask for the one thing he wasn't allowed.
Let me see you.
Merlin, he would bloody love to grant that request. But he knew where that path ended— with Lord Voldemort killing him a hundred different ways. And then being taken from him.
He had to be smarter this time.
He balled up the note and threw it onto the table in the white building. Massaging his aching head, he tried to force himself to focus.
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I can't do that. But I can tell you about myself.
I'm Harry. I'm from England. 28 years old.
I know you. I promised to help you.
I won't hurt you.
You didn't ask any questions, but I'll tell you one answer:
Your name is Voldemort.
Please write.
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-Harry.
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Christ.
He had no idea how to do this. He tried to picture how Voldemort would react to these words, but he was too fucking tired to manage. His eyes felt dry and heavy.
He wanted to sleep, but he'd missed all three meals today and knew that if he didn't eat, he was going to have even more trouble tomorrow.
Eating was even harder lately. It took too much energy to cook and even more to Summon food. He thought sometimes about going out to eat, but when he mapped out the process— finding somewhere in London after work, deciding on a restaurant, trying to figure out what to order, pushing it around on his plate, pretending not to feel everyone's judging eyes on him as he failed to finish— it was far too much of a hassle.
And during the day, he sometimes felt... unhinged. Like there was too much of him bubbling up inside. Too much to handle. Even though he was exhausted, it often left him thrumming with restless energy somehow, and he knew just what was needed— but he couldn't have it.
He needed to quiet his brain.
There was too much at stake here, too much he had to flawlessly direct. The contradictory pressure to keep Voldemort and his friends safe simultaneously, then the smothering guilt because that was impossible. Yet that burden was still at his feet, inescapable.
He would be hurting someone he loved, no matter what.
When he closed his eyes, he saw Lord Voldemort pointing to the ground, demanding that he kneel and the yearning he felt imagining taking his place, the abject relief, was torturous when he realised that he couldn't have it.
Not from Voldemort.
Sure, he could attempt a Muggle pub again, but that felt too much like cheating. As if he'd made a promise of fidelity, even though they had not.
Best just to try to ignore it.
Sighing, he folded up the new letter and tucked it into his jacket pocket.
Earlier that day, Voldemort had walked right up to the house and shoved his reply under the main door. That had taken courage, considering that the man hadn't ventured anywhere near the east side where the lighthouse and building were since a few days into this new situation.
Harry yawned widely, peering out the window into the darkness.
Merlin, he felt like a zombie. He just wanted to lay down and sleep for days, but he had so much he should be doing.
He'd tried to find one of the more restricted ingredients in the Unveiling Ritual potion this evening, yet it had been a dead end. And he'd strangely run into Diego Rodriguez, one of his Aurors, at the obscure shop in Bristol. The man had seemed flustered, which had put Harry's guard up immediately.
Was he being followed?
It made sense, if he was. The Ministry were putting all their faith in Harry's intentions and that was a big risk considering who Harry was safeguarding.
But did that mean that they were keeping track of what he did while out? And if so, maybe it wasn't safe to be searching for these ingredients.
Yet, what choice did he have? He'd promised to return the man's memories. It had already been ten days and he was no closer to finding all the ingredients, never mind making the potion.
And the knowledge to correctly do all of it is locked inside that brilliant mind that spends all day fruitlessly digging a hole with battered hands.
Fuck.
He should have gotten this information before that fateful Obliviation.
Ah well. Nothing to be had for it now.
As he gazed out the window, his eyes abruptly sharpened when he saw someone walk across the grass in the dark near the edge of the cliff.
Harry jumped up and ran out the door, racing to stop Voldemort from whatever he was planning.
When he got outside, everything was still.
His eyes scanned the edge, looking for that tall form, but he was nowhere to be seen. He stopped and spun, searching, his mind confusedly trying to understand what had happened.
With embarrassment, he realised that it had probably been another hallucination. He'd been having them for days now. He was so tired that his eyes would shift or imagine things and then he'd look the fool as he responded to them.
"Got you," he heard that high voice whisper, but before he could turn, he was hit on the back of his head with something hard and he fell to the ground.