CHAPTER 37

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Harry woke with a gasp.

He sat up, his head dizzy and sore. He looked around, his vision bursting with stars at the abrupt change in position, but none of that mattered.

Kingsley is dead.

Had it been a dream? He was pretty sure that he had watched Voldemort kill him, stabbing into his chest and then waiting for him to die. Had it been real?

Was the Minister for Magic actually dead?

He took a deep breath.

Do something useful.

"Voldemort!" he yelled, throwing back the covers and getting shakily to his feet.

Outside.

He had to go outside. Voldemort— and Kingsley, alive and well— had to be there.

Stumbling to the door and into the darkness, his eyes scanned what he could see of the island— and there Voldemort was. Near his now-submerged tunnel.

The moon offered sufficient light to see him standing there, with a body at his feet.

"No," Harry whispered in denial, and his legs gave out.

He fell to his knees and watched Voldemort slowly turn to face him. He was too far away for Harry to read his expression, but he could easily guess.

He would be gloating.

Harry closed his eyes.

Dead.

Kingsley was dead.

And it was all because Harry had left Voldemort alone. He had failed at his job again, and again someone else had to pay for it.

We don't have a sodding Minister.

He fell back onto his arse, his heartbeat thundering.

Kingsley had assembled the Wizengamot. That had to have been hours ago. Would they still be waiting for him, angry and confused?

They couldn't know that the Minister was dead.

I have to go tell them.

Tell them what? That Voldemort murdered him? They would take the man away.

Harry sunk his fingers deeply into the wet grass, trying to rein in his panic.

Voldemort only killed him because Kingsley attacked you. It's your fault. You should have handled that better. You made it so that Voldemort had needed to take control.

"Harry," that high voice unexpectedly said, and his eyes flew open to find Lord Voldemort standing over him, his expression fierce.

"Oh, gods," Harry choked out, knowing that everything was falling apart.

They would take Voldemort back to Azkaban. Back to the violence and starvation.

"To what," Voldemort began, capturing Harry's attention once more, "was that man referring when he disclosed that you had intended to hurt me?"

Harry felt hysteria bubble up in his throat and he suddenly wanted to laugh. Voldemort was worried about that when Kingsley was dead.

"He didn't know what he was talking about," Harry dismissed, and Voldemort's eyes narrowed. "It was just a lie to get them to trust me. I had to pretend that I wanted to torture you or they wouldn't have let me be your guard."

That face did not soften. Harry reached up, still on his arse, and grabbed Voldemort's hand.

"Believe me," he said. "I marked you and you let me. We're past this mistrust."

Voldemort was fidgeting with something in his other hand. Harry glanced over and saw that he was somehow holding his yew wand.

"Where did you get that?" Harry demanded, coming unsteadily to stand.

The sudden shift to his feet made him almost swoon. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply to clear his head.

"Do you require more potions?" Voldemort asked softly.

Harry snorted.

"You're asking about potions and holding your wand. Christ. We're really in it again, aren't we?"

He opened his eyes to see Voldemort looking down and scrutinising the pale wood.

"My wand."

His tone was reverent.

Harry nodded slowly, though the other man had eyes only for his weapon.

"Can you feel anything?" Harry asked, even knowing it had to be impossible.

Voldemort's eyes hardened and he pulled his gaze back to rest on Harry.

"I saved your life," the man abruptly told him, and Harry nodded.

"I know. Thank you. You must have a lot of questions."

Voldemort studied him.

"In exchange, we leave now."

Harry sighed, rubbing his sore stomach.

"For once, I agree with you."

He looked away to glance at Kingsley's body.

"Is he dead?" he asked quietly.

Voldemort inclined his head once.

"Fuck," Harry breathed.

"We cannot go back to your work," Voldemort stated calmly— taking charge. "The fiend had gathered the government. We must find a safe location and then you will return to me my memories and my magic. I will take over from there."

Harry allowed himself a moment to pretend that he could hand over this responsibility. That Voldemort could take over and it would all go smoothly.

Because the reality, of course, was very different. Voldemort would simply annihilate everyone in his path. Restart the war.

No.

This was Harry's job, Harry's problem to fix.

He felt the weight of the future settle onto his shoulders.

Looking down, he stared at Voldemort's long fingers idly toying with his wand.

"I have an idea," Harry said reluctantly. "Can I tell it to you back inside the building? My legs won't be able to hold me for too much longer."

Voldemort glanced behind Harry to the house and then slowly nodded.

They walked in silence. Harry turned the idea over in his mind, hating it, but not knowing what else to do.

When they got inside, he collapsed onto a kitchen chair and rested his head on the tabletop.

"Which potion do you require?" Voldemort asked, standing close by. "The same red one?"

Harry shook his head.

"I'm fine. I just need a minute to—"

"Which potion, Harry," Voldemort repeated sternly, and Harry closed his eyes, grateful.

Voldemort was in command.

"The red one."

He heard the man walk to retrieve it. While he waited, Harry focused on hating himself.

Weak.

You should be the caretaker, not the patient.

Kingsley is dead and you're wingeing over a measly Blood Boiling Curse.

Much to soon, fingers wove into his hair and firmly pulled him up. He went with it, but kept his eyes closed.

A phial was pressed to his lips. He clenched his teeth, his self-loathing refusing the help.

"Drink."

Harry obeyed at once, taking in the gross liquid and swallowing it dutifully.

He opened his eyes to see Voldemort regarding him, a strange fire in his eyes.

"Good boy."

Harry groaned and let his head fall back onto the table.

Another chair scraped against the floor as Voldemort took a seat.

"What is this plan," that high voice demanded.

His body was less sore now and he wished that he'd never brought up this mental idea. But he had nothing else. He raised his head and met that expectant gaze.

"I can't take you to my house because that's the first place they'll check. Luckily for us, you have a few secret spots."

Voldemort continued to stare.

"There's a place," Harry told him, "that only you can access."

Or— Voldemort and Ron, assuming his friend still remembered. Harry had lost the ability years ago.

"But it's somewhere that you can do a lot of damage."

Voldemort tilted his head, his face alighting with curiosity.

"It's in a school. And if we go there, I will have access to a private potions storeroom that will likely have all the ingredients I need. I can return your memories."

Harry watched excitement enter those wild eyes. He tried not to be affected by it.

The Trace would obviously still be a problem, though. But that was one of the advantages of Hogwarts— he could Apparate to Hogsmeade and it might not be detectable because of all the magic being cast. And if they did discover he was going there, well, he still had friends who lived at the school. Hagrid. McGonagall. Neville. It wouldn't be too strange if he visited.

Except that you've only gone back maybe four times since you left.

Harry conjured a couple of glasses and then filled them with water. Leaning forward, he set one down in front of Voldemort.

He received no acknowledgement or thanks.

Typical.

Harry drained his glass in one go. He hadn't drank in hours.

He turned back to Voldemort.

"I can hide you safely there while I deal with the Wizengamot. But before we do this," he said firmly, seeing Voldemort open his mouth to interrupt, "we need to have a chat."

That expression curled slightly in distaste.

"A chat."

"Yeah. A chat." His tone was unyielding. "I know you have no memories, so you can't speak for afterwards, but right now, I need to be able to trust you."

"I saved your life," Voldemort argued with clear irritation.

"You killed Kingsley," he countered. "You tried to kill me numerous times. But you can't do that there. It is a school. There will be children."

Voldemort's face blanked.

"If you even lay a finger on anyone in that school, I will kill you myself. Do you understand? I have access to magic and curses that you can't even imagine. Do not fuck with me."

Voldemort didn't know he couldn't die. His red eyes were darting suspiciously between Harry's, trying to read him. It was clear that, no matter the form, the man would always be terrified of death.

"What do you have to say?" Harry prompted impatiently.

It had already been too long— it was the middle of the night. How much did the Wizengamot know? Would they still be waiting up for Harry to return? They clearly didn't know where Voldemort was, but if Harry was going to salvage this, he would have to return soon.

Kingsley had found evidence, whatever that meant. Evidence of what? And had he shared it with the others?

It was possible that Harry would return to a Kiss order for himself because he was a traitor.

"I have no reason to harm children, Harry," Voldemort said lowly, bringing him back. "This gratuitous attempt at intimidation is unnecessary."

Harry snorted.

"I wish that were true."

His thoughts were suddenly filled with Myrtle and Colin and Cedric and Lavender—

"You've killed children before," he accused thickly, sorrow stinging his oesophagus.

The man was scrutinising him intently, his eyes disgustingly intrigued.

"That would not serve me now," Voldemort declared and then stood. "Let us depart."

He was suddenly eye-level with Voldemort's waist and he noticed a sizeable bulge in the man's trouser pocket.

"What's that?" he asked suspiciously, pointing to it.

Voldemort placed a hand over the lump, splaying out his fingers possessively. He didn't answer.

Harry stood.

"What is it?" he asked again, and Voldemort frowned.

"A jacket."

Harry took a step closer, not believing him.

"Let me see."

Voldemort raised his head, not backing down.

"I don't have time for this, Voldemort. Show me, or I'll just take it from you."

The other man held firm. Harry growled with frustration.

"Fine."

He Summoned it, and was surprised to see his Invisibility Cloak soar towards him. He caught the material, then glanced up to notice the murder simmering in Voldemort's gaze.

"This is mine," Harry told him harshly. "It was my father's. You killed him, you bastard." Those red eyes widened. "You don't get to touch his shit."

Harry looked down at the silvery Cloak, forcing his breath to calm.

He didn't know. The real Voldemort wouldn't have needed the Cloak anyway.

"Actually," he considered thinly, "this may come in handy. I'm going to grab the rest of my stuff and then we'll head out."

He hastily shrunk what he would need and then prepared to bring Lord Voldemort back to his true home.

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"Ready?" Harry asked, squeezing his fingers in an encouraging manner.

Voldemort looked down at their linked hands.

There had not been enough time for a thorough explanation. He knew that they were headed for a school, that there would be children boarding there. He would be made invisible and silenced somehow. Harry informed him that he would be holding him under the line of fire for the pain spell he had been subjected to earlier, to deter him from violence.

Which did not concern him. In fact, he hoped to experience it again.

There was so much he yearned to know, so much that had been taken from him.

He belonged in this world and yet, he had been forced to live apart from it.

"Hey," Harry said softly, and warm hands came up to touch his face.

This… affectionate behaviour still disconcerted him. It could only be manipulative. He forced himself to deny any calm or focus it brought.

"Voldemort," the man prompted again, and he blinked to clear his mind.

Harry was staring at him with concern.

"I'll keep you safe, okay?" the man assured him, as if it was fear that held him back.

In truth, he was eager to return; it was merely that he did not normally walk into situations so unprepared.

He was a wizard, carrying his own wand, yet this whole world was unknown to him. His fingers on his weapon could not create lights nor spells the way that Harry's could. He had no memory of any enemies he might encounter, nor did he understand how Harry was to be taking them back to their world.

And, of course, seventy years had passed. A lot would have changed in that time, and he would be ignorant to it all.

The draw of answers, however— of escape and freedom was too compelling a prize to allow his mistrust to halt him.

"You're trembling," Harry pestered, rubbing his fingers in an irritatingly soothing manner.

"Take us, Harry," he commanded.

"In a minute. Do you need to rest for a sec before—"

"We leave now," Voldemort insisted, and watched as the man nodded contritely.

Harry blew out a long breath, seeming nervous. The lack of confidence was not appreciated.

"Alright," Harry agreed.

He gripped Voldemort's hands steadily and looked deeply into his eyes. Apprehension whirled with excitement in that green gaze now.

"This is going to feel so weird," Harry warned.

And then he was squeezed— every part of him compressing incomprehensibly. He tried to let it happen, but he did not understand why he could not breathe. His heart felt as if it were failing him again, all sensory processing systems were being violently forced inwards, rendering them useless. It was shattering and endless—

And then he landed on his knees in the grass.

He stood immediately, spinning to take in his surroundings.

There was a town in the distance and all around him was a verdant field. Harry stood silently beside him.

"Where are we?" he demanded, still studying the scene.

"Hogsmeade," Harry replied.

He had never heard of it.

Why had they landed here instead of arriving directly at the school? Who lived in this village?

Harry came to stand in his line of vision.

"I have to Disillusion you now, okay?"

Voldemort did not respond. Harry pointed his wand at him and Voldemort quickly drew his own, directing it at the man in turn.

Harry huffed with exasperation.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he assured him, but Voldemort was not a fool. "This will just camouflage you. You'll be almost impossible to see. And I'll cast a Silencing Charm on you, too."

Harry paused, scrutinising him.

"Neither of them hurt," the man added moronically.

"I do not fear pain, imbecile," Voldemort spat, continuing to point his wand at him.

Harry nodded solemnly.

"I know." He glanced back at the village. "Alright, well, we don't have a lot of time. I really have to get to the Ministry."

Voldemort took a step closer, bearing down on him.

"And if it is a trap?"

Harry shrugged, irritatingly unconcerned.

"If it is, then I'll figure something out. I always do. But I don't think Kingsley could have had much on me. I haven't really done anything yet."

Yet.

"If I am a dangerous criminal," Voldemort countered, "and you, my guard, then our physical congress will upset the officials."

Harry snorted.

"Yeah, maybe. But they can't throw me in jail for that, even if they'd seen you with your whole hand inside of me."

Voldemort tilted his head slowly.

"They can certainly try."

Harry's smirk shifted to a frown.

"It's not illegal to fuck your enemies," Harry said dryly, then exhaled. "I can probably explain it away by saying that it was rape, or manipulation or something."

Voldemort did not like the allusion to himself perpetrating forced copulation.

He let his gaze linger on the man.

Arbitrary societal morality must have shifted significantly in seventy years. As a child, he had heard of people being routinely imprisoned for homosexual behaviour. The nuns had spoken at length about the depravity of any sexual acts between men.

"We have to go," Harry repeated, and then lifted his wand again. Voldemort raised his own. "I'm going to magically tether us together first and then I'll Disillusion you, okay?"

Voldemort froze.

That had not been part of the plan.

"Tether," he emphasised. "Tether, how?"

"Just a magical link. My wrist to yours."

"What can sever it? Will I have the ability to do so? What happens if one of us is attacked?"

Harry smiled.

"I'm going to be invisible, too. No one will be attacking us. My conscience just can't take the idea of you loose and undetectable inside the school."

"Can I break it, Potter," he impatiently reiterated.

Harry chuckled nonsensically.

"Ah. You've learned my last name, have you? It's so strange to hear you calling me Potter again. I've gotten so used to the intimacy of hearing you say Harry."

Voldemort stepped closer, looming over him. He pointed his wand right against that smooth throat, pressing the tip in hard.

"Can. I. Break. It."

Harry's hand came up to wrap around his.

"No. You can't."

Voldemort pushed the wood deeper, watching Harry's eyes narrow.

"Then I do not consent."

"I didn't ask, Voldemort." Harry's eyes were hard. Unyielding. "I'm trying to help you, you tosser. You want your memories back? Well, then, I need to get into this school."

The man shoved him away, breaking free.

"You killed the fucking Minister!" Harry spat. "We don't have a lot of options anymore. Tether your goddamn wrist to mine so I can help you. It's not asking for any more trust than taking my sodding mark, or sleeping in a bed beside me."

Voldemort considered this.

He was ostensibly being called a coward.

"I do not trust you," Voldemort explained.

Harry outright laughed.

"Yeah? Well, I don't really trust you either, but I'm taking a chance and letting you into my home because I promised that I would help you, okay? This is fucking impossible for me, too. We just have to… I don't know— try! Pretend that we're normal, undamaged people who can put their faith in others, alright? Fuck!"

Harry ran a hand through his hair, turning away from him.

Voldemort stared at the vulnerable back of the man's neck as he thought.

He wanted his memories returned. It would seem that this was the best avenue to accomplish that and thus, he would do what was required.

Still holding tight to his wand with his right hand, he silently held out his left arm in offering, waiting for Harry to notice.

"What the fuck am I thinking?" the man muttered harshly to himself, his back to him. "Jesus, I must be fucking mental to—"

"Potter."

Harry swiftly turned. He glanced down at Voldemort's extended wrist.

"Cease overthinking," Voldemort instructed. "I am ready."

Harry looked up. Their gazes locked and something like cautious excitement passed between them.

Harry nodded.

"Alright, then."

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After breaking into a sweet shop, Harry had pulled him along a dark, damp corridor for some time. The uneven, earthy path had twisted and turned, before eventually inclining.

Voldemort walked behind Harry, as the light from his wand fell upon a stone chute that led upwards.

The man finally halted and Voldemort yearned to see his invisible face.

"This is it," Harry said, sounding breathless. "It'll take us to the third floor and then we just need to get to the second."

Voldemort nodded, though it could not be seen.

"Understood," he replied instead, eager to continue.

But they did not move.

What could this hesitation be? Was Harry still pointlessly struggling with his conscience?

He waited, but patience had never been a skill he had cared to develop.

"I will not harm any who do not attempt to harm me," he informed him.

Harry snorted.

"I wish I believed you. But I guess we're operating on trust now, right?"

Voldemort inclined his head and then desisted, still unused to not being seen.

"This last part is pretty tight," Harry cautioned, "but you're skinny like me, so you should be fine. If not, I can shrink you a bit."

Shrink me?

The cool tip of Harry's wand pressed lightly against his skin.

"I'm going to silence us both now, okay? So we won't be able to talk."

An acute fear rose up inside of him. Not being able to use his voice was concerning, yet if it was another step in the path to having his memories returned, then he would accept it. At worst, if this was a school of magic, he could force someone else to restore him, if tragedy somehow befell Harry.

He felt a brief, unfamiliar sensation against his skin, but there had been no verbal indication of a spell cast. He opened his mouth and said his name, yet no sound emerged.

It was disconcerting. He clenched his fists.

A gentle tug on his wrist tether told him they were moving again.

He was pulled towards the stone chute. With difficulty, owing to his invisible limbs, he manoeuvred up the incline. The experience of climbing without seeing his hands or feet was uniquely bizarre.

When they reached the summit, the stone opened up and they quietly hopped down onto a wide, carpeted corridor.

He felt suddenly as if he had walked into an ambush. Quickly, he found Harry and pressed their backs together as he held his wand aloft and searched the empty halls.

There were paintings on the walls, but no people.

Harry's fingers found his chest and the man rubbed him soothingly.

Irritated, Voldemort swiped that touch off and stepped away, putting as much distance as he could between them.

He did not require coddling.

Another tug on his wrist prompted him to move. He followed Harry cautiously, forcing their pace to slow.

The scent around him was strange. He could smell fires burning, the aroma of warm meals, and… something else. Something almost familiar.

They walked past a row of suits of armour and then came upon a room with filled with glass cases displaying plaques and trophies.

What awards did they give out at a magical school?

There was a tug on the tether, but Voldemort ignored it, stepping into the empty room.

The sight was impressive. Various cups, plates, shields, statues, and medals lined the walls. He walked closer to examine them.

"Of course you get drawn in here," Harry wryly commented at his side, the silencing magic obviously lifted. "Merlin, it's so weird to be in here with you. To be guiding you around. You know, I spent six years doing all I could to keep you out of Hogwarts."

"Hogwarts," Voldemort repeated, his eyes scanning the nameplates.

And then he saw it.

T. M. Riddle

Written on a huge, ornate plaque titled, Award for Special Services to the School.

I know that name.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

He reached out his invisible hand and touched the words.

"Yup," Harry said quietly. "That's you."

"I attended this school?"

Harry hummed in assent.

"What was this for?" Voldemort asked.

Harry was silent for a long moment.

"You killed a girl."

His voice was sorrowful.

Voldemort pulled his hand back and stared into the empty space beside him.

The man scoffed.

"That's right. You killed a girl named Myrtle Warren and then pinned it on a giant spider. And that got an innocent boy expelled. It derailed his whole life. All his potential."

None of that made any sense.

"Why would they—"

"We don't have time for these charming recollections," Harry interrupted, a note of anger in his tone. "I have to get to the Ministry as soon as possible. Besides, you'll remember all of this soon anyway."

He felt the silencing spell settle over him once more and then Harry dragged him out of the room.

Fury rose inside of him at being manhandled thus, but the promise of his memories gave him enough incentive to allow it.

They went down a flight of stairs, encountering no one. Their surroundings were disappointingly banal— until they entered a lavatory to find the spectral, cloudy form of a girl floating before one of the sinks.

She was staring into the mirror and it was clear that she had no reflection, though she touched her face forlornly, as if checking for blemishes.

Harry came to a halt.

Vaguely, Voldemort took notice that ghosts were apparently real here, yet his primary focus remained on their goal.

Was this their destination— a water closet? Perhaps Harry required the facilities.

Impatiently, he tugged the tether to leave, but received no reaction. Stepping closer to where he believed the man to be, he reached out and found his arm. He squeezed it. Hands came up and dug into the skin of his wrist. He felt the man shift and then one of the toilets suddenly exploded.

Voldemort recoiled, but Harry hung onto him, keeping him close.

The ghost shrieked at the commotion and began crying, complaining about being attacked unjustly, and then she dove into a nearby toilet and disappeared.

At once, the shattered porcelain repaired itself and the water ceased shooting up to the ceiling.

"We have to be fast," Harry said softly, the silencing spell obviously having been removed yet again.

"Why are we here?" he asked, turning to look at where he thought Harry to be standing.

He felt the gentle tug of the tether and followed it, allowing the man to lead him. They walked to one of the sinks and then stopped.

Voldemort looked into the mirror uselessly, not understanding why they were—

"Look at this," Harry said beside him, and the right tap moved forward slightly, though no water flowed out.

"A broken tap, Harry," he observed with irritation. "Surely that is not why we—"

"What's on the tap, Voldemort?"

Frustration grew within him, but he forced himself to humour the man. Leaning down, he studied the copper and it all looked normal, save for a small etching of a snake in the metal.

"A snake," he pointed out tersely. "What am I supposed to be seeing?"

"Try talking to it," Harry suggested, and Voldemort made to stride away, being at the complete limit of his patience with this ridiculous farce.

Harry grabbed his hand and yanked him back. Voldemort stumbled into him and then reached out to shove him against the sinks, but Harry turned him, making him face the mirror once more.

"Speak to it, Voldemort," Harry demanded forcefully, putting pressure on his shoulders as if to push him down. "Just trust me, okay? Say, open."

With immense restraint, and only because he could not fathom why Harry would be carrying on with this nonsense if it was not important, he bent back down.

The engraving was crude, and he felt foolish contemplating following through with this, but he did.

"Open," he said.

Yet the word emerged in a strange hiss and then the tap began to glow white.

"Welcome home, heir," the snake replied sibilantly, before it disappeared as the sink slowly dropped down into the floor.

"I knew it would work," Harry commented beside him, though his tone still held awe.

The man stepped closer and gripped his hand.

They stood together, watching in silence as a large pipe was revealed behind the porcelain.

When everything stopped moving, Harry tapped him on the shoulder and their bodies became visible once more.

Harry's eyes were shining with excitement and he found that that emotion was contagious. He did not know what lay ahead, but the cryptic greeting of the snake had intrigued him.

A grin spread to Harry's lips as he gestured towards the chute.

"This belongs to you, Voldemort. It's the Chamber of Secrets."