CHAPTER 33
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When Harry opened his eyes, he saw sunlight.
Bugger!
Jumping out of bed, he raced to the window to look for Voldemort. The man would have begun his day hours ago and could be in any kind of danger.
Merlin, I can't believe I slept in!
The sun was high— it had to be almost noon.
He Vanished the contents of his bladder, quickly Disillusioned himself, and then tore from the room.
Running across the grass, he headed to Voldemort's pit, certain that the man was still digging away.
But when he peered over the edge, the hole was empty.
Fuck.
Harry looked out across the island towards the ocean, a nagging worry beginning to form.
Did he...? Has he found a way out?
Harry ran full-out to the precipice, the wards pushing him back, but he used magic to disable them for a second so that he could look down at the rocky, tempestuous sea.
There was no sign of him.
As Harry leaned over, he felt a sharp pain shoot from inside his arse. Flinching, he straightened up, wondering what the fuck that was about.
And then he remembered.
Voldemort's entire hand had been lodged up his arse last night.
Voldemort had slept in his bed.
A bolt of fear hit him— had Voldemort seen him Disillusion himself?
Shite.
Racing back to the house, he made himself visible again and pushed open the door.
Lord Voldemort looked up from where he had been going through the papers on his dresser.
They stared at each other.
Merlin, it was heart-wrenching to see the man standing there. It was like none of the bad things had happened. They were just at Grimmauld and Voldemort was sassing him about standing up for himself.
But this wasn't his Voldemort. Not yet.
He doesn't really know me. He has no memories.
He looks like the man you love, but you can't really trust him yet.
Remember that he tried to kill you three times.
"Sorry for... dashing out like that," he said, and watched Voldemort straighten and cross his arms. "I forgot you were here."
Harry studied him, his panicked heart rate calming when he realised that if someone who didn't know about magic had seen him disappear, they would be freaking out. And Voldemort seemed completely at ease.
"Can I make you some breakfast?" Harry asked, trying to change the subject.
The man glanced towards the kitchen and did not respond. Harry walked to the cupboards, taking out a fresh mug. The kitchen was right next to the room they'd stayed in and was wide open so he could still see Voldemort.
"Do you take coffee or tea?" he babbled on, feeling awkward and ugly and out of place. "I take tea, but I have coffee here too, if you—"
"Hermione," Voldemort said, and Harry actually gasped, his hands dropping the mug.
It shattered on the tiled floor, but neither of them looked at it.
Voldemort was scrutinising his reaction, his expression displeased. He held up a letter that Harry had written to her a few days ago and not sent.
Fear paralysed him.
Oh fuck. What had I said?
Voldemort glanced down and read the letter out loud.
"Dear Hermione."
Voldemort looked up, his face disdainful.
"How touching."
His gaze dropped again.
"I appreciate you two wanting to help me, but I really am fine. Voldemort—" He met Harry's gaze briefly, a warning fire in his eyes, "—is nothing I can't handle."
He'd read the last four words torturously slowly, enunciating everything until Harry felt like an utter fool.
The man lowered the note, raising his hairless eyebrows.
"Is that so."
Harry laughed nervously.
"Well, I wrote that before last night," he replied, feeling his face heat. "I reckon I wouldn't be so confident if I wrote her today."
A hint of a smirk curled those lips, but then the man continued reading.
"I miss you guys, but I won't be able to stop by tonight."
Voldemort threw the letter onto the table. Where he had fucked and then fisted Harry last night.
"Love," Voldemort mockingly recited, "Harry."
Harry pulled his eyes from the tabletop and blew out a breath.
It could have been way worse.
"It would seem that you are fairly free with your missing people and your love," Voldemort taunted, staring at Harry with disgust.
Harry stood baffled for long moments, wondering what he was missing— and then he realised that Voldemort was jealous.
Of Hermione.
"She's my friend," Harry emphasised, floored that the Great Dark Lord Voldemort could feel insecure about a Muggle-born. "Her and her husband are my best friends."
Those eyes narrowed further.
"You signed your letters to me as a friend."
Harry scoffed.
"Great. Well, in her case, our friendship is platonic. Unlike with our friendship, Voldemort, which seems to include you fucking me into a table with your cock and then your ginormous hand."
He watched Voldemort's mouth part slightly, but not with shock.
With hunger.
Those red eyes darkened, piercing him, and Harry held his breath.
"I see," the man remarked, and then strode past Harry and into the kitchen.
Alone, Harry drew in a bracing breath, supremely grateful that that letter had been so lacking in details that Voldemort must not know.
"I take tea," Voldemort said from the adjacent room, and Harry grinned, following him.
.
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Voldemort watched the man prepare breakfast. Harry's back was to him and his movements were nervous and clumsy.
Everything about this situation was strange.
He had never had someone cook for him specifically. He had never had intercourse, and certainly not with a man. At least, not that he could remember. The nuns at the orphanage had been explicit and thorough with detailing what two men who engaged physically together would suffer.
But Voldemort was not afraid for his soul.
He had never believed in Heaven nor Hell. Death was final; he had seen enough of it as a child to know that, and promising to be good was not going to change facts.
His eyes followed Harry as he buttered toast, the man sneaking furtive glances at him, as if worried he would disappear.
In the silence, he tried to organise his rapid thoughts.
It was a new millennia. Almost seventy years of his life were missing.
Why?
If it was not—
"I burned the beans," Harry said suddenly, placing a plate in front of him.
He pulled back his hands and looked vaguely at the food. Beans, toast, and tomatoes.
Voldemort could not remember eating anything but the fish he had been managing to find suffocating on the grass on this island. He had no recollection of what he had eaten a fortnight ago. The last proper meal that he could recall eating had been at the orphanage.
Seventy years ago.
"Where are my memories?" he asked tonelessly, and then looked up at the other man.
Harry seemed struck speechless. They stared at each other, Voldemort just noticing a strange scar on Harry's forehead. It was in the shape of a lightning bolt.
"I must leave this island," he said absently.
Harry slowly shook his head.
"You can't," he whispered.
"I can. You do."
The man nodded once, his face stricken.
"This is your prison, Voldemort."
Prison.
"What was my crime?"
Harry pushed his plate away. When Voldemort looked down at it, he realised that Harry had only served himself one slice of toast, while giving Voldemort a proper meal.
"I can't talk about it."
"Why not."
"It's too confusing for you when I do."
When I do.
So, he has before.
Why could he not remember?
"Are you my guard?"
Harry's face twisted into a semblance of a grin.
"Among other things."
Voldemort tried to understand.
"You love me," he stated and Harry flinched, but nodded like he was confessing something abhorrent.
"And yet, you will not help me."
Harry made a pained sound and then stood from the table, walking away.
Voldemort surged to his feet, unsure what to do, yet knowing he could not let Harry leave. Guilt was how to reach the man.
"Why will you not free me?" he demanded, following the other man from the room.
Harry made a choking noise and grabbed a piece of clothing from off a chair. He balled it and then threw it back onto the seat aggressively.
"I can't!" he shouted. "I don't know how!"
"You leave the island—"
"Not with you, I don't! I told you, this is a prison. For you. Not for me."
"What is stopping me from coming with you? You must have a boat. Some other transportation. Bring me."
Harry was rubbing his face with his hand.
"I can't."
"Tell me why. What happened the last time you told me?"
Harry laughed mirthlessly.
"You tried to kill me."
Voldemort froze.
He could not remember that. He had held a knife last night, intending to eliminate him, but surely that is not what Harry had meant.
"You—"
"I can't tell you anything important," Harry admitted, sounding defeated. "I'm sorry. I wish I could. I hate that you're suffering."
Voldemort pushed that aside.
"There is nothing physically stopping you from taking me with you."
Harry exhaled deeply.
"If you say so."
Voldemort stared at him.
Something in him darkened at Harry's unyielding refusal. He felt himself grow cold.
This man could not be convinced. He would have to be forced.
Voldemort relaxed his stance. Shrugged, and walked carelessly back into the kitchen.
"Alas," he lamented. "In any case, I am looking forward to this breakfast."
He walked to the table and sat himself down. The food smelled good, but his attention was rapt onto the man who was coming slowly into the room.
Voldemort forced himself to take a bite, the food tasting of nothing. He kept his gaze on his plate, yet all of his focus was on Harry.
The man was still standing, apparently perturbed by Voldemort's abrupt capitulation. He would have to smooth that over.
"I do not blame you, Harry. I am sure that you have tried everything you can."
He looked up to see that the man had a concerned expression on his face.
"Eat," Voldemort commanded, going so far as to attempt a smile.
If anything, that seemed to disconcert the man further. He dropped the expression.
"Relax, Harry. I am just too... satisfied to fight with you. I enjoyed our time together last night."
Harry frowned, yet his posture relaxed. He was becoming distracted. Perhaps a little more.
"With no memories, it is difficult for me to judge, but I believe that that was my most pleasurable encounter."
Harry choked out a laugh.
"Yeah, I doubt that's true."
Voldemort took a sip of his tea blindly, then grimaced with distaste. Milk and sugar? He put the cup back down, revolted.
Harry caught the reaction.
"Is something wrong? I didn't ask how you take it. Do you prefer it black?"
Before Voldemort could reply, Harry had grabbed his cup and taken it to the sink. He tipped the liquid out and then lit a fire on the stove again.
"Sorry 'bout that," Harry muttered. "We never really drank tea together. Huh."
His expression became pensive.
Voldemort stood, seizing the opportunity.
"What had we done with one another, instead?" he inquired, coming towards the man, crowding him against the counter.
"Oh," Harry breathed, reaching behind himself to grab the wood.
"Was our relationship merely physical, Harry? Did we simply fuck?"
He whispered that word into the man's ear, watching Harry's eyes flutter closed.
Perfect.
Voldemort grabbed him by his hips and spun him around so that Harry was facing the cupboards. The man cried out and Voldemort ground his lower body against Harry's arse.
He felt his own pulse quicken, his cock firming fast, but he reminded himself that he was strong enough to not be diverted.
"I wish I could remember all the ways I had you," Voldemort breathed onto his neck.
One of his hands tilted Harry's head to the side, exposing his neck so that he could bite it. The other, reached down and quietly opened the cutlery drawer.
"I bet you begged your Master to fuck this pretty little arse every morning like a good boy, did you not?"
While he spoke, his fingers closed around a knife, gripping it steadily.
"I wonder what I did to make a man fifty years my junior so enamoured with me."
Harry coughed out a laugh and Voldemort swiftly brought the blade against Harry's throat.
The man froze.
"Take me with you," he demanded, pushing the knife harder against that smooth skin. He felt Harry swallow. "We leave now."
Harry was breathing with his mouth open.
"If you hurt me again," Harry rasped, speaking slowly and emphasising each word, "they will take you away from me."
"Who."
"The people who want you here."
"Then do not tell them."
"They'll know. It's not safe for you to go anywhere as you are. You have no memories. No m—"
The man closed his mouth.
"I will manage," Voldemort dismissed.
Harry's fingers touched Voldemort's on the knife. Gently. Not trying to remove it.
It was a plea.
"We've already done this," Harry said softly. "You already tried to kill me. If you do it again, they will put you in a real prison and it is a nightmare for you in there. Please. Please, Voldemort. Don't make them take you from me."
"You expect me to stay here forever."
"No. Just until I can help you. Give me time. I'm working on it. But I can't do it too fast because they're tracking me."
"Who."
"The government."
"How long must I wait?"
"I don't know. But you're safe here. I will protect you."
That phrase sent a thrill up his spine, despite how he knew it was a lie. He could not recall ever having someone vow to protect him.
"What needs to be done for my memory?"
Harry hesitated.
"I need to find a couple things. And then get help making something."
"I can help."
Harry's hand gently squeezed his fingers.
"Don't I wish," he muttered. "Can you let me go now?"
Voldemort's mind seethed.
It was imperative that he secured Harry's loyalty. His compliance.
"I will kill this... Hermione," he promised. "Her husband. I will slaughter the whole of the government—"
Bizarrely, Harry snorted.
"Yeah, I know. Believe me, I know what you're capable of." Harry sighed, his fingers stroking Voldemort's wrist almost absentmindedly. "But you're not in a position to do that right now, okay? You have to chill until I can get you sorted."
Chill.
Voldemort felt a sneer curl his lips.
"Why should I trust you?"
Harry's small hands shifted and then Voldemort felt them tuck between them and touch where his mark was on Voldemort's lower belly.
"Feel this?" Harry asked, and Voldemort found himself nodding. "I gave this to you so that you could see visible proof that we are in this together. That I... Well, that I love you. And I'm going to take care of you."
His mind warned him that this promise was outrageous.
Dangerous.
He could trust no one but himself. Any other dependencies were fatal, had always been.
His vision was abruptly overcome with images of this horde of unknown government officials, carting him off to an asylum, like Ms. Cole had always threatened they would do. He would fight, of course he would, but he was only one person and it had never been enough to save him from their tests and their punishments.
His chest began to ache, a subtle pressure squeezing his heart. He ignored it, focusing on what was important.
His safety.
He did not know who his enemies were, seventy years later. Did not know their purpose for keeping him here, what weapons they now possessed in the twenty-first century. Harry could be a spy, a traitor who—
"Hey," Harry said, the hand on Voldemort's wrist gently pulling the knife away from his throat.
The man turned and put two hands bracingly up on Voldemort's shoulders.
"It's alright," Harry lied. "I promise that you're safe. I—"
"Do not lie to me," Voldemort snarled, knocking Harry's hands off of him, his heartbeat erratic. "You may know me, but I do not know you. You could have put me here, forcing—"
"Hey," Harry said again, but his tone was harder. Less soothing and more commanding. "I know this is a lot to take in—"
"It is impossible to take in," he interrupted, his fury overcoming him. "I have no memories, imbecile. No contacts, other than you. No weapons. No means of escape. I am vulnerable here."
"I know," Harry said, his gaze level and absorbing. "But you're not alone. And whatever you don't know, I do, and I will—"
"I do not trust you!" Voldemort shouted, slashing the knife at him again, but Harry sidestepped it deftly and knocked the weapon from his fingertips.
The man spun them, shoving Voldemort's hips into the counter and slamming his chest down against the wooden countertop. Voldemort thrashed, but he could not break free with one of Harry's hands on his nape, holding him down, and the other twisting his arm behind his back. The man suddenly seemed to possess inhuman powers that would not let him up. His hips were pressing against Voldemort, his weight keeping him pinned.
Voldemort seethed, hating this man like he had hated no other. That he dared to manhandle him thus—
"Release me, child," he growled murderously. "Or I will—"
"Lay on your chest under me and take it?" Harry finished insolently. "Because that's all you can do right now. So fucking take it and accept my sodding help, alright?"
The impertinence of this man was astounding. He could not remember much of his life, but he knew no one would dare speak to him thus.
"Remove your hands from me," he began, but Harry laughed— laughed.
In his shock, Voldemort slowly ceased struggling.
"I'm not afraid of you," Harry said with indolent amusement, spiking Voldemort's rage, but Harry's hands tightened on Voldemort's twisted arm painfully and that settled him.
He was breathing hard, his heart thundering, but a strange calm was washing over him. He closed his eyes.
Unfathomably, his... helplessness at Harry's authority, began to send waves of shocked pleasure to his cock.
He shifted his shoulders, resisting his body's troubling reaction, and attempted to break free, but Harry redoubled his hold and pushed Voldemort back down. Those warm fingers dug into the skin of his neck painfully.
He felt his body treacherously relax, his muscles unclenching subtly, so he forced them to tauten. Being restrained should not calm him.
This was dangerous.
"You've always got to fight so damn hard," Harry muttered, and then sighed. "I'll let you up once you behave."
Furious indignation rose up in him.
"Behave, child? I am—"
Harry grabbed hold of the material at his neck, yanking him up off the countertop and then shoved him back down. Voldemort's left cheekbone hit the surface hard and the jolt of pain sobered him.
"That's right, Tom," Harry growled quietly, and Voldemort could hear that he was baring his teeth. That visual sent a wave of searing arousal through his body. "You will behave for me, or I will make you."
Make me.
He wanted to scoff at that, the audacity, and yet for some reason, he held his tongue.
What had he called me?
"Tom," he breathed.
Harry was suddenly silent.
"I know that name," Voldemort went on, recalling that that name had felt familiar when he had first awoken with no memories. "That was my name at the orphanage."
A bolt of fear went through him.
Too much information! He was handing his enemy weapons.
"I know," Harry replied calmly.
Mistrust nagged at him.
"You said I was Voldemort."
Harry shifted, but did not release him.
"You are. Tom was who you used to be."
A name change.
An alias.
Who had initiated it— himself or his enemies?
He flexed his back muscles uncomfortably. This was gaining him nothing.
"I will... cease fighting," he grudgingly relented.
Harry snorted.
"I don't believe that for a second," he laughed. "But I guess I can give you a chance."
Harry released him.
Voldemort stayed prone, taking a moment to collect his composure. His dignity. He let go of the unfamiliar compulsion to submit to this. He would ruminate upon it later.
Straightening up, he met that challenging gaze with his own. He did not bow.
"C'mon," Harry said, walking back towards the table and their abandoned meal. "You need to eat."
.
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That night, Voldemort insisted on them sleeping in the same bed.
At first, Harry had been excited. Hopeful that this meant that the man was beginning to trust him. To remember.
But when Voldemort splayed his hand out on Harry's chest, his body turned fully to face him unblinkingly, Harry finally clued in that Voldemort was just making sure that he would catch Harry leaving.
Or be able to stop him.
He'd had no choice. He needed to be seen pretending to search for this Horcrux, so when Voldemort had finally closed his eyes sometime after three in the morning, Harry had used magic to keep him asleep until he returned.
Voldemort would be pissed, but at least he'd be safe. Harry could handle his anger. It was losing him that he could not abide.
When he got to work, Ron was waiting in his office.
Harry backed up, feeling like this could be an ambush. He looked around the room for any others who would be keen to bring him down.
"Relax, mate," Ron said gently, holding out his hands to show that he was unarmed. "I just want to talk. You haven't been replying to our letters or accepting our Floo calls."
Harry let his gaze rest on his friend, unconvinced.
He wants to know where Voldemort is.
He'll take him from you.
"I can't chat right now," Harry said, walking to his desk and noticing a note from Draco.
He spelled it open and saw that the man wanted to meet up. Great. He probably wants to berate me, too.
"Just give me five minutes," Ron insisted, standing and coming closer. Harry straightened up, ready. "It's about Kingsley."
Kingsley?
Harry pocketed the note and nodded slowly for him to continue.
"He came to me a few days ago, asking if you were seeing anyone. You know, romantically."
He raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement of who Harry was actually with. Harry felt his body grow cold.
Oh, shit.
Kingsley could be a problem.
"What did you tell him?" Harry asked with trepidation.
Ron scoffed.
"Well, not that you're in love with Vol—"
"Jesus, Ron," Harry growled, and threw up a privacy ward. "You can't go—"
"I already had one up, Harry," Ron said, looking confused. "Do you think I'd talk about this without protecting you?"
Harry rubbed his temples, feeling another tension headache coming on.
"Sorry," he mumbled.
"No worries," Ron dismissed easily. "Well, I told him that I didn't know. But that you're always too focused on work to seriously date anyone anyways."
Harry nodded. That's what he had always assumed, too. Turns out, he had just been waiting for Lord Voldemort.
"And what did he say?"
Ron frowned.
"He was actually acting pretty shifty. I don't think he believed me." Ron glanced up at Harry with concern. "Did you know that you're being followed?"
A stab of worry pierced him. He forced out a sigh.
"Yeah. I figured. Do they know anything?"
Ron snorted.
"They won't tell me shit. And I've asked. But there's a whole department for Voldemort now. And watching you is a big part of it."
"Watching me? How? At—" He'd almost said, at the island. "At our location?"
Ron shrugged.
"Dunno. Like I said, they won't tell me a bleeding thing. I just wanted you to know that they're suspicious. So be careful, Harry."
Harry inclined his head.
"How's all that going?" Ron asked hesitantly.
Well, I discovered that I like fisting, thanks to the Dark Lord's surprising initiative.
Harry cleared his throat.
"Fine. It's pretty boring, actually."
"You're still keeping your distance?"
Harry's head tried to nod, but his neck wouldn't cooperate. He hated lying to his best friends.
Harry stared at him anxiously, knowing this was going to be too much.
"Ah, bugger," Ron sighed, a slight smile on his lips. "I knew it. Hermione said you'd keep to it, but I knew that you were too far gone."
He felt terrible. Selfish and weak and—
"It's fine, Harry. Obviously so long as you haven't found a way to give him back his memories or anything."
His tone was jokingly assured, as if that possibility was ludicrous.
Harry's head jolted, caught between a shake and a nod. Ron's face fell in horror.
"Wait— You have?"
Fuck.
"Yeah, but I haven't done it," he hastened to assure him. "He told me how, but that's all."
Ron gaped at him for long minutes.
"Are you going to do it?" he asked breathlessly. "Is that your plan?"
"No! Well, yes."
Harry clenched his fists, loathing himself. He sighed.
Hate me, I deserve it.
"Yes," he said quietly. "That's my plan. But it's incredibly difficult to do and I'm struggling with it."
Harry looked up at the other man, worried.
"Ron, please. Please. You can't tell anyone this."
"You want him to be You-Know-Who again," Ron muttered, his voice hollow.
Harry gritted his teeth.
"Yes. But— I can control him."
Ron's face minutely screwed up.
"You think you can control... Lord Voldemort?"
What a fucking statement.
"I can."
Ron met his gaze with mild disdain and then that look grew hard.
"Harry. If you do this, he will come back. He'll start another war."
"He has no magic," Harry argued lamely, knowing that he was delusional.
"And how long until you find a way to return that, too?"
Harry looked away.
Eventually. After we talk about what his plans are for the future. After I can ensure that he stops killing.
"Just... let me figure it out, okay?" he asked, trying to meet that blue gaze again. It hurt to do so, but he held it, trying to convey a confidence he did not feel. "I can handle him."
"My wife is a Muggle-born," Ron said coldly, as if Harry didn't know, as if she belonged to Ron and Harry's friendship with her didn't matter. "He was rounding people like her up and killing them. You want me to stand aside while you bring him back to power?"
Harry staggered and fell into his seat.
"I won't let him," he breathed.
"Now is your chance not to let him. You protect Hermione and our kids and the world by not giving him back his memories. Because once you do that, he'll figure out how to get his magic back, you know he will."
"I can—"
"Harry, listen to me. He's too dangerous. It's too big of a risk. You can't do this."
Ron was right, Harry knew he was right, but—
"Stay with him wherever you guys are," Ron went on. "I'll keep the Ministry off your back and help you. But, Harry. If you choose him over my family, over everyone, I'll have to tell Kingsley."
No.
"Ron—"
"He killed my brother, Harry," Ron said, his voice shaking with anger and resolve. "He possessed my sister and then almost killed her when she was eleven. He forced her to... work for him. She still has terrible nightmares."
Ron was listing off these unforgivable offences, stabbing them into Harry, and it was too much to bear. He took each one solidly on his chest, feeling them tear holes into his flesh that could never be fixed.
"He was responsible for George's ear getting blasted off," Ron continued mercilessly, as Harry bled, "and Bill's condition, and my dad being attacked by a snake."
Ron's gaze became lethal.
"He is why Bellatrix tortured my wife." His tone was low and hard, driving each word home. "I won't let him hurt her again or touch my children."
Harry was caught, staring at his best friend who was right. He was taking a stand against Harry for the first ever time, and it was warranted. He was doing what was honourable, protecting his family, and Harry was allying himself with those who wished them harm.
I have no fucking clue what Voldemort's plans are. I promised him his life back without first making sure that he had no intention of restarting the war.
"Then," Ron said, his voice changing oddly, "there's what he did to my best friend."
Harry tensed with horrified apprehension, wanting to escape from what was coming, Jesus fuck, I can't listen to—
"He killed his parents. Made him live with his relatives who starved him. Convinced him that he was a freak."
You are a freak. A burden. A—
"He spent seven years trying to murder him. He fucked with his mind, killed people in front of him..."
Harry stared at his knees, trying to block out the faces of the people that he'd seen Voldemort murder—
Cedric and Snape and Frank Bryce and Charity Burbage and that woman, that poor woman who'd just opened her door when Voldemort had knocked looking for Gregorovitch— and her kids— fuck, Voldemort had slaughtered them too, he'd forgotten, killed two kids without hesitating because they'd lived in the former home of someone he was looking for—
He bit his tongue until the ringing in his ears quieted down.
Debilitating guilt cascaded over him, pushing him into the ground. Voldemort was a monster, and he was a monster for loving him.
"He tortured him," Ron went on, but no torture was enough for what Harry was complicit in— "Lied about him. Tried to turn the public against him."
Harry wanted to get small, crouch into a ball on the floor at Voldemort's feet and just disappear. It was too much. And anyway, these words weren't true. Harry's situation hadn't been that bad. It was his job. All of that was just collateral damage.
"He took away his childhood," Ron whispered, and Harry wished that he would stop, these words hurt, they were lies and— "... forced him into a war and made him have to walk into his own suicide."
Ron paused, and Harry's gaze darted up, knowing he would see disappointment in the blue eyes because he'd failed at that. At his one job. He had been tasked to die, but he'd not boarded that train. He'd been given another chance because he was Harry Potter, but Fred hadn't gotten the same chance. Nor Snape, nor little Colin.
Just the Chosen One.
Because he'd had a job to do, to kill Voldemort, and he hadn't even—
"I never told you how brave that was," Ron said, his voice tight with emotion.
Harry swallowed around the pain in his throat. The guilt that clogged his airway, suffocating him.
"Sacrificing yourself," Ron rasped. "I... I couldn't have done it. I don't think anyone else could. You're... you're so much better than all of us."
Harry focused on his breathing, trying to get enough air. He wanted to scream at Ron for these lies, because he wasn't better. He was worthless. Selfish. He was taking the place of someone more deserving.
Ron still saw him as the kid from Hogwarts. The hero. Honourable and innocent. That's why he thought these things. And Harry was too much of a coward to correct him.
He closed his eyes, trying to shift the mountain of guilt that was pressing him into the ground. What had Ron been saying before he'd began with the useless platitudes?
He was telling you what you took from him.
Harry took a deep, shaking breath.
"I'm so sorry," he rasped, and Ron immediately began berating him, but Harry ignored his words.
He just wished that he could prove how very sorry he was.
Because Ron was blaming Voldemort, but the fact was that the only reason Voldemort had been able to do all of that damage, was because Harry had failed to kill him. Instead, he'd been dicking around worrying about Snape. Playing Quidditch. Kissing girls.
The Weasleys had paid dearly for Harry's laziness. His indifference.
And there would never be a way to repay that.
Just keep them safe now. Ensure that any harm that Voldemort does, will be aimed at you.
All he had to do was keep Voldemort broken.
Lost.
Waiting.
He just had to betray the man's precious, fragile trust.
He knew that Ron was right. Harry could have everything he wanted if he kept Voldemort on the island and away from the public. The rapport he was gaining with the new man was promising. Voldemort could be happy there.
That's not what you swore. You told him to trust you, that you wouldn't leave him as a Muggle.
But if he lived, if Harry could keep him safe from harm, wasn't that better than finding his Horcrux and killing him? Alive was better than dead, surely.
Months ago, Voldemort had said that part of being his Master was the responsibility of blocking him from making unwise choices. Maybe Harry could do the same— choose to protect Voldemort by taking away his choice. By making the right decision for him.
Perhaps now, he was the Master. And sometimes Masters had to make hard choices that would benefit their charges.
Voldemort would understand. Or... maybe he would never have to.