The wind clawed at his robes and hissed through the broken stones, as though even the fortress itself feared what it held now. The sea thrashing far below like a creature gnawing at the cliffs.
Voldemort stood near the narrow window slit of the high tower cell, where the light hardly reached. The air tasted of salt and madness. The cell behind him was silent. The boy had stopped trembling hours ago.
He turned from the window.
Harry lay curled in the farthest corner, away from the door, away from the dark presence circling the lower levels. His lips quivered still – even in sleep – haunted not just by dreams but by the lingering breath of Dementors that had dared approach him. His face was unnaturally white, which made the livid red scar all the more clear.
Voldemort crouched near him, his red eyes studying the pale forehead.
The Dementors had not been allowed to perform the Kiss, of course. That would have been... wasteful. And dangerous. But he had permitted them proximity. Just enough to peel back the layers of resistance and let fear soak through. It had worked, to an extent. Harry had thrashed in his sleep, cried out for people long dead. The soul fragment had pulsed in response—agitated, alive.
He turned his gaze inward again. The experiments should have worked.
He had poured magic into the boy—peeled back the layers of thought. He had pulled at the tether that bound them, tried to sever it, tried to claim it. And still, nothing. The fragment clung to him like mold to stone, buried, tangled, resistant.
It should not resist him.
He could feel it when Harry dreamed—how it stirred. He could speak through it, on occasion; how he'd done to lure the boy to the Department of Mystifications. He'd planted that false vision with ease. He could draw Harry's mind near, call him into presence. But it was still not his. Not truly. Not yet.
Why? Why had this fragment—this piece of himself—latched so deeply into the boy? Why could he not extract it, reclaim it? Did the fragment consider Harry its anchor? Was his mind more than a vessel? Was it because the boy had grown around the soul-piece like flesh over shrapnel?
He had retrieved the ancient, forbidden books. Was in possession of Secrets of the Darkest Arts once again. Had searched through scripts forgotten even by the oldest wizards. And had studied possession, fragmentation, soul-binding. Harry should be pliable clay. And yet, every time he reached deeper—he was met with resistance. The soul rejected its master. Not completely, no—but enough to frustrate his efforts.
During his studies, he had come across it once — a fleeting, almost laughable mention of soul-mending through remorse, buried in a tome more concerned with philosophy than power.
Voldemort's slit-like nostrils flared. He would not entertain such sentimental rot.
He stood up again, and turned away. His gaze sharp, calculating.
If he could not remove the fragment, perhaps he could reshape it. Sharpen it. Give it purpose. He would not kill Harry Potter, and sacrifice his own piece of soul with him. Of course, he had other Horcruxes, and yes, he could make another. But why the waste? Why act so rashly, when there was a lot more of experimenting waiting to be done?
Azkaban had seemed like the logical solution. Isolate the boy. Starve him of hope. Let the Dementors unravel his mind while Voldemort watched for signs. Waited for a tear, a fracture, a moment when the fragment might separate under duress. But there had been no such moment. Only screaming.
"Keeping you here," he murmured, more to himself than to Harry, "comes with risk."
Death Eaters could be trusted to an extent—but none truly understood the value of what Harry carried. They would guard the boy's life without realizing they held his immortality in their hands. And some were too ambitious; too stupid; too eager to claim glory. Even here, high above the rest of the prison, there were vulnerabilities.
He could not leave him at Hogwarts anymore. He had been foolish to listen to Snape. Harry had shown renewed will and defiance. Plotting with his little friends and admirers… A walk, he had claimed desperately, when Voldemort had dragged him here through Apparation. Just a walk. Foolish. Childish.
He could bring Harry back to the manor. Keep him close. Hidden. He could continue his work undisturbed. However…
He looked at the boy again.
Here, Potter was small. Vulnerable. Surrounded by the shadows of all who had perished, all who had lost. Voldemort could feel it—the despair, the thinness of Harry's soul where the Dementors had pressed. It was strangely satisfying. He would not admit how much.
Still… It came with risks.
"Perhaps I will keep you with me," he said softly. "Move you when I choose. Pull you in when I need you… shut you away when I do not."
It was possible. The connection had grown stronger. With the right spells, with enough focus, he could bend the tether at will. Let Harry walk beside him—controlled—when the work required it. A shadow at his heel. And if the soul still refused to part… then Harry's body would serve a purpose, at least.
Voldemort turned toward the door.
He would keep him here for now, far above the sea, just out of reach of the Dementors' mouths. He would continue his work. He would learn to use him from within; he would push Harry to the brink and master his lost piece of soul at last.
… … ….
Voldemort traced his long, white finger over the spine of Secrets of the Darkest Arts, and rested on the name of the author: Owle Bullock. Reviewing its contents was inutile; he had long since committed them to memory—expanded them even, far beyond what Bullock had ever imagined.
Still, he must have been the first… The first to create a Horcrux, the first to wield this supreme art of magic. And if that were true... could Bullock still be alive?
He averted his gaze from the brittle tome, and stared in the fire. Owle Bullock. A relic from the shadows of magical history—eccentric, secretive, perhaps even mad—but if the rumours bore truth, the first to fracture his soul. He had dismissed the notion once, confident he alone had reached such unparalleled mastery. But there had been traces... whispers…
He would find him. If the ancient fool still clung to life in some half-rotted state, Voldemort would drag the knowledge from him. There had to be another way. A means of reclaiming what was his—without repentance. Without weakness.
In his contemplation he felt it. A ripple. A subtle sting through the tether that bound him to Harry Potter—sharp and dissonant.
Emotion. Not pain, not fear—but agitation. A flicker of urgency perhaps. Not from his surroundings, but from within. The boy was aware of something. Not fully, not clearly—but something had reached him. A shift.
Voldemort's red eyes narrowed.
He tilted his head slightly, feeling along the thread of connection like a spider testing the strands of its web. It pulsed again—restless. Not panic, but the beginning of it. Awareness.
Bullock could wait. Whatever stirred Harry's mind—whatever had agitated the boy enough for Voldemort to sense it across that cursed link—would be addressed. Personally.
He rose from his chair, and without a backwards glance, he forced his appearance through the air – away from the warmth of the fire – and materialized back in the cold, clammy entrance hall of Azkaban.
The adjacent corridor was exploded into chaos. A red-haired fool charged at the nearest Death Eater like a battering ram. The wand flew from his hand, bouncing down the stone hall. Another redhead tackled the other, fists swinging, taking a Stunner to the ribs, but not going down. From every cell, hands reached, fists pounded.
"Wands! Get the wands!" someone shouted.
A third redhead was already halfway out, using a shard of rusted chain as a weapon, swinging it hard across a stunned Death Eater's face. The werewolf he recognized as Lupin slipped through behind him, limping but alert, eyes flashing gold in the torchlight. The auror Shacklebolt caught the dropped wand midair and fired a non-verbal hex that knocked another robed figure back against the wall.
They did not see him, they hadn't noticed his presence in the hall with him.
"Get Molly and Arthur out!" a woman yelled, already diving to retrieve another wand.
More of his Death Eaters stormed into the corridor. Ten at least. Red light, green light. Screams, smoke, confusion.
A redheaded woman had her hands wrapped around the neck of one who dared try to stun her husband again. "You. Will. NOT. Touch. Him!"
The third redhead flung a jinx at the ceiling — stone cracked, dust clouded the narrow hallway. A figure lunged at him through the haze and got a punch in the jaw for the trouble.
"We're not leaving without Harry!" Lupin bellowed over the roar.
"We don't know where he is!"
"Then we FIND HIM!"
A Death Eater aimed a wand at a female auror – Bella's cousin – but the black auror threw himself in the way, absorbing the blow and retaliating with a brutal Stunning Spell that threw the attacker back five feet.
"This is our moment!" he roared. "They won't let us live anyway!"
Cracks were forming in the stone. The structure trembled. Alarms had been triggered, howling now through every level of Azkaban like wolves.
"Enough."
His voice was quiet, but it carried clearly through the tumult. Members of the fallen Order and his incompetent Death Eaters ceased their fighting. He looked at their frightened faces, smelled the stench of fear in the air.
And then he sensed despair. Not his own, but the desperation and hopelessness of the fools in front of him. The corridor and the hall grew colder; the air thickened with layers of frost. Black-hooded figures – their faces completely hidden – glided through the passage, their ragged breathing the only sound in the place.
He addressed the nearest dementor. "Anyone who does not find themselves back in their cells within the minute, is yours to Kiss."
He looked back at a few of the redheads. A malicious smile formed around his lipless mouth. With a flick of his wrist, wands soared through the air, and halted at his feet.
"You fought well," Voldemort said, not kindly. "But foolishly."
Then with another flick, he brought the order to their knees. Some of them started to scream, other merely started convulsing, but they all felt it: Voldemort's fury was undeniable.
He didn't cast the curse too long. He turned away from the miserable sight, and tuned out the panting breaths. Before him stood a few of his Death Eaters, all with bowed heads. He considered them.
"You let them break your defences," Voldemort said quietly, almost conversational. "You, who begged for the honour of guarding this place."
None dared to speak.
"You shall be dealt with later," he hissed silently. "You will resume your posting for now. I do not think I need you remind you how unwise it will be to disappoint Lord Voldemort again."
Before any of them could befoul the air with sniffing apologies and futile pleas, Voldemort turned around and ascended the stairs. For now, something else stirred in him. The boy.
The chaos below had been nothing. A momentary distraction, easily crushed under his will. But the rebellion that had ignited for a brief moment, was enough to reevaluate his decision again. Too many risks, too much potential for loss. He would not leave Harry's safety in the hands of these incompetent fools.
He moved slowly down the dark stone corridors, and approached Harry's cell. The door swung open with a slow creak. The boy was sitting upright, more alert than before, his eyes still clouded with exhaustion but sharp enough to see.
Voldemort's red gaze swept over him, and Harry flinched, backing away into the corner. But then his eyes narrowed, carrying a trace of his usual defiance into his green eyes.
"What happened?" asked Harry softly, voice hoarse. "Why did you—" He swallowed, eyes flicking to Voldemort's face before quickly looking away. "What's going on? What happened down there?"
He didn't answer. He took in Harry's pale face, the trembling beneath his words. For a moment, he considered how much he understood.
"They fought to reach you," he said finally, placing a few steps into Harry's cell.
The boy stared. He saw flashes of guilt – anger – fright – pass through his eyes. Of course, the boy would blame himself for this. He could read Harry's expressions like a book. Weakness. Then he spoke again, his voice smaller this time. "Are they… are they dead?"
"Not yet," Voldemort said flatly. "But you may wish they were." He took another controlled step.
"It seems Azkaban can no longer serve my purpose," he continued. "Not when it comes to you. You'll accompany me from now on."
"What…" breathed Harry, his gaze flickering to the doorway behind Voldemort. "Why? Were?"
It almost amused him, watching Harry's desperate search for a way out… His patience, however, had thinned considerably. The defiance was already becoming tiresome.
"You'll learn soon enough," he said sharply, allowing the weight of a threat to carry in his voice. "But for now, know this: I do not tolerate questions from you anymore."
Harry's posture stiffened. He looked back at him when he was advancing. They were close now – too close. He could see his own intensifying glare reflecting back at him through Harry's eyes.
"Get up," Voldemort commanded, his voice low. His gaze bored into Harry, compelling him to move, to obey.
The boy, still shaking with the remnants of fear and exhaustion, made no immediate move. Voldemort sensed, with approval, that Harry understood his hesitation would be a dangerous choice. Harry stared up at Voldemort, a look of silent rebellion flickering in his eyes.
"I'm not... I won't—"
Voldemort's little left patience vaporised entirely. With a sharp snap of his wand, he forced him on his feet. Harry didn't have time to react before he was yanked forward, dragged out of the cell with an unnatural force. His body jerked forward, stumbles echoing in the stone corridor.
"No more excuses, Harry," Voldemort said, his voice like ice. "You will rise when I command it. "You stand when I say. You move when I say. You breathe if I allow it."
Harry was too slow—too reluctant. His body protested, the weariness too much to bear—but that didn't matter. His grasp was vice-like, unyielding. And the boy found himself being hauled down the dark halls of Azkaban.
The cold walls felt closer now. The oppressive, damp air seemed to cling to him, the weight of Azkaban's aura suffocating him. As they descended further into the heart of the prison, Voldemort's grip tightened again, pulling Harry with more force, and he stumbled. The muffled sounds of his footsteps—his breathing, ragged and strained—echoed off the walls, like the last remnants of his resistance.
And when they reached the lower levels, where the cold seemed unbearable, Voldemort stopped. With a flick of his wand, the air shimmered, and in an instant, the two were gone—gone from the fortress that had once been Harry's prison.