CHAPTER 60
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Harry took a sip of his coffee, grimacing at the taste. Ever since Lucius Malfoy had doused him with Amortentia, he had been wary of drinking tea in public. He still did it, of course. He was a proper British bloke. But he only ever drank it if he had prepared it himself.
And never in the company of a Malfoy.
"When are the other two getting here?" Draco asked petulantly.
Harry put his cup down and glanced at his watch.
"They've still got six minutes, Draco. Chill. They have kids."
The blonde made a disparaging sound and cast his gaze back over the crowded cobblestones.
"You shouldn't have met me here, you know," Draco muttered. "I told you, it won't do your reputation any good."
Harry let his gaze roam over the crowded Diagon Alley streets, daring someone to take issue with his choice of company.
"Like I care about that," Harry murmured, then turned back to Draco. "Are they still bothering your family?"
Your remaining family.
Draco shrugged.
"It's not that bad. Thanks for clearing my name regarding... well. Thanks."
Harry winced.
"Christ, Draco, don't thank me for that."
Harry looked away, taking another unpleasant sip of coffee. His ever-present guilt began to pull him down, but Harry tried to resist its lure.
You're... a victim, too.
Maybe.
Maybe you weren't solely to blame.
"Anyway," Draco said, returning his attention to Harry, "before they get here, I wanted to quickly tell you something."
Harry nodded and put his cup down, mild trepidation warring with his guilt.
Draco looked down at his hands on the table, a frown line forming between his pale brows.
"Astoria left me."
Harry made a sound of surprise and reached out to place his hand over Draco's reflexively.
"Fuck— I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"
Draco's mouth curved valiantly up into what could have been a smile if his eyes weren't tired and strained. It lasted only a second and then crumpled. Draco shook his head.
"No. Maybe I would be, if she hadn't taken Scorp."
"No," Harry breathed, trying to imagine how Draco would feel about that.
The man's smile turned bitter.
"Yeah. She said that he wasn't safe with me." Draco snorted. "And I get it. I'm not exactly risk-free and with the Dark Lord out to get us—"
"He won't, I swear. I can make sure that he never touches your family again."
Draco blew out a laugh, rubbing his eyes.
"Sure sure. But that won't be enough for her. It probably shouldn't be enough for me, either. She says that I'm being selfish and naïve." Draco eyed Harry with dark amusement. "And she finally caught on that I'm not terribly interested in her feminine bits."
Harry snorted.
"Took her that long? Bloody blind, she is."
Draco chuckled, but then sobered fast, looking miserable.
"Well, she's gone and I can't blame her. But my son..." Draco dropped his face into the hand that Harry wasn't holding. "I can't believe that she's taken him away from me."
Draco's voice was broken. Harry wished that he could fix this for him, as it was his fault that everything had gone to shit for Draco.
"Can I do anything?" Harry whispered, but Draco made an immediate sound of refusal.
"She hates you, Harry. After Father, and what happened at our place... No way. She wouldn't be able to stand you interfering with this. But thanks."
Harry swallowed, his throat raw and sore.
Your fault.
He didn't know what to say, so he just sat with Draco, hating himself.
"Do me a favour?" Draco asked, dropping his hand from his face and meeting Harry's gaze again. "Don't tell Weasel yet, okay? I don't need him taking the piss out of me for it."
"I'm sure he wouldn't..."
They looked at each other in silence and then Harry nodded, accepting defeat.
"I won't. I'm really s—"
"What's he doing here?" Ron asked, suddenly at their table.
Harry pulled back his hand, letting go of Draco's, and sat up properly in his chair.
"It's fine, Harry," Hermione said, shoving Ron towards their table. "We don't mind. Sit, Ron."
The Weasleys ordered some snacks with their drinks, but Draco and Harry didn't. Draco, because he always refused to eat anything made by minimum wage workers, and Harry because Voldemort had been sending him regular care packages at every meal while he'd been gone, so he actually wasn't hungry.
It was both charming and annoying as fuck.
Harry had refused the first one because it hadn't felt enough like it was Voldemort commanding him to eat, which was what Harry wanted. But when the next one came at lunch, he'd felt like if he didn't eat it, then he'd be letting Voldemort down, and he didn't want that. Voldemort was taking care of him as best he could at a distance, so Harry decided to begrudgingly accept it.
Once they were all settled and had exchanged tense pleasantries, Harry put his cup down and faced them with resolution.
"I don't want to be Minister anymore."
All three of them stared at him in shocked silence.
You're disappointing them. They need you to save them, they—
"I hate it," Harry pushed on, his fingers tightening on the handle of his cup, terrified of how they were going to react. "I know that I just got the promotion and I'm supposed to—"
"It's a shite job," Draco muttered, clapping Harry on his left shoulder. "Glad to hear you'll be rid of it."
Harry turned quickly to glance at Hermione. Her expression was carefully pleased.
"That's great, Harry. If that's what you want, then we support you."
She's lying. She hates you, she's disappointed.
"I... I really just hate the job," Harry explained in a strained voice, his throat closing up. "It's awful. It puts me in situations that I..."
Stop complaining. It's your responsibility. So what if you hate it? So what if it's killing you?
"What do you want to do instead?" Ron asked, taking a bite from one of his scones. "An Auror again?"
Harry shook his head slowly, afraid.
Retire.
"I don't know yet," he said. "Probably not an Auror, though."
"Another Ministry position?" Hermione asked hopefully.
Harry felt a hot swoop of shame in his belly.
You're letting them all down. Just like always.
"Maybe. I don't know."
But he knew he didn't want to be an Auror again. Voldemort was right. Those jobs were destroying him.
"Who cares," Draco remarked, sitting back and glaring at Ron. "Hasn't he done enough?"
You have done enough.
Merlin, he couldn't escape that phrase. Voldemort's words continued to haunt him. They were what had led to today's meeting with his friends, too. Maybe... maybe it could be true.
"You should go for Quidditch, Harry," Draco suggested, sounding keen. "You were never good enough to best me, of course, but you weren't too shabby. I reckon you could make a decent go of it."
"That would actually be brilliant," Ron agreed, a smile finally gracing his face. "Ginny might be able to get you a tryout."
Draco laughed.
"Like Harry Potter needs a tryout, Weasel."
Harry allowed himself to fill his lungs, tentatively relaxing.
He returned his gaze to Hermione.
She cast a privacy charm and Ron and Draco stopped bickering.
"What about Voldemort?" she asked.
The other men flinched. Harry slid his hand into his lap and gripped his robes discreetly.
"What about him?"
He tried not to wither under her stern gaze.
"What does he think of this? What are his plans for you?"
His plans for you.
As if Harry was just a puppet.
"He knows that I hate being Minister."
"And he's just fine with you quitting? I'd have thought he'd want to control the Ministry through you."
Harry gritted his teeth.
"He wants what's best for me, Hermione."
Ron scoffed.
"Right. You-Know-Who's a paragon of benevolence, I'm sure."
Harry felt furious indignation ignite within him.
"Actually, he is. He cares about me. He—"
"But where does he want you to work now?" Hermione cut in impatiently. "Surely he has a plan."
And Voldemort did, apparently. Harry just didn't know what it was yet.
Tomorrow.
"It's my choice. Look—" Harry took a deep breath, allowing himself to try to feel his anger. "I'm only telling you this because you would worry if I didn't. I'm not asking for permission. I'm also not inviting you to comment on my personal life."
"It's not just personal when he can wipe out our whole world!" Ron interjected.
Harry growled with impatience.
"So what? He's had his magic for almost two weeks and nothing's happened. Mind your own business."
"Harry, we're all keeping this secret for you—"
"And that's great. Thanks. But if you can't handle it or you don't want to anymore, tell me. I'll deal with the fallout. I'm not going to let you blackmail me."
"Harry!"
"Woah, mate."
Draco snorted.
"Hey, don't douse us all with the same potion," Draco said airily. "I don't care what you do."
"Of course, you don't Malfoy," Ron said scathingly. "You don't care about him, but we—"
"It's not that I don't care, imbecile. I just trust him to manage his own shit."
"It's not about trust!"
"Enough!" Harry shouted, banging his only fist down onto the table and making their cups rattle.
Hermione gasped and Ron flung out a hand to block the hot liquid from spilling onto her lap. Draco met his gaze with amusement.
Harry used magic to clean the mess. He wanted to apologise for his outburst, but knew that Voldemort would want him to own it. Be unashamed. Direct.
He took a deep breath.
"I'm quitting," he said. "This week. After that, I don't know what I'm doing, but if you want to be updated or keep your place in my life, this has got to stop."
Draco was nodding. Hermione was biting her lip.
"We're concerned," she told him quietly.
"I don't want your concern. I don't need it."
"Yeah, but what will you do now?" Ron asked, sounding skeptical and confused. "You need a job."
Harry closed his eyes.
"I..."
Do it.
Come on. You can say it. He'll be so proud.
Harry clenched his fingers and opened his eyes to meet Hermione's level stare.
"I've done enough."
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Voldemort stood on the mouldering remains of Whitby Abbey in Yorkshire, the wind crashing against him, trying to push him off. A futile endeavour, as Lord Voldemort never yielded to pressure.
He was perched in the vacant cavity of the highest, principle window, far above the grassy field below. It was dusk and the sun was setting behind him as he looked out over the North Sea.
His destination was just beyond one hundred kilometres away, thus his current elevated vantage point would likely negate the Earth's curvature and allow him to see land.
This undertaking was colossal.
It was a magical feat that he had never before performed, had never prepared for, yet what was any obstacle against the omnipotence of Lord Voldemort?
When he succeeded, he could have it all— Harry as his partner, either ruling with him or in retirement and merely existing as the man saw fit, an undisputed nation to command, the opportunity to build back up his following if he so desired, and space to create something to his own exacting standards.
He would get it right this time, and the only person who could stop him would be standing at his side.
It was perfect.
Voldemort drew out his wand and cast the comprehensive wards that would conceal the result of his impressive endeavour. It would take immense strength to both hold the powerful wards active while simultaneously completing the mammoth task.
But he was Lord Voldemort.
For him, it would be effortless.
Elated, and surging with confidence, he raised his wand and pointed it into the sea. Using all of his prodigious power and dexterity, he slowly began to call forth the ancient land.
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When he awoke, it was dark.
He was also laying in the grass at the base of the Abbey.
Confused, he sat up, attempting to scan the area, but his skull immediately felt packed with a swirling potion, his stomach writhing like worms.
I am going to be sick.
Reflexively, he curled over his knees and, for the first time in decades, voided his stomach.
There was not much to eject, thus it was over fast, but it left him feeling shaky and weak. Which was not a condition he preferred to endure.
He cast as many healing spells upon himself as he could manage, yet the heavy exhaustion did not abate. His limbs were leaden and his head throbbed viciously.
What had gone wrong?
He cast through his memories and the last moment that he could recall, was witnessing vast, tumultuous whirlpools stirring the thrashing sea as it rose.
Did I succeed?
He sat up, his vision at once going black, his headache spiking, but he fought it. Lord Voldemort would not be vanquished by his physiology.
When he looked out over the North Sea, he could see nothing. A momentary thread of doubt formed in his mind, but he dismissed it.
Height. You require height.
Could he fly in this condition?
He would have to. Closing his eyes, he focused his immense power on lifting himself into the air, far above where the Abbey rested.
And there it was.
Voldemort felt a small smile spread across his face.
This is why they fear you.
Without pausing to savour his triumph, he Apparated back home.
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Harry pushed open the door of Grimmauld Place, his anxiety coming with him.
Still nothing.
He slumped inside, shrugging out of his robes and exhaling a long, defeated breath. It was sometime after three in the morning, yet he wasn't tired. Even though he hadn't slept since the first night that Voldemort had failed to come home.
Two days ago.
Harry hadn't gone to work since then. He'd told his staff that he was ill, which wasn't far from the truth.
Wherever Voldemort was, he was hurt and using Harry's strength to heal.
And Harry had no idea where he was.
Or how badly he was hurt.
If he was trapped and unable to return.
Harry knew nothing, and the spaces filled in by his terrified imagination were making everything infinitely worse. He could picture Voldemort being imprisoned at someone's house and tortured, or being hurt in the execution of his plan and without the means to contact Harry.
Anything at all could be wrong. Harry was familiar with how the rune's activation felt and so he knew that Voldemort was injured.
Injured, and alone.
"Fuck," Harry breathed, stumbling down the stairs to the kitchen to grab a drink.
His Voldemort-arranged meals had stopped, too. His last one had been dinner on the night that the Dark Lord had been meant to come home.
Instead, at around sundown that day, Harry had felt his heart rate accelerate randomly. He'd been sitting by his hearth, trying to act relaxed and patient for when Voldemort would finally walk through that door— and then adrenaline had suddenly surged through him along with an acute, irrational sense of panic.
Something had gone wrong, and Harry knew at once that Voldemort was in trouble.
Sighing, he turned on the tap and filled up a glass, his crushing guilt immediately descending upon him.
Voldemort could be dying in a ditch somewhere and you're getting yourself a nice drink of water in your comfortable, safe home.
He paused. Dumped out the cup, untouched.
"Harry."
Spinning, Harry saw Lord Voldemort standing at the top of the kitchen stairs.
"Voldemort," he whispered, staggering towards him blindly and keeping his eyes locked onto that treasured form.
When he reached him, he buried his face in the Dark Lord's robes, inhaling his calming, invigorating scent.
"Tell me what has happened," Voldemort commanded, sounding concerned.
Harry pulled back, meeting his intense gaze with confusion. How did he not know?
"You were gone," Harry explained brokenly. "I thought that you were dead."
Voldemort tilted his head, the frown on his face deepening. The man clearly had no idea why Harry was upset.
"What happened to you?" Harry demanded.
The Dark Lord took several seconds to respond.
"I informed you that I would need two days."
"Yeah. And it's been four."
Voldemort's eyes widened for a moment.
He didn't know.
"What happened, Voldemort," Harry asked again, grabbing one of his hands.
Harry could tell that the man was doing some careful thinking.
"I woke up moments ago," Voldemort said slowly. "I had assumed that my unconsciousness had been momentary."
"Unconsciousness? Jesus— tell me what happened! What were you doing?"
Those red eyes met his, suddenly alive with excitement.
"Allow me to show you."
Harry paused. The man had been hurt. He shouldn't be Apparating about. But Harry was very curious as to what was going on.
He nodded.
Voldemort smiled eagerly, then the abrupt yank on Harry's navel took them both away.
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They landed in mud.
Harry kept to his feet, thankfully, but it was a close thing. He looked around, trying to figure out where they were. There was vegetation, but it was slimy and wilted. No trees. No buildings.
"Where are we?" Harry asked, recognising nothing in the barren, sodden land.
"Home, Harry."
Harry looked up at him, confused. Voldemort's expression was wild. Triumphant. Pompously proud of himself.
Harry couldn't help the smile that came over his own face at that. He loved a cocky Voldemort.
"Is this where you got hurt?" Harry asked, dropping the Dark Lord's hand and walking away to take in the bizarre landscape.
"I was not hurt," Voldemort said with irritation. "But yes, this is what I have been working on."
Something silvery caught his eye. He moved closer with care, because the mud was very thick and soft, and he saw that it was a dead fish.
Strange.
"Okay... So what is this?" he asked, feeling a tad nervous about the answer for some reason.
Everything just looked so... unnatural.
"Our new home."
Harry turned quickly to catch the man's expression.
"What?"
Voldemort was smiling.
"It is the Dogger Bank. Have you heard of it?"
Harry shook his head.
"It is a landform just off the coast of England that has been—"
"Hold up— is that a submarine?"
Harry's gaze had shifted to behind Voldemort's back and he saw a huge, deteriorated metal cylinder that looked an awful lot like a bloody underwater boat.
Voldemort glanced behind himself briefly and hummed.
"So it would seem."
Harry stared at him in amazement.
"Why. Why is there a submarine on land like that?"
"Because, Harry, up until... what I now understand to be two days ago, this whole landform was underwater."
His brain tried to understand that.
Underwater.
Two days ago.
Voldemort had... pulled up this island.
"Bollocks," Harry stated baldly, because that was fucking impossible, even for the Dark Lord.
Voldemort's smile grew.
"As I was explaining, it is called the Dogger Bank. It used to be above water, but was flooded during the last glacial period."
Glacial period.
What the fuck was he even saying?
"But now... it's not," Harry remarked blankly, trying to wrap his mind around what the fuck he was hearing. "Because...?"
"Because I lifted it."
Harry stared.
He lifted it.
No big deal. He just fucking lifted an island by himself. Totally fine. Absolutely not alarming at all.
"Do you finally fear me, Harry?" Voldemort asked in a voice of Dark amusement that brought goosebumps to Harry's skin.
With immense effort, he focused on the Dark Lord again.
"You lifted this island."
Voldemort nodded slowly.
"And it's been underwater for billions of years," Harry stated, like this was something that he could understand.
Something reasonable.
"More like twenty thousand," Voldemort corrected.
"Right. And then you lifted it up. With magic."
Voldemort hummed lowly in assent.
"Merlin," Harry breathed, and he sat down in the tacky mud.
Voldemort had just changed the sodding world.
They'll have to make new maps now because Lord fucking Voldemort just brought an island back from the dead.
"Wizard maps, perhaps," Voldemort mused. "Muggles cannot see this."
"What? Why?"
"Wards, Harry. Very strong ones."
Harry thought about that.
"You're creating your own nation," Harry whispered, half in awe, half terrified.
"We are," Voldemort amended, his gaze blazing with fire.
This is what he's been planning. He's going to make his own country.
He's going to rule again.
"With you," Voldemort said with emphasis. "Together."
Harry nodded, but he had no idea why.
They were going to rule together. Sure. Him and Voldemort, Dark Lords.
Voldemort made a scoffing sound.
"I hardly think anyone would deem you thus, Harry."
"You can't," he rasped, suddenly realising the immense danger of this. "You can't start another war."
All amusement flew from that serpentine face.
"It is not a weapon that I have built, but a home for us."
"A home?" Harry asked in a small voice.
"Yes, Harry. I plan to make this land one where magic will rule. We will be able to live as we desire, never hiding from the Muggles. Our laws will be our own. Our conduct. We can invite basilisks and dragons and any magical creature that we wish to flourish here with us."
Safety.
It sounded like safety.
"If it isn't meant to start a war... then why not let others come?"
"Others." Voldemort's enthusiasm vanished at once. "The Malfoy heir?"
Harry shrugged.
"Anyone who wants to come. He probably won't, but... safety from Muggles might appeal to a lot of people. Being able to live with magic, unafraid of being caught by the Ministry for outing our world... That... well, that sounds great. I'm sure a lot of people would like it."
Voldemort looked upset.
"My interest is not in a lot of people, Harry."
"Maybe not. But you do like to boss people around."
Voldemort was studying him intently.
"You wish for me to create a government? Have citizens and a hierarchy."
Harry shook his head.
"I have no idea. I'm just asking. This is a lot to take in and I'm just trying to understand."
To be honest, it sounded... interesting.
Voldemort pulled an island from the sea.
Harry released a thin laugh, feeling a little overwhelmed. His immense exhaustion began to descend on him again.
Voldemort was safe, he was here. Although this new revelation was startling, it wasn't immediate.
"You were correct to call it safety, Harry," Voldemort went on. "That is what I can offer you. I was thinking that you can take one of two positions here. What I would prefer is for you to rule with me. I want you standing at my side publicly, as Harry Potter."
Publicly.
That sounds a lot like what I do now. It would just be under a different banner.
"The second option," Voldemort said, "is for you to retire from responsibility. If you chose this path, we would have Harry Potter die."
Even knowing that it was unlikely, a stab of fear lanced through him at those words.
Lord Voldemort wants you dead.
"Come now," Voldemort chastised lightly, a hint of amusement in his tone. "You cannot possibly believe that I still wish you harm. You are my purpose, Harry. It is for you that I have lifted this landmass."
"Then what did you mean?"
Voldemort tilted his head.
"I have been considering the possibility that we could falsify your death. Your admirers will hunt you anywhere, relentlessly, unless you allow me to deal with them—"
"No."
"— or, Harry, we pretend that you have died. Your responsibility dies with you, and you can live on with another identity of your choosing. A new name. A new past."
Harry Potter— dead.
"It's... It's not just about me, though," Harry said, rubbing his eyes. "It's what I stand for. What they think I mean. I'm... hope, for a lot of people. If I die, that will be like the death of protection and security. Of the good guys."
Voldemort inclined this head.
"Perhaps if you were murdered. Yet if you die naturally, that would not merit martyrdom nor doom."
Harry thought about that, his head throbbing with pain, his eyes sore and tired.
"Can we," Harry said with a sigh, closing his eyes. "Can we please table this until tomorrow?"
He opened his eyes and levelled a tired stare at the Dark Lord.
"I haven't slept since you failed to return home. I've been worried sick."
Voldemort stepped right up against him, tilting Harry's head back with a finger on his chin. They stared at each other and Harry took in the man's unshakable expression.
"You require your Master to take you to bed, boy?"
Harry leaned heavily against him.
"Please," he whispered, and he felt Voldemort take his weight.
"Your wish is my command," the Dark Lord commented, then lifted him into his arms, carrying him up the stairs and into his room.
