CHAPTER 49

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When Harry Apparated back to Grimmauld, Ron and Hermione were already waiting for him.

In his house. Without having been invited inside.

Oh, fuck no.

"Harry!" Hermione said with relief, and moved towards him, but Harry held up a hand to halt her.

They both looked at him with confusion as Harry stared them down.

"You can't keep doing this," he told them, not fighting the fury racing through him. "This is my house. This is my life. You moved on with yours, let me move on—"

"What— with You-Know-Who?" Ron interrupted scathingly. "Is that what you're about to beg for? You want us to just let you bunk up with the Dark Lord, no questions asked?"

He could feel his own irritation growing, which was strange for him. These were his friends. They were just concerned for him and worried about the repercussions of his bad choices.

And yet, their worry felt cloying now. They didn't have the right to expect an explanation from him. To be able to pass judgment on him. These things weren't within the parameters of their friendship anymore.

He studied his old friend and tried to keep his expression neutral.

"Where I'm concerned, Ron, you don't get to let me do anything. I don't have to beg. My life has nothing to do with you."

"It does when your new best mate is Voldemort!" Ron shouted, taking a step towards him. "It does when you've given him back his memories and now seven people are dead—"

"He had nothing to do with—"

Ron gave a dramatic gasp, his eyes flashing with fire.

"Don't you dare fucking lie to me." Ron's quiet tone was astounded and challenging. "Don't you dare."

Hermione stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on Ron's wand arm, but her gaze was locked onto Harry.

"Are you okay, Harry?" she whispered. "Do you know why you were attacked?"

Because it's Tuesday?

"Those that don't adore me tend to want me dead," he quipped. "That's been my experience, at least."

Ron snorted and Harry glanced over to see Ron give him an exasperated look.

"Mr Foncé," Hermione went on, and he turned back to see her searching his face. "Who is he?"

Right. Time to lie.

"An employee. A dead one. What's it to you?"

Hermione pressed her lips together, seeming unconvinced.

"He died? But there's no report of his body."

Bugger.

"Maybe you don't get the full scope of reports, as the Magical Creatures Head. Maybe the Minister for fucking Magic gets more detailed information than—"

"Don't yell at her," Ron growled, coming between them and grabbing Harry's arm repressively.

Without thinking, he released a pained cry and then immediately stifled it. Those fingers had closed tightly on the burnt skin hiding under his robes. He'd felt one of the blisters pop.

Ron let him go at once.

"Sorry— are you hurt?" he asked with concern, his gaze examining Harry's arm with confusion.

Harry backed away, embarrassed and worried that they'd investigate. Merlin, the whole bottom part of his upper arm was throbbing.

"I'm fine." He tried to pretend that nothing had happened. "Look, Mr Foncé doesn't matter. And no one managed to kill me. Can we just drop this now?"

"Harry," Hermione persisted, and he knew at once that she wasn't going to give him a break. "Mr Foncé killed all those people."

"And?" Harry asked furiously. None of this was her sodding business. "He was protecting me. I didn't see either of you staying behind to make sure that I was alright!"

Their identical looks of hurt shock sliced through Harry's anger.

Fuck.

"I'm sorry," he began, but Hermione shook her head dismissively.

"It's fine," she said, looking miserable. "You're right."

"We have kids, Harry," Ron argued mulishly, as if that didn't perfectly summarise Harry's argument.

They had their own family; their own priorities. And Harry wasn't one of them anymore.

"Exactly," he agreed. "And you'd kill for them, wouldn't you?"

Harry watched Hermione's eyes widen minutely and he suddenly realised he'd said too much.

"He was just a dedicated worker," Harry lied quickly, panicking. "He'd believed in the mythology of Harry Potter and wanted—"

"He didn't use magic," Hermione quietly interjected, and that shut him right up.

He stared at her, knowing that there was no explaining that away. Her face grew sad.

"He killed five people without magic," she whispered. "The other two seemed to give their lives protecting you, but he stabbed five people to death."

Shit. If they found out, if they knew that Voldemort was still murdering people they'd never rest until he was dead. They wouldn't understand. They'd only see what he'd done and not what he could be.

"He was eccentric," Harry insisted. "He preferred Muggle—"

"He's Voldemort," Ron cut in, his tone confident and final.

They stared at each other.

The lies, the betrayals... everything separating them grew huge in the empty space between them.

"Who have you told?" Harry breathed, wondering how much damage control he would have to do.

He didn't waste his time trying to deny it.

"Why?" Ron asked with derision. "Are we next on his list? On yours?"

That fucking hurt.

"You actually think I'd kill you?"

Ron laughed harshly.

"Do you remember what Hagrid had said? In our third year? We overheard him talking to Fudge in the Three Broomsticks."

Oh, fuck.

Harry sucked in a breath, holding it.

No way is he going to bring up Sirius, no fucking way—

"He'd said, once a wizard goes over to the Dark side, there's nothing and no one that matters to them any more." Ron smiled while Harry's insides were torn to shreds. "That's you now, Harry."

Sirius.

Oh gods, I'm so sorry.

Ron scoffed and Harry closed his eyes, trying to control his thrashing self-loathing.

"Imagine what he'd say to see you now," Ron said with disappointment, and Harry felt his legs give out.

His vision exploded with a crystal-clear memory of his brave, stupid godfather battling Bellatrix— and then Sirius was blasted backwards, cursed right into the Veil, and he was falling, arching back and leaving him, leaving Harry screaming for him, as yet another person Harry loved was ripped from him because Harry was perilous and worthless and—

"Ron, help me!" Hermione implored, as Sirius's face showed mingled fear and surprise as he arced back, slowly disappearing—

"Harry," Ron rasped, hands touching him, just like Remus's had as he had clung onto Harry, struggling to stop him from following his godfather into the Veil, to save him, to bring him back—

Death.

It followed Harry wherever he went. He was like a curse, an unlucky harbinger of the end, and anyone near him was in danger.

He opened his eyes to see Hermione's bushy hair in his face. She was... touching him. He tilted his head up slightly and saw Ron's freckled chin just above him.

They were hugging him.

"I'm sorry," Ron whispered, and he sounded like he had a cold. "I'm so sorry, Harry. I shouldn't have said that. I didn't mean it. I'm just scared and it's like... it's like you don't realise what you're doing."

Harry closed his eyes again.

He knew what he was doing. He was betraying everyone. He was pissing all over the graves of his parents and his godfather. Of all the men and women who'd died by Voldemort's hand. Who had died for Harry Potter.

He was choosing to believe in a man who had made no promises to him. A man that he loved, but who had never said the words back to him.

Why would he. Who could ever love you?

"Don't forget who he is, Harry," Hermione begged softly. "Don't forget who you are."

Who he is. Who I am.

We're the same.

Harry exhaled a frustrated breath and pulled away from them. He stood.

"I've never been allowed to be who I am," he told them. "The only time I've ever felt like myself, is with him."

Ron stood, too.

"How can you say that?"

Harry sighed. This was pointless. It was the same conversation over and over. No one understood. No one even listened to him.

"I have to go," he said wearily, with nothing left to offer.

"Back to him," Ron accused.

"Yeah," Harry affirmed, resigned to his hatred. "Back to him."

"You're with him now, are you? You're together. He killed all those people and you're still in love with him."

What could he say to that? It was true.

"Yup."

"That's fucking—"

"Harry, I think we found his last Horcrux."

Harry stopped dead.

"What," he mouthed soundlessly, as thundering, numbing panic exploded through him.

Hermione nodded, searching his face.

"I went to Hogwarts," she said. "I spoke to Professor Dumbledore's portrait. He told me what he thinks it is. Where it is."

Relief slowly trickled down his spine.

"So you don't know for sure," Harry pointed out, his lungs tentatively working again. "It's just a guess."

Hermione gave him a pitying look.

"He seemed pretty certain. I just... I've been looking." She gestured to Ron, who raised his chin in defiance when Harry met his gaze. "We've been looking, for months."

"Even though you knew that I loved him," Harry said softly, letting the betrayal sink deep.

"He's still killing people, Harry," Hermione replied, sounding apologetic but resolute. "I love you, but your... obsession. It's dangerous."

Obsession.

"We couldn't trust that you'd ever try to find his Horcrux," Ron added.

"What is it?" Harry asked, diverted, but Hermione shook her head.

"It's better if you don't know."

"Tell me," he demanded, straightening his spine and squaring off against her.

Ron pushed him away, coming to stand between them.

"We have to do this, Harry," Ron said with grim determination. "You'd agree if your head was screwed on right. He's... forcing you, or manipulating—"

"He's not."

"He's finished," Ron insisted, and the visual of that— the reality of the danger ahead if they had actually discovered his last Horcrux... it terrified him.

Voldemort could be killed.

I'll massacre you, Weasleys.

The intensity of that impulse halted him.

What the fuck?

"I'm sorry, Harry," Hermione said pleadingly. "I wish we didn't have to. I wish you had fallen for anyone else, but—"

Harry pulled out his wand unthinkingly and pointed it at his best friends.

"Where is it," he demanded, ignoring the way their stunned expressions hurt.

Neither of them spoke, but he couldn't let this risk slide. They would find the Horcrux and Voldemort would be gone.

"Imperio!" he shouted, hitting Hermione and then immediately blocked Ron's forceful attempt to curse him in retaliation.

He effortlessly cast a Petrificus on his first-ever friend and watched him fall.

Feeling oddly calm, he walked closer to Hermione, who was frozen with fear.

"Tell me where his Horcrux is," he ordered, watching how she uselessly fought the Unforgivable.

"It's at the Ministry!" Hermione gasped, her eyes huge and full of tears. "I don't know for sure! It's— that's where it should be!"

She didn't know?

"What is it?" he asked instead.

Hermione grimaced and fought, but it was futile.

"His wand!" she screamed, then released an agonised sob. "Please, Harry. Don't do this. Stop!"

He stared right past her.

His... wand?

But, why?

Harry backed up to sit down in one of his armchairs by the empty grate, his mind processing this information.

He supposed that it wasn't a horrible idea. Voldemort's last, minuscule fraction of his soul would be safe in his wand as no one would dare take it from the hands of the Dark Lord. And Harry knew that even though Voldemort had acquired the Elder Wand before the Battle of Hogwarts, the man had still kept his treasured yew wand on his person. They had found it on his lifeless form after the war.

And it had been the first thing that Voldemort had requested once Harry gave him his body back. The Dark Lord had even been drawn to it when he'd had no magic.

His wand.

Right at this moment, Lord Voldemort was holding onto his last Horcrux. Hidden in plain sight.

"Harry, please," Hermione begged, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. "You're scaring me."

Harry blinked slowly, giving her his full attention at last.

"You can't leave this room with that information," he told her regretfully.

She held up her hands in supplication, Harry's curse obviously losing its strength.

"This is what you wanted, Harry," she said, her eyes piercing him. "We can finally give the world peace. You can retire. You can—"

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he said softly, and then hit her with a spell.

She staggered back, and Harry moved quickly to Ron and performed the same magic on him, then released him. Without waiting for them to fully come around, Harry Disapperated away.

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What have you done?

Shaking, he pushed open the door of the manor to find Voldemort sitting in an armchair by a fire. When their gazes met, the man stood immediately and came to him, concern in his red eyes.

"What happened."

Harry felt like he was vibrating. There was so much adrenaline racing through him that he was at risk of being split wide open.

"I wiped their memories," he rasped, struggling to keep the images of what he'd done at bay by focusing on Voldemort's soothing presence.

Long fingers reached out and put pressure on his shoulders.

"Kneel."

Gratefully, Harry did.

He sunk to the floor, pressing his head against the wood without being instructed to. He just needed to feel small and insignificant. Like a footstool, and not a villain capable of attacking his best friends.

"Good boy. What did they learn?"

Harry blew out a long breath, hoping he had strength enough to speak.

"Your Horcrux."

Voldemort did not reply and Harry pictured those hairless eyebrows shooting up, his jaw dropping open.

"Tell me," Voldemort commanded, his tone deadly.

Oh no. What am I doing? What if I didn't remove enough from their memories and Ron and Hermione come after the Dark Lord?

What if Voldemort kills them?

"You can't hurt them," Harry said desperately, pushing off the ground with his palms, but a foot on his shoulder blades put him right back on the floor.

"If you handled it, I should not need to. Tell me what they learned."

Harry closed his eyes. He had to trust that Voldemort wouldn't hurt his friends. Surely the man understood that that would be a dealbreaker.

"Dumbledore's portrait," he whispered, feeling bad that this was going to make Voldemort incredibly angry. "He told Hermione what it is."

Harry felt the tension in the utter silence of the room. He couldn't even hear the man breathing.

"And what is their assumption?"

Harry opened his eyes and tilted his head, needing to see Voldemort's reaction to this.

"Your wand."

The Dark Lord's face remained rigidly blank as he swiftly turned and walked away— walked right out of the room. Harry stayed put, feeling safer on the ground.

Voldemort was pissed.

Did that mean that they were right? Or was he just angry about Hermione's meddling?

After some time, it was clear that Voldemort was not going to return. Harry's legs were cramped and sore, and he felt oddly abandoned.

Where was Voldemort? Maybe he was getting drunk. But then, Harry had never seen the man imbibe at all. And he struggled to picture Lord Voldemort slurring his words or stumbling about.

What was he up to, then? Had he left the manor? And if so, why?

You just told him that Hermione knew what his Horcrux was. If she was right, Voldemort would want to make sure that you handled it well enough.

And if you didn't?

He's going to kill her.

"No!" he shouted, jumping to his feet.

Vertigo tried to bring him back to the floor, but he fought it, his heart hammering in his chest.

"Voldemort!"

He crashed into the nearby rooms, searching them and found each one empty.

"Answer me, or I swear to fucking god, I'll—"

"Upstairs," he heard that high voice mutter curtly, and Harry had to brace himself against the wall as he caught his breath.

Holy hell— he'd almost ran right back to Hermione. He would have had to Obliviate her again.

Slowly, he let his shaky legs carry him up the stairs to look for Voldemort.

The man was in his bedroom, standing by the window. Harry took a moment to stare at the intimidating form. The Dark Lord looked furious— his body tense, his face chiselled into hard lines.

Unable to resist, Harry closed the distance between them. He placed a hand on that motionless arm.

"It's okay," he attempted. "I handled it, I swear. I wiped both Hermione and Ron's memories. They didn't tell anyone."

Which might not be true, but unless he wanted his friends dead, he would have to make sure that Voldemort believed him.

"I am not concerned about them, Harry," Voldemort said quietly, then turned abruptly to face him. His eyes were wild as he scoured Harry's expression. "What will you do with this information?"

So it's true.

His wand...

Harry had held it in his hands so many times. Back when he'd wanted Voldemort dead, he could have destroyed it so easily.

"Me?" Harry asked vaguely, because what the hell did that have to do with anything? Voldemort continued to scrutinise him intently, so Harry forced himself to think about it. "I guess I'll have to get rid of Dumbledore's portrait. Then no one else will know."

"You will know."

Harry frowned.

"Yeah. But I'm hardly going to do anything."

Voldemort suddenly reached into his robes and took out his wand, holding it out to show Harry.

His Horcrux.

The sheer trust that the Dark Lord was displaying doing that... it was better than any proclamation of love. Voldemort was exposing his weakness, offering it to Harry.

Without thinking, he plucked the wand from those cool fingers.

—And Voldemort let him, though he watched him fiercely.

"I will guard this with my life," Harry told him, holding the wood like the precious treasure that it was. Voldemort's eyes burned with intensity. "Your soul has nothing to fear from me."

"And yet, that is how this all began. With your prideful, determined proclamation to destroy me."

Harry smiled, remembering how he'd felt all those months ago. He had wanted so badly to see Voldemort suffer, and yet now, the possibility of the Dark Lord being in danger was enough to get him to curse his own friends.

"Fine," Harry conceded, still smirking. "But what have I done since then? Risked my life and my job to protect you. Took your mark. Fallen in love with you, Voldemort."

He looked down at the wand again, running his fingers reverently over the wood.

"I have an idea," Harry muttered, saying the words before he'd really thought them through.

When he looked back up at Voldemort, the man's face was closed off.

Harry handed him back his wand, in case it was fear that the Dark Lord was hiding.

"I'm not going to destroy that," Harry promised. "I have an idea to keep it safe. I think you should hide it in the Chamber of Secrets."

Voldemort's gaze remained on him, then he made a sound of displeasure.

"I believe your red-haired entourage stole from me while I was a wraith. It would not be safe there. The safest place for it, is in my hands."

"Yeah, but—"

"And I need a wand, Harry. Do you suppose that I should walk into Ollivander's and request that he sell me a new one? Or should I kidnap him again, torturing him in my basement, ripping open his mind and forcing him to—"

"Neither! Gods, stop detailing these violent fantasies that you have, okay? Merlin."

Harry shook his head, then left the room.

"Harry," Voldemort called, sounding annoyed, but Harry kept walking, descending the stairs.

He heard Voldemort follow, his steps almost indistinguishable, but Harry was listening hard for them. It was a victory that the Dark Lord was chasing him.

"I had not intended to harm the wandmaker," Voldemort confessed quietly from behind him.

Harry smiled and kept walking.

"I know," he replied.

"Then why are you leaving? Is it—"

"You need a wand."

Voldemort stopped. Harry continued down the stairs until he reached the front doors and then turned to face the man whose expression was pinched with confusion.

"I have a wand," that high, cold voice said.

Harry inclined his head.

"I want you to hide it. If not in the Chamber, that's fine. We can think of somewhere else. But—"

"I do not want another wand, Harry."

Yeah, right. Your grave-robbing celebration right before the Battle of Hogwarts says otherwise.

"Not even the Elder Wand?"

Voldemort's eyes went wide with shock, but that did not last. Immediately, they shone bright red with avarice and excitement.

The Dark Lord took a step towards him, his expression menacing.

"You stole my wand, Harry?"

Harry grinned, moving closer as well, drawn to his eagerness.

"I think you'll find that you were never its Master."

When he reached the taller man, he moved into the space of his arms and let Voldemort grab hold of him. He liked the tight grip on his arm, the sense of danger, knowing that he was baiting the Dark Lord. Knowing that even without magic, this man could kill him instantly.

"But you could be its Master," Harry whispered softly, pressing his lips to that cool neck, his tongue darting out to taste the salt on his skin. "Maybe I would be willing to let you take it from me."

Voldemort's fingers squeezed, his whole body tensing. Harry stretched up on his tippy toes and drew the Dark Lord's head down as if for a kiss. Instead, when they were millimetres apart, he breathed words against the man's lips.

"If you beg me."

Instantly, Voldemort pulled away. His gaze was thunderous. Incredulous.

"It's just a word, Voldemort," Harry said, closing the distance between them once more. The Dark Lord did not respond to his touch. He just stared at Harry with hatred. "One word, and you can be the Master of the Elder Wand. An unbeatable wand."

"How Slytherin of you," Voldemort hissed mockingly.

Harry smiled, unbothered by the man's anger.

"From you, that's a compliment, so thank you."

Voldemort bared his teeth briefly, then walked away.

"So, you have my wand," Voldemort stated.

"Technically, it's my—"

"You had mentioned during our last duel that it could change hands without murder."

Harry laughed.

"Yeah, obviously. I'm not suggesting that you kill me."

Voldemort did not look amused.

"How do you propose I master it, then."

Harry thought about that.

"Well, right now, it would be tricky because you have no magic, so we can't duel or anything. But I stole Draco's wand just by wrestling it from his fingers. We can do something like that."

"Or, you can return me my rightful magic so that I can take it from you properly."

Harry awkwardly shifted his stance.

He knew that Voldemort wanted his magic returned. He felt guilty for not helping him with it yet. But the truth was that he still didn't trust the man not to try to enslave the world again.

"Why haven't you performed the ritual yet?" Harry asked quietly. "You could get anyone you wanted to help you."

Those freaky eyes turned to him, scrutinising him with a dark look.

"Perhaps I am waiting for you."

"Waiting for me? What do you mean?"

Voldemort held his stare for long moments and then looked down at the yew wand in his hands.

"You want me to beg for the Elder Wand. It comes back to what we had discussed months ago. If I do as you command, it will not be genuine. It will be feigned to achieve my goals. Is that what you are seeking? A parrot?"

Harry chewed his lip, trying to determine if there was a way that he could be satisfied with begging done because of an order.

It's a start. Merlin, hearing the Dark Lord beg would be like nothing else. It would destroy me.

But it wouldn't be real.

Harry sighed.

"I want the first time that you beg me," he began, picturing it and getting excited, "to be because you are completely at my mercy. I want you writhing and screaming, and I want to deny you for ages until you start to cry."

He felt his cock hardening at the idea. Eagerly, he searched the man's face and saw astounding interest reflected in those red eyes.

Oh fuck, yes. He wants that, too.

"Then tell me what I can offer in return for the wand," Voldemort requested, glancing away. "Since you seem to require a transaction to bestow your benevolence upon me."

Harry froze, the stark realisation making him nauseated. His sudden arousal vanished as fast as it had appeared.

"Merlin, I hadn't realised," he muttered, disgusted with himself. "I'm sorry. Never mind the... payment. Jesus."

You were going to force him to beg you, to do something he finds uncomfortable, just to lord your help over him. That's fucking sick. You're a monster.

Cool fingers touched his cheek and Harry's gaze snapped up to Voldemort's.

"Here is what will happen, Harry. You will bring me the Elder Wand. You will then perform a charm on the late Headmaster's portrait to silence him permanently. Destroying it will take more time than I care to spend circumventing the protections it will have."

Harry nodded, deeply appreciating being told what to do. This was good, this was brilliant.

"You will then come home to me. When you return, we will discuss possible locations for my original wand."

"Wait— you'd let me know where you're going to hide it?"

That would mean that he could go there anytime to destroy it. Or that his mind could be infiltrated and have the information stolen. He would be a liability.

An accomplice.

Because if Ron or Hermione ever found out that he knew where Voldemort's last Horcrux was— and that he was protecting it and not destroying it...

His gaze absently took in Voldemort's face— his expressive eyes, his delicate nostrils that flared endearingly when he was mad...

Let them find out. I'm not ashamed. I can prove that he's worth protecting.

There was more to the man than mindless violence. Voldemort could control himself.

For me.

...Except that every time he'd begged Voldemort to do so, the man had gone on to commit more murders.

To protect you. You just have to show him that you can take care of yourself.

Voldemort's fingers moved to his chin, tilting his head up so that he could secure Harry's attention.

"I do trust you, Harry," the Dark Lord admitted lowly, his eyes rapt onto Harry's lips. "Allow me to prove it."

Harry nodded before he'd taken in the words. Voldemort leaned down and claimed his lips, pulling him closer and devouring him.

Harry closed his eyes, feeling himself relax. Voldemort would take care of things. Finally, Harry had someone to share his burden with.

They were in this together. He alone would have the knowledge to finally defeat the Dark Lord, but instead of taking advantage of that at last, he would honour the trust he'd been given.

As Voldemort pressed him against the wall, kissing him fiercely and lifting him up to wrap Harry's legs around his waist, he thought about how lucky he was.

Harry Potter's job was to protect others. But he'd always yearned for someone to value him enough to do the same for him. And not like Dumbledore had— protecting him so that he could fulfil a role they'd put onto his shoulders. He'd wanted someone to cherish him, as a person. He thought about how Voldemort had killed seven people today— without magic!— to ensure that Harry stayed safe.

While Voldemort tore the clothes from his body, Harry absently wondered what was wrong with him that made him find the man's ruthlessness endearingly flattering.