CHAPTER 36

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Harry hid from Voldemort all afternoon.

Normally, he followed him around the island, but right now, he just needed some time to sort out his feelings. Besides, the frustrating man had simply returned immediately to continue to dig his hole, despite the fact that he had almost died in it.

Harry could see clumps of dirt fly out of the abyss at a steady pace.

Merlin. The man was eighty. This was too much work, especially so soon after a heart attack.

I should stop him.

And say what? The man wouldn't listen to him anyway, and then he'd have to face his disappointment from this morning.

Voldemort must be so confused. He'd almost gotten laid and then Harry had freaked out and yelled a nonsense word before storming off— and it wasn't like his Voldemort would even know why he was shouting Quidditch during sex either. That was the safeword he'd used at the brothel, but it had just come bursting out of his mouth when he'd needed it today.

That experience, like none other, had really shown him that this man— who looked so much like the person he loved— was a stranger. This Voldemort didn't know why he desired Harry, couldn't conceive of wanting someone who hated themselves.

This man didn't know that he considered them equals.

And he couldn't. Not until Harry returned his memories.

It's time.

Enough bullshit.

He turned away, bored of watching those endless piles of dirt fly up and settle. He walked back towards the house, cementing his resolve.

He would do it this evening. Tonight, he would find Draco and make him divulge where he could find the ingredients that he needed.

The Ministry would know. They would have Aurors tailing him as soon as he Apparated, watching as he located the final ingredients, but he didn't fucking care.

Let them try to stop me.

He would make this sodding potion tonight.

If he fucked it up, then he'd blackmail Draco into doing it for him. Or just beg. Either way, he was done pissing about.

It was time to get his Voldemort back.

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His tunnel was almost ready to begin its final phase.

He was close to the edge of the cliff and soon he would break free of the dirt, bursting sunlight into the dark hole that he had been toiling within.

The only thing that remained was to decide what to do with Harry.

The man's behaviour this morning had been baffling, and yet perhaps, not surprising. He knew that Harry was going into London every night and often coming home to him without having slept. Too many nights of that and the man would of course be weakened.

This exhaustion would account for the man's contradictory impulses. He seemed to desire to serve him and yet had shied away from his authority.

The question was: would he bring the man with him when he left?

Harry was his jailor and his foe. He knew enough now to understand that. Yet that was not all that he was.

The man bore his mark and he had taken Harry's. That had to have meant something. Voldemort could not imagine allowing someone to put a brand onto him, yet there it was. And Harry did not seem the type to force it.

There was something about the man that drew him in, too. It was not a familiarity as he had no memories of him. Rather, it was a... compulsion. A need to be near him. A bizarre urge to trust when that impulse was so anathema and alien to him.

This close to his escape, he must decide whether to take the man, or strike out alone.

He paused, resting the shovel against the tunnel wall and leaning against the cool, damp earth.

He closed his eyes.

His chest was tight. His body, irritatingly weak.

He did not abide weakness and yet here he was— resting.

It was maddening.

What he needed—

"Riddle?"

A stranger's voice. Male. Incredulous.

Riddle?

I know that name.

Voldemort pressed himself further against the wall, listening.

"Merlin, Harry," he heard the man mutter with irritation. And then, "Aguamenti!"

At once, the world around him began to rapidly explode with water. It came from nowhere and he grabbed hold of the shovel as the torrent propelled him towards the entrance, where the stranger was waiting.

Finding the wall, he sunk his nails and the blade of the tool into the mud, searching for purchase, but it was not possible. The water was churning, forcing him up relentlessly. He could not breathe, yet that panicked him less than what would be waiting for him when he emerged.

He stayed under as long as he could, the water thrashing around him, brown and freezing cold. He fought, refusing to acquiesce, but the sudden deluge was stronger than even his determination.

Gasping, he broke the surface and was immediately pulled from the water. He looked up into a man's face he did not recognise. Middle-aged. Stern.

Aguamenti.

Water.

Had the words caused—

"What the hell were you doing down there?" the man demanded, shoving him back to lay supine when he tried to rise.

"Unhand me," he warned roughly, one hand grabbing the man's fingers and attempting to pry them off.

His other hand, remained tight upon the shovel.

"I can't believe that he let you—"

Voldemort brought forward his arm with all of his strength and slammed the metal of the tool against the man's skull. It made a heavy clonk sound and the man staggered back.

Voldemort used his disorientation to stand. He faced him, eager to fight, but then those furious brown eyes locked onto his and the stranger pulled out a stick from his pocket, pointing it at him.

Bemused, he paused.

"Petrificus Totalus!" the man growled nonsensically—

And suddenly, he could not move.

He tottered for a terrifying moment, his muscles refusing to respond to his command, and then fell sideways, flat on the ground.

What is happening?

Petrificus— to petrify? Totalus— completely?

This sensation was inconceivable. Was it a drug? Was that stick a weapon? This paralysis had come after the stranger had spoken those insensible words, yet what else could have achieved this effect?

The man stalked into his peripheral. Voldemort's heartbeat thundered.

"You worthless snake," the coward hissed, and then kicked him forcefully over his sensitive nose slits.

Blood poured into his mouth, his sinuses. He wanted to gasp, to choke, but his muscles were frozen. He was going to drown in his own blood—

No.

I will overcome this.

The man sneered down at him, flushed from his victory.

"I wish I could kill you," the fiend whispered perplexingly.

Why could he not? Voldemort must seem powerless here. On his back, paralysed, and unable to liberate himself.

Harry.

His mind abruptly wished for him. As he stared up into the face of his demise, he wondered if Harry would have accompanied him when he left. Would the man have chosen to remain faithful to his occupation as a guard, or would he have betrayed it and followed Voldemort instead?

Too late—

"Kingsley!" Harry shouted, and Voldemort heard him running closer, his tone horrified. "What are you doing?"

Uncomfortable relief swept over him and he was finally able to gasp in a breath of air.

Harry stopped when he drew near, not rushing to release him, but he did stand between Voldemort and his attacker.

"What the fuck! What did you do? Did you use—"

Harry broke off.

He must have been about to reveal the specifics of the drug. This illogical powerlessness.

"Were you aware that your prisoner was digging a tunnel to freedom?" the stranger asked.

Harry's shoulders tensed and Voldemort could not see his face to determine how that information affected him. His secret was exposed.

"Yes. But it's harmless."

So he knew.

And he had never stopped me.

A perplexing sense of gratitude lit within him. Harry had been willing to be complicit in his escape.

He would have come.

"Look," Harry continued, speaking to the other man, "can we talk in the building? I don't want to have to— you know."

"We're way past that," the intruder commented darkly, his face showing displeasure. "I can't pretend that this isn't happening anymore."

Voldemort yearned to stand and face him, to get between the two and strike the man once more in his skull, this time spilling his cerebrum onto the hungry grass.

"You said you wanted to hurt him, Harry."

Voldemort's thoughts ceased.

Hurt me?

Harry had meant him harm?

A sick feeling of betrayal curled in his stomach.

"Let's go back to the house and we can talk, Kingsley."

Kingsley.

"He doesn't have a scratch on him," the beast brayed.

Harry scoffed.

"His face is bloody— I'd say that's not sodding accurate."

"But not from you," the fiend countered scathingly. "You lied to me. I knew you were lying."

The man— Kingsley's face was warped with hatred. There was danger here, yet this new troubling revelation stayed his impulse to defend.

"Listen," Harry begged. "I can explain."

"This ends now."

"No— stop it! Listen."

"He belongs in Azkaban, Harry!"

"Just—calm down and come talk to me, for christ's sake!"

The taller man shook his head.

"I'm through talking. It's gone too far."

"I'll go to the press—"

The rat laughed harshly.

"I don't care!" he replied. "I have enough evidence now to prove that you're lying to the public. If I have to resign, so be it. As long as I can protect our community from you and your Master."

"Kingsley!" Harry growled with frustration. "Don't do this."

"What would you have me do, Harry? Let you keep experimenting with an antidote for the Obliviation?"

Harry's face must have done something damning. The cockroach preened.

"I'm not an idiot. You're not even trying to locate his Horcrux at all."

The terms were unfamiliar— Obliviation. Horcrux.

Yet he could hypothesise their meaning based on their root words.

Obliviation— perhaps, oblivious? Being unaware. Therefore, a spell to make one forget?

And Kingsley had mentioned an experiment— was he the subject? His memory loss?

Horcrux.

Crux had to be the cross, as he had been taught at the orphanage. Yet it could also mean the core, the essential part.

His ignorance was irritating, though it would seem that Harry had been prioritising him. Working covertly for him and against this man somehow.

When he returned his attention to the two men, he found them in a tense, silent standoff.

Flexing his fingers, he discovered that they could twitch the minutest amount. Buoyed by that success, he worked to surreptitiously wake his other muscles.

"You're a traitor," Kingsley lamented at last. "I really wish I didn't have to do this, Harry."

Harry took a step back, lowering his head foolishly. The other man lifted the strange stick he had pointed at him earlier. The one that had somehow frozen him.

Harry did not even seem to notice.

"Harry!" he snapped, and the man glanced back to look at him.

He saw unnecessary sorrow in those green eyes. Guilt. He momentarily forgot what he had meant to convey.

There was a bursting sound and he looked behind Harry to see something scarlet fly out of the end of the piece of wood, hitting Harry in the side.

But what could—

Harry cursed and then another stick flew from his pocket and into the waiting hand of the cretin.

Harry faced the man slowly, his shoulders tensed and raised.

"Oh, that was not a good idea," he whispered dangerously, and Voldemort felt his skin tingle at that tone.

Kingsley shot something else out of the thin wooden weapon— the magic wand? Impossible— and ropes suddenly burst out to encircle Harry.

That slight body tottered and then fell, landing hard beside Voldemort's legs.

What was happening?

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Harry shouted, thrashing against his bindings. "What are you doing?"

"I've assembled the Wizengamot at the Ministry, Potter." Potter— His last name? Harry Potter? "They can't come here, obviously, because of the wards, so they're waiting for us. We leave now and you'll answer to them."

"Hold on," Harry pleaded, going still.

"No, Potter."

Kingsley stormed closer, leaning down to get in Harry's face. Voldemort seethed, stretching out his arms impatiently, needing more mobility.

Harry was letting this happen. That stick, that— wand. It accounted for so much that had been hitherto unexplainable.

Harry had held one, too. He could summon bolts of impossibility with it, he was certain. These two men possessed a similar, incomprehensible skill.

Yet Harry was letting his opponent win.

"I won't be made a fool of any longer," the armed man pledged. "You cannot just get away with anything because of who you are. There are laws and you are breaking them."

"You have no idea what you're doing. Look at him!"

Kingsley turned to study Voldemort darkly, his gaze contemptuous. Voldemort held that stare, raising his head in challenge.

"You know what he can do," Harry continued. "What he will do."

Those words...

Kingsley's attention returned to Harry.

"He doesn't remember you," the rat denied scathingly, and that was true. "He won't care."

That was not true.

Harry stayed silent and after a moment, the other man's face twisted in revulsion.

"You've made contact again," he surmised with disgust. "Of course you did."

"I've told him everything," Harry said, but that could not be possible. There was still so much he did not understand. "He'll destroy the world when—"

That curious stick abruptly pointed at Voldemort once more and his instincts reacted. He rolled, propelling himself away as the man yelled, Obliviate! and something sizzled against the floorboards where he had just been.

Had that been an attempt at memory erasure?

"No!" Harry shouted, and Voldemort looked over to see him struggling in his bindings.

A curious feeling of... discomfort at seeing Harry helpless against a foe overcame him.

Slowly, he stood.

He watched the stranger's brown eyes widen with fear. That... wand rose with him, but it did not expel any ammunition.

The feeling of control calmed him.

"His magic," the man breathed. "You fool."

Magic.

It was magic.

"No," Harry said quietly. "That's just him. I told you. He can't be held."

Harry shifted to look right at him.

"My wand," he requested quietly.

Voldemort stepped towards Kingsley and plucked it out of his hand.

That action seemed to reawaken the cretin. He pointed his wand back at Voldemort and shot another bolt of colour at him— but again, Voldemort's instincts danced him out of the way.

He held Harry's wand and it felt... right.

He gripped it. Pointed it at Kingsley.

Yet he did not know how to make it work for him.

"Give it to me," Harry demanded, and Voldemort paused, waiting for the innate knowledge to flood him, waiting to feel something, but no such sensation came. "Voldemort!"

Turning, he placed the wood into Harry's bound fingers, but while his back was exposed, he felt the impact of something crash against him.

Agony ripped through his body, scorching thought and vision and plunging him ceaselessly into shattering, incomprehensible pain— his nerves were electrocuting, his bones cracking and snapping from the strain, and he knew it would never end, knew he would die like this, writhing and clawing and—

The cloud lifted and he pulled in a breath, filling his lungs as if for the first time.

He touched his skin, awed.

Incredible.

Pain without injury. Was it merely psychological? How long could it—

He heard a commotion.

Harry.

Shifting upon the ground, he saw Harry dodge a blast of colour and then shoot his own in return, which hit Kingsley in the chest. He watched the man fall.

The man who had attacked them.

Voldemort stood shakily, striding forward, his vision rapt onto that unmoving, doomed body.

"Are you alri— hey!"

Harry grabbed his arm, but Voldemort pulled it free, continuing toward his target. He would see him dead, would take his time, make him—

Harry's smaller form stepped in front of him, blocking his last steps.

"Move," Voldemort growled.

Those warm hands came up to settle impudently on his shoulders.

"Voldemort. Listen to me."

"He must die."

"He's the Minister. The Prime Minister. He can't die."

"I assure you, he can. He will."

Harry made a frustrated sound.

"Let me handle this, okay? I can Obliviate him— "

Harry stilled and Voldemort could feel that gaze upon him.

So, Obliviate was indeed for memory loss. Yet that did not matter right now.

He shoved Harry aside, looking down at the frozen form, whose eyes continued to glare impotently at him.

Ravenous, violent fury surged within him. He was going to rip apart this flea, this corpse who had dared to touch him, dared to touch Harry.

Leaning down, he—

"You're a wizard!" Harry shouted nonsensically, grabbing the material of his sleeve.

Voldemort was lost in his dark thoughts— and then he took in those words.

A wizard.

He turned to regard Harry.

"I can show you so much," the man said imploringly. "Okay? There's so much you don't know. And I'll tell you everything, alright? Just don't hurt him."

He stared, weighing his options.

He wanted that information.

A wizard.

"Let me handle this," Harry said softly, coming closer once more.

Before he could refuse, Harry bent down and heaved that rigid form up off the ground by holding the collar of his shirt and his belt. Once standing, Kingsley swayed, but Harry steadied him.

Voldemort stared at them unhappily. He did not want Harry leaving. It was dangerous. Illogical.

"I have to take him back now," Harry said cautiously. "Wait here. I know this is confusing and I promise to explain everything when I return, okay?"

Displeasure churned within him.

"And if you do not return? You are not safe with him. I will accompany you."

Harry smiled warmly.

"Gods, I love you so much."

He tensed, disliking that phrase.

"Disclose to me your plan, Harry. He vowed to expose you to your peers. What of that?"

"Don't worry. My peers adore me. They'll—"

"That will not suffice. He will tell others that you attacked him. That I did."

Harry's smile turned wry.

"We're not killing him, Voldemort."

The naïve imbecile.

"He said that he has assembled those to whom you must answer. He is working against you."

Harry laughed unconcernedly.

"I'm working against him, actually."

"Take this seriously," he seethed.

Harry reached out a hand and touched Voldemort's face gently.

"I am. I'm going to... make it so that he won't remember any of this. It's magic."

Magic.

You're a wizard.

"I'll drop him off at his home," Harry assured him, "and then I'll—"

Harry gasped, his eyes flying wide.

Voldemort looked down to see that Kingsley still had his fist wrapped around his wand and it was pointed at Harry.

His body ignited.

Everything else quieted and he stepped forward. He watched Harry fall to the ground with a pained cry, Kingsley falling with him.

Voldemort followed.

Kneeling, he loomed over his victim, feeling a satisfied smile curl his lips.

"You hit the wrong person," Voldemort whispered, murder singing in his veins.

He tugged the wood free from Kingsley's tight grip and then slowly pulled up the man's shirt to expose his vulnerable chest.

He liked the sight of this man helpless. It was so very different to when he saw Harry thus. He knew his role here, knew what he wanted and how to get it.

He was imbued with a confident sense of purpose.

Grinning, he plunged the wood deeply into the man's skin. It jarred and stuck, but he succeeded because he deserved to. Rapidly, he sunk it in twice more, stabbing him wetly in his heart and lungs.

It felt invigorating.

Like coming back into himself. He did it again, closing his eyes and savouring the feeling.

Harry's hands suddenly gripped his shoulders weakly, but Voldemort would not be stopped.

Reaching up, he pushed those fingers off, then heard Harry collapse back onto the ground with a sharp cry of pain.

Momentarily distracted, Voldemort turned.

"Let him go," Harry gasped, wincing and clutching at his stomach.

"He hurt you," Voldemort replied tonelessly, troubled by how Harry's predicament affected him.

Harry nodded, closing his eyes and then snapped them open again. His gaze was unfocused.

"I just need some healing potions. Can you get them? In my room."

Voldemort stared.

He had to see Kingsley dead first.

Turning, he watched the unfortunate man's jaw pointlessly drop then open in an attempt to draw in air to lungs that were no longer functioning.

This was the part he enjoyed the most. Observing that moment when a person perished.

A small, feverish fist pinched the skin of his side. Without looking away, he gripped the hand and continued to observe the fiend's suffering.

"Please," Harry begged.

Voldemort idly worked his fingers between those clutching digits and laced them together.

"Quiet now," he chided softly. "Watch."

Harry's wand made it's way into his peripheral, shakily pointing at Kingsley, but Voldemort knocked it aside just before it could deliver help. Harry's limbs gave out and he crumpled with a sob into his lap. Voldemort gently stroked his hair.

He plucked the wood from Harry's fingers because he was not an idiot. It was asinine to allow others to keep their weapons.

"Shh, Harry. I did this for you."

"No," Harry moaned.

Voldemort smiled and went on petting the man, getting to catch the moment when the movements of their enemy stopped.

There was always a look in the eyes of the dead— a vacancy that, he could admit, disturbed him.

Kingsley had it then, that empty gaze.

The sight was no longer enjoyable.

He carefully lifted Harry and carried him to his bedroom. The man was burning hot to the touch and jerking concernedly. He had stopped talking and his eyes were closed.

Voldemort laid the man on the bed, leaning over him.

"Harry?"

No response.

He looked around the room. He did not know where these healing potions were stored.

Probably they were hidden. Voldemort stood to search.

He pulled open the desk drawers, finding strange objects that he would examine later. At the top of a closet, he found a box containing a silvery, cool material that poured through his fingers— which disappeared when they encountered it.

Fascinating.

He held onto that prize, pocketing it, and continued to search.

Under Harry's mattress was another wand. A white one. Long and thin and... captivating.

There was something... something...

Harry made a keening sound and Voldemort pulled his eyes away to look back at the bed.

A sliver of green could be seen between those eyelids.

"In... my boot," Harry rasped brokenly, closing his eyes again. "The red one. Whole bottle."

Voldemort pocketed that wand too as his eyes scoured the room. He found a pair of black boots behind the door. Striding over, he reached inside and saw nothing, but his hand encountered a cache of glass containers. Feeling around, he realised that there had to be dozens, yet the space provided by the boot would never have been sufficient to accomodate that amount.

Magic.

Pulling out a few, he eventually found a red bottle and brought it to the bed.

Harry was pale, except around his lips, which were blue.

He was close to death.

Voldemort hesitated.

He could allow this man to die.

This person who was a threat, who had admitted to withholding information and wanted to hurt him. Who had kept him imprisoned on an island and stopped him at his zenith—

This man who had protected him. Who had trusted him. Helped him.

Who had taken his mark blindly because he loved him.

Voldemort uncorked the top of the phial and worked his fingers into that dry mouth. He pried it open and poured the liquid inside.

When the bottle was empty, he sat down beside him on the bed and waited.

Waited for Harry to come back to him.