CHAPTER 42

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Harry took in the scene for maybe five seconds— Voldemort, pristine somehow while seated beside the lake of blood surrounding Slughorn's butchered body, the severed fingers scattered on the floor, the gaping hole where his old professor's cock had been a mere hour before— and then he startled into action.

"No!" he shouted, his magic bursting out and knocking Voldemort away from the carnage.

Harry knelt down and hit Slughorn with every healing spell that he knew while he conjured a charm to check the man's vitals.

No heartbeat. No oxygen in the blood.

He was dead.

"No," Harry muttered.

Failure.

Your fault.

If you'd just—

"Harry."

—acted normal, stopped being a fucking baby and crying, then—

"Release me."

—Slughorn would still be alive! That's two deaths in two days! How can you—

"Harry!"

—call yourself their hero when—

"Look at me, boy!"

Helplessly, he obeyed the vicious command. His gaze locked onto the Dark Lord's, as he was Immobilised against the wall.

"There is nothing you can do," that high voice said.

Nothing you can do.

Nothing you can do— do something!

He looked around.

Potions!

This was the Potions master's quarters! There had to be something here that could help save Slughorn.

Harry jumped up to standing and ran into the adjoining storeroom.

Images from a few hours ago tried to clog his mind— of his mother's breasts, the smell of her hair, the tiny freckles on her knees— but he shoved them aside.

Focus.

He scoured the room, looking for anything that was familiar. Thankfully, most potions were labelled, so he found the healing section and grabbed almost all of the bottles.

Racing back to Slughorn, he fell to his knees then started just popping open phials and tipping them into the man's mouth.

Nothing happened.

Four potions, seven potions...

It wasn't until the twelfth bottle was emptied that a shallow gasp came from that throat.

Harry put his hands on the man, ecstatic and grateful— until Slughorn began to scream.

Confused, Harry looked down the man's body and realised that his wounds were thinly healed over, but his legs were still missing. His cock.

His eyes.

"Professor?" Harry said anxiously, trying to catch his attention, but the man would not stop shrieking in agony for long enough to hear him.

"Let him die, Harry."

"No!" Harry shouted, hitting Voldemort with a stinging hex in frustration. "Why do you have to do this? Why can't you just be pissed and deal with it like a normal person?"

Harry sunk his magic into Slughorn's ravaged skin, needing the man to live, needing to not fail this person, too.

"He sexually assaulted—"

"So what?" Harry shrieked, not looking at him, focused on trying every spell he knew to get Slughorn to stop screaming. "That's my problem! You're leaving anyways. I know you hate me now, so what the fuck does it matter to you who touches me?"

Harry tried not to hear the furious intake of breath from behind him.

"You're mine," Voldemort growled.

Harry scoffed, watching the wound on Slughorn's groin begin to slowly grow a tiny mound.

"Yeah?" Harry said recklessly, and words suddenly crowded his mouth, forcing themselves through his lips. "Well, what about the delay? What about the weeks it took for me to help you? What about your heart attack? You're just gonna forgive me for all of that?"

There was a stunned silence. Harry sat frozen, shot through with adrenaline— What the fuck are you doing? Stop it, shut the fuck up!

Voldemort was quiet for so long that Harry had to peer behind himself to see why. The man was studying him with a contemplative expression on his face. And just the barest hint of sodding amusement.

"Do you want me to hate you Harry?"

"I know you're bloody well going to!" Harry shouted. "You just... you haven't had the time to think about it yet. About..." he searched his mind for something hurtful, "about how I met with Draco— the man I fucked."

He saw those eyes flash with possessive fire. Harry laughed, a tad hysterically, feeling these words pulled from some vast, self-destructive well inside of him.

"He still fancies me, you know. All I'd have to do is bend a finger and he would fall onto his back so fast."

Harry returned his gaze to Slughorn, forcing himself to concentrate on keeping the man alive.

"And I went to Malfoy Manor," Harry continued, needing Voldemort to know just how much of a traitor he was. "I let Lucius Malfoy live when I could have killed him for you. I'm sure he tortured you, humiliated you. And I let him keep those memories. Of his victory over you."

The silence was a punishment all on its own, and he needed it. Needed the pain of disappointing Voldemort to help him from tearing apart.

"I watched you for weeks," Harry went on, not able to stop— bloody stop! What the fuck is wrong with you? "I saw you struggle, lost and confused, and I did nothing!"

Harry began to laugh again and he felt tears start to stream down his face, too.

"I tried to convince you that you could be happy as a Muggle!" Harry cried with amazement, then hid his face in one of his blood-soaked hands. "I tried to keep you like that, despite promising that I wouldn't. I tried to trick you."

Harry's heart was thundering, his body shaking even though he was barely moving.

Voldemort had been vulnerable and Harry had taken advantage of his ignorance.

The guilt was impossible to bear. Hurting Voldemort, confessing everything— it helped. He was finally able to be honest.

Pulling his hand away, Harry looked down at Slughorn who was gasping and making keening sounds.

"And I'm keeping him," Harry vowed, pointing sharply at the man clinging to life beside him. "I won't let you kill him. Do you know why?"

Harry spun, daring to face Voldemort. The man's expression was inscrutable, those red eyes rapt onto his.

"Because sometimes," Harry said firmly, "I know better. You can't just go killing people because you're pissed off."

Voldemort didn't react to that— hadn't really reacted to anything.

He just continued to stare.

"What, nothing to say?" Harry goaded.

The Dark Lord's silence was maddening.

Heartbreaking.

No.

Harry didn't deserve to feel heartbroken. He was the poison that had caused this.

"I was never your equal," Harry argued quietly, catching the way those eyelids minutely fluttered. "I was never good enough. We both know that."

The truth wasn't working.

Voldemort didn't even look angry— and he should! Harry deserved his anger. His hatred.

"I failed you," Harry began, terrified of what words would spill from his mouth. He wanted a reaction and knew that he would keep going until he got one. "I would have kept you there until the day you died, ignorant and withering away, if I could have managed it. I never wanted what was best for you."

It wasn't true, but he needed Voldemort to understand how toxic Harry was. How selfish.

"I'm not going to return your magic. I don't trust you."

Voldemort held him with his penetrating gaze, his expression carefully blank.

"You desire to control me," Voldemort said softly— finally speaking, but those words were not enough.

They didn't hurt enough, didn't bleed him out like Harry deserved.

"In so many ways, Voldemort," Harry whispered, nodding and then releasing Voldemort from the Immobility charm. "In so many ways."

The Dark Lord slowly rose, coming closer.

Strike me. Hurt me. Please, take my guilt, take this pain—

"I never intended for you to be free," Harry lied, not shuffling back as Voldemort advanced. "I wanted to keep you like a pet. Like a trophy."

It was a deadly challenge to see how far Voldemort would let him go until he lashed out.

Until Voldemort disappeared forever.

Kill me first. I can't live without you.

"You lied to me," Voldemort whispered, his tone disappointed and that bled Harry.

Harry nodded, tears stinging his eyes.

"And you believed me," Harry taunted, suicidal recklessness taking over his responses. "Like a gullible fool."

He saw that huge form flinch and the sight was so new, so unlike the untouchable Lord Voldemort, that it seared his throat.

Harry was able to hurt him with just his words.

He could wound the Dark Lord like this when none other could touch the omnipotent man.

Harry was his weak spot.

And instead of cherishing that position, Harry was betraying it.

Slughorn made a groaning sound nearby, but neither of them turned to look at him.

Voldemort was so close to him now that Harry could touch him if he dared— hold his hand, kiss that mouth, lean forward and collapse into those protective arms—

But he resisted, knowing that he didn't deserve that shelter.

"What of your love, Harry," Voldemort asked, a slight sneer on those precious lips. "What of the trust that you asked of me."

"It was a lie," Harry replied immediately, his voice breaking on the last word. He turned away, hiding from the impossible hurt he saw in those red eyes. "Everything but this, was a lie."

He heard Voldemort back up a pace, then another.

Harry clenched his hands, holding his breath so that he wouldn't beg the man to come back, to forgive him—

Yet a vicious, hopeless resentment ripped through him—

You should know me better! You should know that this is a test and you're failing! You're listening to my words and not what you know I need!

He wanted to hate Voldemort for walking away, but Harry knew that the man's default state was scepticism.

Paranoia.

It went against the Dark Lord's nature to have faith in someone, so Harry's words would simply be a reminder that intimacy was perilous.

A lie.

He heard Voldemort reach the door and pause. Harry closed his eyes, unable to look at him.

Forgive me, I never meant to hurt you.

Please, you have to love me at my worst, like I do for you. You have to trust, like I asked. Trust that I'm broken and scared. I need to feel safe to fall apart like this with you.

"I am taking this cloak, Potter," Voldemort informed him, his voice emotionless. Impersonal. "If you would like to retrieve it, come find me."

Where? When?

"One last thing," Voldemort whispered, and then Harry heard a meaty thunk beside him.

He looked over at Slughorn and saw that the man had the hilt of a knife sticking through his skull, embedded deeply into his brain.

Slughorn had stopped moaning. Stopped all movements, including the stuttering of his breath.

There was only so much magic could do, especially for a body already fatally weakened.

Furious, Harry stood to confront him, but Lord Voldemort was already gone.

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After alerting the Ministry that Slughorn was dead, Harry was forced to stay at work all night and was still there sometime past three in the afternoon when Ron found him.

Harry was crouched in the corner of a closet. He had been pretending to look for a file, but had really just needed to get onto his knees in the dark and press his face to the floor.

Gone.

He would have his magic back today, no question.

Slughorn would be the first, but not the last to die.

Lucius.

Draco.

Harry squeezed his eyes closed.

Scorpius.

He had never seen the child, but he knew what babies looked like and so pictured a younger Draco, swaddled and sleeping. What would Voldemort do to him? Would he face the same violence as Slughorn? Would he—

"Harry?"

Ron.

Harry pushed himself to standing.

"Hey— sorry!" Harry said in an unconvincingly cheery voice.

Then the vertigo took him and he grabbed onto the shelf while his whole body trembled.

"Woah," Ron said, his hand gripping Harry's elbow to support him. "Are you okay? Did you fall?"

Harry shook his head, which helped to clear it.

"Nah. Just taking a moment. How're you?"

When the blurriness receded from his vision, Harry saw Ron eyeing him with concern.

"Well," Ron said slowly, "I'm a damn sight better than Slughorn, I hear."

Harry kept his vague smile up with admirable resolve. Ron's face dropped further.

"I heard you found him," Ron said, letting go of Harry's elbow and giving his body a thorough search. "Have you eaten? Like, this week? Merlin, Harry, you look sick. Are you?"

Harry scoffed then headed towards the exit.

"Yeah, I found him," Harry replied. "But not Voldemort yet."

Ron followed him into the hall.

"What's your plan for that?" Ron asked.

To hold off for as long as I can and hope that he doesn't kill anyone else.

Harry shrugged.

"Find his Horcrux. Kill him."

He'd said that phrase so often today that he was getting good at not picturing what it would look like.

"Listen," Ron began, "Hermione wanted me to tell you that your name is being put on ballots for the Ministership."

"What?" Harry choked, horrified.

Ron nodded.

"Yeah. She's off trying to get it removed, but she's having trouble because obviously, the election is tomorrow. She sent me to just confirm that you don't want it."

Harry gripped onto the shelf once more.

"No. I don't want it. I have never wanted anything less. I don't know how many times I have to say that!"

"Okay," Ron said, holding up his hands as if to calm Harry. Had I been yelling? "I'm just letting you know."

"How can they even do that?" Harry went on, seething. "I've never said I wanted to be Minister. Are they allowed to just put my name on the ballot?"

Ron shrugged, backing up to lean against the wall.

"Can't imagine it's happened before," Ron said. "Most people want to become Minister."

There was a strange tone to Ron's voice that distracted Harry. He turned to scrutinise the man.

"You don't... want me to run, do you?" Harry asked, feeling like this had to be a joke.

Ron lifted his shoulders again, looking away.

"I mean, you'd have the power to control how things with Voldemort were managed."

Harry stared at his best friend, wondering how Ron could know him so little.

"I don't want power or control," Harry said, enunciating each word. "I've had enough of it. Look what I've done... look at what people following me have suffered."

"You've saved people, mate," Ron countered quietly. "You could save people again. You could do so much good."

Pressure began to bear down on him—

You're not doing enough, you're going to let everyone down if you don't take on this responsibility, people are counting on you—

"And have you heard who we'll be stuck with if you don't run?" Ron asked darkly, and Harry looked over at him helplessly, wide open for more. "Fucking Malfoy."

Harry felt his mouth fall open in shock.

"Lucius?" Harry asked, aghast. "Draco?"

Ron was scowling.

"Not the ferret. His darling daddy." Ron crossed his arms sullenly. "Can you imagine?"

"But..." Harry said slowly, struggling to understand. "He only narrowly avoided Azkaban. He was a known Death Eater. Why would they want him with Voldemort free?"

Ron made a scoffing sound.

"Well, you vouched for him, didn't you? And a word from the Chosen One is worth a hell of a lot." Ron huffed out an annoyed breath. "I told you that you shouldn't have helped them."

"Yeah, but—"

"And the wanker has gotten himself quite the following lately. He claims that he's obsessed with killing You-Know-Who. Tells anyone who will listen what he'd do if he had power. How quickly he'd find You-Know-Who." Ron snorted. "And people actually believe him."

Harry felt dizzy.

"Just..." he began, then sat himself on the floor, closing his eyes.

"Merlin, when's the last time you ate?" Ron nagged, and then a round bun was shoved into Harry's hand. "Eat."

Harry shook his head.

If I don't become Minister, Malfoy will. He'll stop at nothing to recapture Voldemort. He won't care that I'm handling it.

"Bugger, Harry, I'm sorry," Ron muttered from directly in front of him. Harry opened his eyes to see those blue ones locked onto his with concern. "I shouldn't have said anything. It's not your responsibility to save everyone all the time."

Of course it is. That's why I'm here. That's why you think I should become Minister.

"Tell Hermione I'll do it," Harry rasped, then cleared his throat.

Enough.

Stand up and do your fucking job.

Harry stood, wiping off his robes.

"But—" Ron stuttered with panic as he stood too, "the election is tomorrow! And Hermione is already—"

"I'll speak to the Wizengamot now," Harry said with resolve. "I'll handle it."

He began to walk to the door, but Ron grabbed his arm.

"Wait. You don't have to do this. Hermione's going to kill me if she thinks I pressured you into—"

"You didn't. It's fine." Harry gently removed Ron's fingers from his sleeve. "I have to go."

And Harry left.

As he walked towards the Wizengamot's Chambers, he felt his familiar, heavy persona settle onto his shoulders.

He was Harry Potter.

The Chosen One had a role to fulfil, and that had to come first.

And he could still protect Voldemort this way. Ron was right— maybe this would be even more efficient once Harry held all of that power and control.

After all, what Harry wanted, what he needed, ultimately meant nothing at all.

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The Muggle clothes had been the first thing to go.

After stealing some appropriate black robes, he had found a manor house suitable enough for his needs and killed the man living there.

The wizard had not even attempted to defend himself, clearly so overcome with fear at encountering the Dark Lord Voldemort, that the thrill of murder had been disappointingly absent.

The loathsome, incomplete state he was currently in had required him to manually lift and carry the bloody corpse over to an adjacent pond, where he disposed of it.

This manor now belonged to Lord Voldemort.

He paced before the window, which displayed idyllic scenes of sprawling, manicured grasses and meticulously maintained gardens. They were unnatural eyesores.

The former occupant had not kept a proper wizard's home. There was no potions storeroom, no caches of magical relics, no familiar wizarding paraphernalia peppered throughout the house.

Yet that did not matter.

Voldemort had no intention of remaining here. He simply required a pause until he began what was coming.

There were many that would suffer for what he had endured— Harry among them.

The boy was poised to take over at the Ministry, or so the Prophet reported. And although Voldemort could see many advantages for himself to having Harry thus employed, he knew that that job would destroy Harry. It was too much responsibility.

Harry needed anonymity. Respite.

He needed Lord Voldemort as his Master.

Yet the fool would never chase what benefitted himself.

Voldemort stopped pacing, forcing his facial muscles to relax, as they had tensed into a snarl.

Today was the election, and Harry would undoubtably secure the Minister's job. Images in the paper that he had seen of that staunch, strong, flailing boy infuriated him. Harry would give them everything, smiling for the cameras with his lips but not his pleading eyes, shaking hands and making speeches— all the while knowing that his place was at Lord Voldemort's feet.

Knowing that his Master was watching.

Waiting impatiently.

Voldemort was owed flesh from the boy for what had been done to him.

Harry had betrayed him.

He had lied.

Had gloried in Lord Voldemort's hardships, keeping him caged, when Harry had possessed the capability to assist him.

When he had sworn to do so.

The boy had much to answer for, and Voldemort yearned to drag him away from the Ministry and take his recompense immediately.

Yet he allowed himself this brief pause.

To reorient.

For months, his goal had been freedom. The return of his memories.

Now, with only one last obstacle in his path, the acquisition of a servant, he was on the precipice of becoming whole once more.

This was the time to decide what his plans were for the immediate future.

His first goal would be collecting Lucius.

That infernal Vow remained irksome, yet it would not prevent Lord Voldemort from enjoying many happy months of torturing the traitor. He had mentally crafted numerous pleasing scenarios in his idle hours that he would ensure came to fruition.

Lucius would suffer and eventually beg to die.

Scorpius and Draco would accompany the fiend, providing excellent motivations for Lucius's begging and anguish. Fools who loved were always the most satisfying to play with.

After that, Lord Voldemort would find the boy.

That was inevitable.

Vivid, invasive thoughts about their reunion often distracted Voldemort, as they did now.

He desired ardently to see his rune on Harry's skin. He wanted to touch it, to savour how Harry would arch against him as Voldemort mouthed it...

He remembered how it had felt not knowing why he had placed that mark upon the boy. The possessive thrill in knowing only that Harry had acquiesced despite being ignorant to its purpose.

The significance of that total submission had not occurred to Voldemort until he had lost his memories. Seeing the event from another perspective had given him the opportunity to recognise the heady trust that Harry had displayed.

That level of... devotion, of blind faith, had been a revelation.

Harry was unmistakably his.

And Lord Voldemort always returned for his most faithful.

The habitual, minute gesture that usually brought forth a roaring fire into the grate, presently failed him.

Refusing to clench his fists in anger, Lord Voldemort instead purposefully walked at a measured pace to the hearth and began to build a fire.

He consoled himself with soon.

Soon he would have his magic.

Soon he would have his vengeance.

Soon, he would watch the world burn with Harry at his side.