CHAPTER 43

.

.

The news came like a death knell.

He was in his office, hiding. Tradition dictated that Harry be in a crowd of fans while the votes were being counted, regaling them all with flattering anecdotes about himself.

And they had tried to get him to adhere to that. The huge crowd had been assembled, including old classmates, teachers from Hogwarts, fans, and obviously, Ron and Hermione. Harry had stood in their midst for a time, enduring their hugs and pats on the back— even putting up with a few distressing gropes of his arse that had taken him right back to Slughorn's wandering fingers.

But he had been unable to keep it together for long.

He hadn't eaten in days. Hadn't properly showered or slept enough to function.

And the agonising guilt of what he had done, what he was about to do, haunted him relentlessly. He had to pretend to be this hero, this perfect, shining paragon of good against everything bad— and it was such a joke! Such a fucking lie that—

His door abruptly burst open, spilling Ron and Hermione, Hagrid and Ginny, workmates and classmates and strangers into his sanctuary.

"You won!" someone shouted, and he couldn't even tell who it had been because he was immediately picked up from his chair and thrust into the air with shouts of joy and laughter.

Harry looked down at them all— Hagrid weeping messily, Ginny hugging little professor Flitwick, Ron and Hermione beaming at him— and he felt... nothing.

Nothing.

He was bourn along in their arms, passed from person to person like a doll, everyone eager to congratulate him.

"He won with ninety-seven percent!" a voice cried, and a resounding cheer went up at those words.

"You have to give a speech now!" someone shouted, and he was released back onto the ground.

He locked his legs, but even still, they weakened, threatening to pour him onto the floor. Hagrid was at once by his side, supporting him and guiding him gently towards a podium that had been set up in the Auror Department.

When the touching hands receded, Harry was left alone at the dais, staring into the bright lights and beaming faces of the press and his fans.

"Congratulations, Mr Potter— Minister Potter, I should say!" a voice boomed, and most others quieted. "Ha! What a nice ring that has, doesn't it?" The crowd laughed amicably. "Tell us, how do you feel?"

How do I feel?

I feel—

I need help.

I can't do this.

Harry shifted his face into what he hoped was a smile.

"I feel great. This is... a shock. But a good one."

"Maybe to you!" someone called out from the crowd. "We knew you'd win!"

More laughter. Harry's cheeks were already sore from holding his smile up.

"Tell us, Minister, what's your first order of business?"

Harry quickly searched his cloudy mind for the right reply.

"I'll be assembling my team. It's not just me who will be... helping."

He felt suddenly weird.

Lightheaded and almost drunk.

Oh fuck, I'm going to faint.

"Any names we'd recognise?" someone asked.

Harry's heartbeat was quickly becoming rapid and his vision was tunnelling dangerously.

"Excuse me," he whispered, and then took a step away from the podium, hoping to fall apart in privacy.

At once, his legs gave out and he collapsed to the ground, hitting his head hard against the edge of the dais.

Screams of shock and panic pierced his brain, but he couldn't do anything to help.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, and then passed out.

.

.

He awoke to the gentle feeling of fingers on his forehead. It felt so good. They were warmer than he expected, but maybe they could still be Voldemort's fingers—

His Dark Lord come to rescue him.

The idea was so wonderful that he moaned, pushing against those digits that immediately froze when he did so, then pulled away.

His empty, miserable reality hit him then.

It's not Voldemort. He left you.

Harry opened his eyes.

Hermione's blurry face floated above him. He couldn't really decipher her expression, but she did not seem pleased.

Reaching above his head, he felt around for a nightstand.

"Here," Ron said, and Harry's glasses were tucked into his palm.

He put them on and looked up to see Ron and Hermione sitting on either sides of his bed.

A hospital bed.

Bugger.

You complete tit.

"Did I seriously faint in my first five minutes of being Minister?" Harry asked weakly, his speech only stuttering slightly on the word Minister.

Ron snorted.

"S'not quite the vision of strength and confidence that they were looking for," Ron said with a shrug, "but at least you didn't sick up on them or anything."

Harry smiled, but took the casual censure deeply.

You're a fraud. They wanted someone strong and you're weak.

Worthless.

"You've been here two days," Hermione said softly, and panic raced through him.

Two days?

You can't sleep through this job, you fucking worthless coward. What's wrong with you?

"They had to knock you out because you kept fighting," Hermione told him, and Harry couldn't look at her. She sounded so disappointed. "And they've given you nutritional potions, Harry. You haven't been taking care of yourself very well."

Harry almost told her that that wasn't his job, but thankfully he caught himself.

"Sorry," he mumbled instead.

"You're six and a half stone," Ron said, sounding sad.

Am I? Merlin, it's gotten really bad, then. The lowest he'd ever weighed as an adult had been just above seven stone.

"Christ," Harry whispered. "I'm sorry. I'll eat more."

He felt terrible for making them worry.

Shifting, he worked his legs free from the sheets and made to stand, but Ron's large hand gripped his shoulder and kept him seated.

"You're staying here a bit longer, mate."

Harry frowned.

"Says who?"

"Healer's orders."

Harry tried to gently swipe Ron's grip away, but the other man easily kept hold of him. Harry sighed and dropped his arm.

"I'm the Minister now. Can they really make me?"

Ron barked out a laugh.

"You want your first act as Minister to be getting into a shoving match with an old lady Mediwitch?"

Harry groaned, letting himself fall back onto the bed.

"Why the fuck did so many people vote for me?" he muttered.

There was silence and Harry opened his eyes to see Hermione and Ron exchanging a pointed look.

"What," he said with trepidation.

"Nothing," Ron replied, too quickly.

Harry sat up again.

"Don't fucking lie," he warned them. "What happened?"

"Hey," Ron sharply chastised, giving him a stern glare. "Don't take this out on us."

Harry inclined his head once.

"Okay. Sorry. But what is it?"

Ron held his gaze for a few moments longer and then scoffed, leaning back.

"Lucius sodding Malfoy went mental when you won. He..."

Ron trailed off, looking at Hermione again as if for support.

"He has become more vocal with what he knows about you and Voldemort," Hermione finished.

Harry winced, then saw that she'd caught it.

"Okay," Harry said slowly. "But, it doesn't matter, does it? The Wizengamot cleared me— I'm the fucking Minister for Magic! What can he do but look like a pathetic, petulant toddler?"

Hermione was frowning.

"He can make your job even harder," she explained, and Harry wanted to laugh at how little that scared him. "Especially if he continues saying that you're in love with Voldemort."

The smile fell from Harry's lips.

Bugger.

"Do you know where he is, Harry?" she asked abruptly, and Harry worked hard to control his shock.

He didn't have to ask who she'd meant.

"No," he said firmly, and that was true. "He left. After killing Kingsley."

"But, he had to have killed Slughorn, too, right?" Hermione asked.

"Hermione," Ron begged with exasperation. "Let's drop the investigative work right now, alright? Let the poor bloke rest."

"I need to know," she persisted with irritation. "The Ministry is insisting that Slughorn died from a potions accident! All because they'd found so many healing elixirs in him during their autopsy, but it just doesn't make sense. He was a Potions master! How could he have messed up badly enough to get himself into that condition?"

"I don't know," Harry muttered, remembering the crushed eyeballs and the man's wilted cock laying bloodily on the carpet, far from his mangled body.

"You found him," Hermione went on, and Harry nodded tightly, feeling his body tense. "Do you truly think that he just messed up a potion and then tried to heal himself? The report I read said there were parts of him completely severed from his body. His wand was snapped in half."

And Voldemort was stuck to the wall, listening to you list all of the reasons why he should hate you.

"I told you, love," Ron interrupted her gently. "I don't think anyone believes their rubbish. The Ministry was just worried that panic would break out before they'd locked Harry in as Minister, so they made up that lie." Ron turned his attention from his wife, to Harry. "We all know who actually killed Slughorn."

Harry held his gaze, motionless.

"Are you going to tell us the truth, Harry?" Ron asked, his eyes pressing Harry into the mattress. "Or are you his now?"

And there it was.

They knew. They finally saw him for who he was.

If he lied, they would be able to tell. If he was honest, they would hate him.

"Don't be silly, Ron," Hermione said in a small, hopeful voice. "Harry would never condone murder."

I told you that I loved him. I told you what I wanted. Who do you think I was talking about?

"He did it for me," Harry whispered, hating that he had to admit this, but needing to clear Voldemort of responsibility.

"For you?" Ron asked, sounding floored. "Why?"

Harry began to fidget with the sheet over his lap.

"That doesn't matter. He— Slughorn. He... did something to me and Voldemort didn't like it."

"Does he have his memories back?" Hermione asked anxiously.

Harry lowered his head in shame, needing their hatred. Needing to be told that he was a failure— needing someone to see him.

"Harry," Hermione breathed, and she reached out to hold his hand. "No. You shouldn't have done that."

He wanted to apologise, but he wasn't sorry. He wanted to promise that he'd fix it, but he had no intention of ever taking anything away from Voldemort again. He could offer them nothing but his inadequate, miserable silence.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Harry," Ron muttered, then stood and walked away from the bed.

"Ron, no," Hermione hissed, but Ron didn't pause.

Harry looked up just in time to see his first ever friend storm from his hospital room, slamming the door behind him.

Hermione kept hold of his other hand staunchly, squeezing it.

"It's okay, Harry," she lied. "He's just shocked. When he cools down, we'll figure this out together."

Harry closed his eyes, feeling the weight of his betrayal compress his lungs.

Ron had been right to leave.

Voldemort had his memories back and it wouldn't be long until he found a servant and waged another war.

You restored him without even thinking about the consequences.

But they had come too far for Harry to be worrying about that now.

Voldemort was his responsibility— always had been. If the Dark Lord began killing people again, well, Harry would just have to remind the bastard that punishments could go both ways.

Harry might be a failure, a disappointment, but there were some things that he would always fight against. He wouldn't allow Voldemort to murder anyone else.

Hermione held his hand for ages longer. She was prattling on about plans and ways to get Voldemort back now that Harry was Minister. Harry let the words drift over him, not paying much attention.

He was grateful for her support, of course he was. She loved him and wanted to help.

But their goals were no longer aligned. He belonged to Lord Voldemort, and Harry would fight to protect him.

Even if the man no longer wanted him.

.

.

"Harry."

His dream abruptly shifted, and the Hippogriff he was riding turned into a Basilisk that began hissing at him, unlocking doors and—

"Harry."

He jolted awake, sitting up to see—

Nothing.

The hospital room was empty.

His heart was pounding as disappointment replaced the wild anticipation he'd felt.

He's obviously not here, idiot. The Dark Lord can't just stroll into St Mungo's and—

"I am not pleased to find you in this condition, Harry," that beautiful, wonderful high voice admonished, and Harry threw out his hands to grab the impossible visitor.

Catching nothing.

"Voldemort," he breathed, then froze, panicking.

Quickly, he threw up a couple of privacy wards and locked the door. Then he shifted to search the empty space around him.

Harry saw the chart at the foot of his bed independently float up, the pages turning as if someone were examining his doctor's notes.

"Malnourishment," Voldemort read darkly, the pages stilling, and Harry could feel that invisible, penetrating gaze pierce him reproachfully. "You weigh less than a child, Harry."

"You left," Harry accused raggedly. "You said that you would take care of me, and then you left."

He hated how pathetic he sounded. How needy, but it was the truth and Voldemort would take it.

"You wanted me to leave," Voldemort countered.

Harry made an incredulous sound.

"That's fucking bullsh—"

"Do not lie to Lord Voldemort, Harry," the man cut in dangerously.

Harry closed his mouth, searching for what to say.

"Let me see you," he begged, his eyes stabbing into the air where that voice was coming from. "Please."

Voldemort hummed, and Harry clenched his fists to stop from moaning.

"You were afraid," Voldemort accused, ignoring his plea, that clipboard falling noisily to the floor and cutting through the silence of the room. "You lied to Lord Voldemort so that you could wallow in self-pity like the pathetic creature that you are."

Harry's eyelids fluttered closed at those words. He had been afraid. He had pushed Voldemort away so that their distance would be on Harry's terms and he would not be the victim, left behind.

"You sent me notes," Voldemort said scathingly. "Pitiful things, instead of locating vital ingredients."

Harry cringed, hating how inadequate that sounded.

"You dared to masturbate next to me," Voldemort seethed, and Harry felt mortification sear his face, "rather than do as you had sworn."

Harry opened his eyes, desperate to see that face, but the room still appeared empty.

"You enjoyed torturing me, did you not?" Voldemort asked cruelly, as if that was why Harry had acted the way he had. "You enjoyed the minuscule power that you had over the most powerful wizard alive. You felt important. You convinced yourself that it was for my benefit that you delayed."

Yours and the world's. It was for you and also everyone I have to protect.

"But it was not," Voldemort insisted with finality. "You are selfish. Malicious."

"I'm sorry," Harry whispered, and then bit his lip, remembering how Voldemort had once chastised him for apologising.

But this was his Voldemort. The man who knew how worthless Harry was, yet still came to his hospital room in the middle of the night, to hold him accountable for the damage he had done.

"Please," Harry begged shamelessly. "I need you to help me. I need—"

"I know what you need, Harry," Voldemort said, and then his tall, intimidating form was slowly revealed as the Dark Lord pulled off Harry's Cloak.

Harry did moan then, his gaze hungrily taking in everything— the sight of that powerful man in proper wizard robes again, those delicate nostrils, that elegant, menacing flat face.

"It is a wonder how they can believe that you will protect them when you cannot even manage to feed yourself."

Voldemort leaned down, deeply breathing in the air around him. Harry bared his throat, yearning to feel those sharp teeth against his skin, that lithe tongue— but Voldemort didn't touch him.

"Nor bathe."

The Dark Lord straightened up and stared down at Harry, flaying him with his displeasure.

"You are just a boy with an inflated ego," the man observed. "One who has been told throughout his life that he is special. But you are not, are you, Harry? You are their ruin. The last Minister fell due to his faith in you, and you killed Horace when you gave him something that belonged to me."

Voldemort stepped around his bed, coming to stand at his side.

"Who shall fall next?" Voldemort asked softly, then sat down beside him.

Harry felt Petrified, unable to interrupt lest Voldemort disappear as suddenly as he had come.

"You cannot stop Lord Voldemort, Harry," the man chided, carefully pulling back the covers over Harry's lower body and exposing his bare legs.

Harry's skin immediately erupted into goosebumps under that intense gaze. Voldemort kept talking.

"You know this— they know this— and yet that is the impossible task they have set for you. You have allowed yourself to be measured by their expectations. You judge your worth based on their desires."

Voldemort made a sound of disappointment that burned him.

"It is weak," Voldemort pronounced. "Pandering. Far below what I expect from you."

Voldemort shifted so that his legs were planted firmly on the ground, his back to Harry.

"You will do better. You will comport yourself in a manner befitting my equal."

One long finger flicked out and pointed to the floor.

Harry stared— I'm in the hospital! I'm supposed to be resting and regaining my strength so that—

"Take your place, boy," Voldemort commanded, and Harry fucking melted hearing Voldemort call him that again.

Without thought, he slid from the bed, his knees hitting the cold marble quickly, and pressed his face to the ground.

It was scary. He felt vulnerable and weak and—

"You will bow for no one from now on, save for your Master."

Harry's stomach tensed at that term— this was the real Voldemort acknowledging their dynamic. Did that mean— could it be that Voldemort intended to continue it?

"You will stay thus until I allow you to sit up," Voldemort informed him, and Harry felt his body relax, grateful that someone else was taking charge. "Then, you will tell me the three most pressing failures that you have committed and I shall take them from your flesh."

Harry closed his eyes, relieved that someone was listening. His fuckups weren't being explained away nor flipped into victories. He could be who he was and be seen.

Harry floated, his mind lighter than it had been in weeks, eager to begin. But that wasn't up to him. His only job was to obey. To kneel here in a ball and wait for Lord Voldemort to tell him what to do next.

His mind drifted, but it strangely wouldn't focus on stressful things. It was like Voldemort's presence wiped the responsibility from his shoulders.

"That will do," the high, commanding voice of his Master said after a long, blissful amount of time, and Harry blinked his eyes open. "Kneel up."

Harry straightened his spine, sitting back on his feet, and waited.

"Tell me what you have done," Voldemort ordered.

Harry kept his gaze averted.

"I hurt you," Harry whispered, barely audibly. "I lied. I was... scared that you would hate me."

Voldemort made a deep humming sound of acknowledgement.

"You attempted to manipulate Lord Voldemort," the man agreed, and Harry bowed down once more in shame. "You failed him."

A heavy foot came down on Harry's back, pushing him into the floor.

"You will not receive my full forgiveness for that tonight," Voldemort told him. "For the weeks you kept me imprisoned. That is a crime for which you will spend years atoning, though I shall begin your punishment for it this evening. Get up."

When the weight on his back receded, Harry pulled himself off the ground, feeling heavy and unworthy.

When he'd confessed that failure, he'd been referring to their conversation in Slughorn's office, but it seemed that Voldemort thought that he'd been talking about their time on the island. Which was fine. Harry had mountains of failures to apologise for.

Voldemort ran a cool finger lightly across Harry's lightning bolt scar and Harry shivered— half in fear and half in anticipation.

"What else?" Voldemort demanded.

Harry closed his eyes again.

"I'm the Minister. But I'm garbage. I don't deserve their trust."

"You do not," Voldemort confirmed. "One more."

Harry clenched his fists.

"My friends hate me. They know about us, and they—"

"You have reported to others about Lord Voldemort, Harry?" The man's voice was shocked, thrumming with violence. "Oh, that will do for your third transgression."

Fingers threaded through his hair and then yanked back, exposing Harry's face to Lord Voldemort's wrathful stare.

"Vanish your shirt."

Harry's mouth was open from the sting on his scalp.

"I can't! It's a hospital gown, I'll be naked without—"

Voldemort's hand came down, striking him hard on the face. The fist in his hair kept his head steady, making the impact stronger.

Harry's ear rang, the persistent buzz distracting him from the pain on his cheek. His tooth had cut into his skin.

"So disobedient," Voldemort pronounced, a cool thumb coming forward to swipe across Harry's chin.

When he pulled the digit away, it was red with Harry's blood. Voldemort pushed it into his own mouth, staring at him.

When he took his finger out, it was clean.

"Vanish it," Voldemort repeated.

Harry focused his magic and somehow managed to succeed. The cool air coupled with that rapt gaze made his skin tingle.

Those red eyes roved Harry's naked body, getting darker after each moment that passed.

"You are not an imbecile, Harry," Voldemort said quietly. "You must have understood that my pledge to see to your needs could only be fulfilled with regular access to you and with my full memories. I could not do so under the conditions that you had left me in."

The chastisement stung. Voldemort ran a hand over Harry's ribs, tracing the stark outline of each bone.

"I know," Harry replied self-consciously. "And I meant to eat. It wasn't—"

"It was juvenile," Voldemort cut in harshly, and Harry closed his mouth. "A pitiful rebellion. A plea for your Master's attention."

Harry nodded, looking away in embarrassment.

It was mortifyingly true. He had resented Voldemort for not fulfilling his promise and had been stubbornly refusing to eat because it wasn't Harry's job.

"Foolish child," Voldemort scolded. "Fortunately, this will hurt all the more without the protection of some flesh over these protruding bones."

Harry nodded again, accepting that.

"Summon an avocado," Voldemort demanded, and Harry frowned in confusion.

"I don't know where one is," Harry confessed. "Also... won't someone see it floating through the air?"

Those eyes narrowed with derision.

"I forget, sometimes, your age. Your lack of the essential pursuit of knowledge."

Harry took that insult in silence, still feeling too chastised to argue. Voldemort folded his hands in his lap.

"Where can you be sure to find one?" the Dark Lord asked, the barest hint of snark in his tone. "A kitchen? Perhaps, downstairs? So, reach out with your magic and find one, then turn it invisible and Summon it here."

Harry looked up at him in awe.

"Is that even possible?" Harry asked, amazed. "I've never heard of that. When we were on the run from you during the war, we almost starved because we had no food."

"Idiot," Voldemort muttered. "Yes, of course it is possible. I would not waste my own time detailing something that was not."

Harry pulled out his wand, then paused, glancing up at Voldemort for help. The man sighed.

"Reach out, Harry. Close your eyes and imagine the kitchen. Picture where avocados would be kept."

Harry closed his eyes, but that didn't help.

"I've never seen this kitchen, though," he complained. "How can I—"

Voldemort's cold hands suddenly gripped his shoulders, holding him tight.

"You feel, Harry. Stop thinking like a Muggle looter and use your magic to find it for you."

Harry took a deep breath and tried.

He pictured himself walking downstairs, going directly to the kitchen as if he knew just where it was, and pushing open the door. The avocado would be on the counter, maybe in a wicker basket. Harry saw it, then. There were three. Ripe.

Perfect.

He reached out to grab one, but then remembered that he wasn't actually in the kitchen. Instead, he Disillusioned the dark green fruit and Summoned it.

Nothing happened.

Harry opened his eyes, feeling disoriented, and looked up at Voldemort with humiliation.

Failure.

You were never competent enough to manage that. You were always going to—

A soft thump against the door grabbed Harry's attention.

"Go get it," Voldemort said with a peculiar smile, and Harry stood.

He felt self-conscious walking around starkers, but he did as he'd been told. When he opened the door with magic, there was nothing there. Frowning, he turned back to Voldemort.

The Dark Lord raised a hairless eyebrow.

"Cancel the Disillusionment spell, Harry."

Oh yeah.

He did so, and then watched as one solitary avocado appeared, sitting on the floor.

"I did it," he whispered in amazement. Excited, he turned back to Voldemort. "I did it!"

Voldemort's eyes were shining with what could only be pride.

I did something right.

"Good boy," Voldemort praised softly, holding out his hand for the fruit.

Fuck, yes.

I'm a good boy.

Harry relocked the door and brought the avocado to Voldemort, who pointed once again at the floor.

Harry knelt, glorying in that unfamiliar feeling of pride.

I did something not even Hermione knows how to do!

"Now," Voldemort went on, "give me a small knife to slice it."

Nervously, Harry obeyed, conjuring a plain, metal blade and passing it to Voldemort, handle first. The Dark Lord inclined his head and accepted the knife without comment.

"Lastly, Harry, conjure a thin, rattan cane."

Rattan?

"What the fuck is rattan?" he asked.

Voldemort reached forward and brutally twisted one of Harry's nipples. He cried out, his hand coming up instinctively to pull those cruel fingers away, but the look Voldemort gave him when their hands met was enough to persuade him to just let it happen.

"Mind your tone, Harry," Voldemort cautioned, pinching harder and bearing down.

"Sorry!" Harry gasped.

Voldemort rolled the tip of Harry's nipple idly in his sharp fingers.

"Rattan is a strong, fibrous vine," Voldemort calmly informed him. "It is skinned and used to deliver pain. It can also make you bleed, should I desire it."

Harry held his breath, his arse just slightly off his heels, and his hands hovering over Voldemort's helplessly.

Voldemort's gaze held him with a stark warning, then he suddenly let him go.

Harry settled back down on his knees, gently rubbing his sore nipple.

Fuck, I'm so messed up.

This pain, this brutal treatment, made him feel hopeful in a way that nothing else really did. It was proof that someone cared enough to help him in the only way that worked. He didn't want hugs and commiseration. He needed this. He needed to feel Voldemort's presence in his skin.

"None of this information matters, though, Harry, as you do not need to know the specifics to conjure it."

Harry pulled his attention away from the pleasant ache and listened to his Master.

But, how could he conjure something he didn't even know existed?

"I don't?"

Voldemort shook his head.

"So long as the item exists and you are not required to create it, you can simply call it to you. Of course, Lord Voldemort is able to create anything he pleases— though," and here Voldemort pierced him with a vicious stare, "not in the condition that you have damned him into."

Harry looked away guiltily.

"So... I just think about rattan and it'll come?"

Voldemort let the silence linger reprovingly for a few seconds longer, then relented.

"Yes, Harry. But it is a cane that I want, not the vine itself, so be clear."

"Okay," Harry said, and then concentrated on picturing a rattan cane, whatever the hell that was.

He felt strangely self-assured after his last success. And Voldemort had said he wouldn't waste his own time suggesting something impossible.

Harry closed his eyes.

Rattan cane. Rattan cane.

He focused his magic and willed something long and thin into existence. It appeared in his palm and Harry startled. He was afraid to look in case he'd fucked it up.

"Well done, Harry," Voldemort said, and that gave Harry the confidence to open his eyes and see a slender stick thing about three feet long with a wide handle.

"I did it!" Harry cried, showing him the cane.

Voldemort smiled and then held out his hand once more.

Harry suddenly remembered why he'd been asked to conjure that.

He's going to whip you with it. He'd said it would break your skin.

Harry pictured it, then: kneeling before Lord Voldemort and taking his punishment.

The heavy, suffocating weight of his guilt fell back onto his shoulders and he looked up, lost, at Voldemort.

Harry needed this.

He needed someone to let him rectify his mistakes. Someone who wasn't afraid or in awe of him.

He needed some relief if he had any hope in hell of functioning as Minister.

He needed help.

"Give it to me," Voldemort commanded, and Harry handed over the cane.