The world around Harry lurched as the sensation of Apparition seized him. His stomach twisted painfully, and he gasped for breath as they were ripped from Azkaban. It was too disorienting: Bile found its way up his throat; his scar was searing with the familiar, intense pain.
Then, cold air hit his face the moment they landed. His knees buckled. He didn't know where they were, but the oppressive, rotten air was gone, leaving a strange stillness. A sense of foreboding replaced the feeling of guilt, twisting around in his gut like a knife.
He looked around. They seemed to be in a large, dark forest. Towering trees loomed above Harry, their ancient, skeletal branches clawing at the sky, shutting out what little light dared to filter through. The air hung heavy with damp leaves and something older, something acient.
It felt like the forest had forgotten the sun, as if the canopy hadn't let warmth through in years. And with each breath, Harry could taste the cold, earthy stillness — like graves that had never been disturbed. He didn't know where they were. Or why Voldemort had led him here. Only that this place was vast, grim, and far, far from help.
Carefully, he got off the ground and noticed Voldemort had let go of him. He stood at the edge of a hollow, mist hanging low across the tangled roots and crooked trees. Harry's legs trembled beneath him, and every breath he took rasped in his throat.
"Where are we?"
He looked at the back of Voldemort, who seemed to be in thought, examining the bark of a tree with his long, white fingers. He whispered something, then he took a few paces forward.
"Follow."
"I'm not going," Harry said. His voice was hoarse and cracked, but steady.
Voldemort didn't turn.
"You will."
"No."
That got his attention. Slowly, Voldemort turned to face him, his pale face expressionless but for the faintest curve of disdain at the edge of his lipless mouth.
"You believe you have a choice?" His voice was soft. "You are mistaken."
Harry clenched his fists. "I won't take another step unless you tell me what you're planning."
Voldemort studied him for a moment. Then, with a slow tilt of his head, he stepped forward with a calm, slightly terrifying stroll that brought him eye to eye with Harry in seconds.
"I see," he said quietly. "You think I need you… cooperative."
Harry didn't move, but his chest tightened.
"I do not," Voldemort whispered. "If you refuse to walk, I'll bind you and drag you. But know this, your friends will suffer for every act of defiance."
He leaned closer. "You have seen what I am capable of, have you not?"
Harry's heart pounded in his ears.
"One word from me," Voldemort said, "and they'll scream for you until their throats are raw. I wonder if they will beg for you, Harry, like you have done for me. Or curse your name for condemning them."
Harry remained silent, he didn't even breathe.
Voldemort straightened. "So... Follow."
He didn't turn around to see if Harry complied.
Harry's feet didn't move at first. His nails were biting into his palms. Anger and dread, mixed with guilt, swirled around his stomach. What he wouldn't give to aim a curse at that pale, hooded head; to scream every hex he knew until the forest shook and Voldemort finally saw that he wasn't broken. Not yet anyway. Not completely.
But he didn't have his wand. And he could not risk it for the sake of Ron, and Hermione, and everyone else. He didn't have a choice.
Finally, he took one step. Then another. Until he slowly picked up Voldemort's pace through the thick, dark forest.
Damp earth squelched under Harry's feet with every reluctant step. He didn't know how long they'd been walking; hours, certainly. Not one of them said a word.
Voldemort walked ahead of him, every movement deliberate. His black robes didn't snag on the branches or rustle against the brambles. It was as if the forest bent away from him. Harry, on the other hand, stumbled more than once, catching himself against trees and muttering under his breath.
"Where are we going?" Harry finally asked.
No answer.
"What are you planning?" he tried again, his voice hoarse from disuse. "Why bring me with you?"
Still nothing. Voldemort didn't so much as glance over his shoulder.
Dense woods closed in on either side of them: twisted trees with skeletal branches clawing at the grey sky. Every step felt muffled by the thick underbrush, the wet moss clinging to his shoes like fingers trying to drag him under.
The darkness wasn't just around him — it pressed in, thick as smoke, as if the trees themselves wanted to keep him in. Each distant snap of a twig made his heart jolt, but when he stopped to listen, there was nothing. Not even birds. The only sounds were the soft sweep of Voldemort's robes and the stumbling of Harry, trailing a little behind.
Harry's legs screamed with every step, and his breath misted in front of him in short bursts.
Voldemort hadn't told him where they were going — only that they were going far, and that he'd better keep up. He had mention a name – Owle – and Harry wondered if that was someone else Voldemort was about to murder…
The forest ground was uneven and slippery; full of hidden roots and cold, shallow puddles. Every misstep cost him. His body wasn't even close to being healed yet, and the icy despair that the dementors inflicted upon him, still lingered inside him. Harry was trying – truly.
But Voldemort did not wait. It was late when Harry finally couldn't go on. The stars had begun to pierce the canopy overhead, the cold air prickling his skin. His legs gave out, and he fell to his knees.
Without a word, Voldemort finally stopped. With a casual flick of his wand, a fire ignited between them, small and controlled, its flames dancing quietly.
"You will slow us down if you collapse," Voldemort said flatly.
"Well, you could just go on without me, then," Harry retorted, breathing hard. "I didn't ask to come."
He steadied himself on the ground and looked up. A moment passed.
Voldemort didn't react at first. Then, he turned slowly, his expression unreadable, and dragged his gaze over Harry. He took a few paces forwards, and Harry recoiled with each step. His eyes narrowed.
"Silence, Harry. Or would you prefer I make you?"
Harry didn't answer. He shuffled another few, involuntary steps backwards, out of Voldemort's reach, until his back collided with the tree behind him.
Voldemort stopped, just a few feet from where Harry was pressed to the tree.
"Would you prefer it if I put you back into your rightful place? Are you in need of a few marks to help you remember?"
Harry met Voldemort's gaze — the cold, unwavering stare. His heart pounded in his chest, but he kept his face still, refusing to blink, refusing to be the first to break.
Voldemort's red eyes narrowed, his expression unreadable, as if weighing something. Then, with a flicker of disdain, he turned away.
Harry's gaze didn't leave Voldemort when the latter walked away. Eventually – when Voldemort was far enough out of sight – he edged closer to the fire and sat beside it. He wrapped his arms tightly around his knees.
The silence stretched again.
The fire crackled quietly in the darkness, throwing long shadows that danced among the trees. Harry's eyes were fixed on the flames without really seeing them. The warmth did little to ease the cold pressing in on him from the inside. It was impossible to still his raging thoughts…
The Order. Were they alright? Were they even still alive? Hermione. Ron. Ginny. The others. He couldn't stop thinking about them. All trapped back at Hogwarts, living under Death Eater rule. Were they safe? That uncertainty gnawed at him more than hunger or exhaustion ever could.
He dug his fingers into his sleeves, trying to keep himself from trembling. Their faces flickered before his eyes as though he was watching a film. Ron's furrowed brow, Hermione's determined look when she was scared, but refusing to show it. How were they holding up? Were they looking for him? Did they even know he was still alive?
A movement caught his eye — Voldemort. He stood a little way off, barely visible from the shadows, just watching the fire... and occasionally, Harry. Not obviously: just flickers of attention; a glance here and there. Harry could feel it more than he could see it.
A few minutes passed. Harry supressed a flinch when Voldemort suddenly stepped forward: silent, almost casual. In one pale hand, he held something what looked like a piece of bread. Wordlessly, he crouched, placed it near the fire, and stood again. Their eyes didn't meet.
Harry didn't move nor speak. He stared at the bread as if it might vanish, like it was some kind of trick. Voldemort walked away again, disappearing into the shadows at the edge of the firelight.
For a moment, Harry sat motionless. Pride made him want to resist, but his aching stomach twisted sharply. He waited until he was sure Voldemort wasn't watching. Then, almost reluctantly, he reached out and picked it up from the ground. His hands were shaking slightly as he bit into it. It was dry, but edible, and Harry had to refrain himself from pushing the whole bread into his mouth.
Was this his life now? Wandering through forests with Voldemort, never knowing what the next day would bring?
Harry looked at the dark line of trees. He could no longer see Voldemort. Would he dare to make a run for it? Was Voldemort still lurking there, or was he far enough for Harry to silently sneak away? And then what? Harry still didn't know where they were, and Voldemort was still in possession of his wand… And then there were Hermione and Ron, and all the others, he just couldn't risk it…
He kept staring into the flames until his eyes stung, mind whirring with thoughts he couldn't quiet. He didn't hear Voldemort return until he was already behind him.
"You will sleep now," Voldemort said, his voice high and sharp, cutting through the haze of Harry's thoughts.
Harry turned slightly, but didn't reply.
Voldemort stepped closer. "I will not tolerate another day slowed by your weakness."
Harry supressed a snort, but did raise his eyebrows. Voldemort leaned in a fraction, enough that Harry could feel his breath against his face.
"If you test my patience again, I will stop caring whether you can walk at all. Sleep."
Harry clenched his jaw, his fists tightening in his lap.
Voldemort stood over him for another long moment, then turned without another word and vanished again into the trees, robes brushing softly over the earth.
The fire flickered and started to dim.
Harry laid down on the cold ground, curling slightly, and turned his back to the dying fire. He closed his eyes. Sleep did not come easily.
But he must have dozed off after all, because when Harry opened his eyes again, it was dawn. He was lying sideways, curled up with his knees still pressed against his chest. A faint light reached through the leaves.
He felt a little better, a little less exhausted, but his head was pounding with a dull ache and his scar was still throbbing painfully. His stomach was – again – clenching with hunger. Stiffly, Harry tried to sit up and looked around. Wondering if he was alone at last, he let his gaze sweep over the campsite — and landed, unfortunately, on Voldemort.
Voldemort leaned against the side of a rock just beyond the fire's ashes. The faint dawn light caught the edges of his cloak, making it ripple like smoke, though no wind stirred. His gaze was already fixed on Harry, as though he had been watching him long before he'd stirred.
"You look disappointed," he said, his voice soft. "Did you hope I had vanished?"
He rose slowly. "Alas. You are not rid of me just yet."
His eyes narrowed slightly as he took in Harry's shivering form. "Eat. Move." With a flick of his wand, he summoned the leftover bread from last night. It floated lazily toward Harry and hovered in front of him.
Voldemort didn't wait for Harry to take it. He was stroking his wand absentmindedly, staring ahead down the faintly lit path between the trees.
Harry turned toward the small stream behind the rocks. He didn't know if the water was clean, but he didn't care. Cupping his hands, he drank until his throat felt a little less raw, then splashed cold water onto his face.
When he turned back, the piece of bread was still floating there. Harry grabbed it. Voldemort had already left the rock, only the faint outline of his cloak visible ahead. Harry, realizing he had no choice, followed.
Their journey stretched on. Time seemed to blur. They Apparated only in short distances, as far as Harry could tell – Voldemort muttered about ancient protections, about places that couldn't be crossed all at once. They passed through moss-covered ruins, dead villages, deep ravines.
At times, the world felt like it was spinning. His head was pounding, his scar a constant, fiery ache that felt like it was eating him alive from the inside. The connection between them was worse than ever. Harry couldn't escape it, couldn't hide from it.
Each morning, if it could be called that beneath the thick leaves of the woods, Voldemort rose without a word. He simply started walking, and Harry followed. He didn't argue often. He slept little, ate less. Every step was a struggle, every movement slow and laborious.
Harry's thoughts were a constant churn, his head filled with images he couldn't silence: Hermione screaming. Ron fighting. The Order locked away, tortured, maybe already—
He stopped himself. Don't think about that.
But the worry kept gnawing at him, deeper each day. Most nights, sleep didn't come. The hard ground, the cold seeping through his bones, and Voldemort's presence made it nearly impossible. When sleep did come, it was riddled with blurred visions and half-formed nightmares. He'd wake shaking, breathless, unsure of what had been real.
His body was beginning to give in. The ache in his legs had become a constant throb, and his feet were blistered and raw. His breath came heavy even though the pace Voldemort kept wasn't fast. It was just relentless.
Still, Harry pushed forward, because there was no resting. Voldemort never tired. He moved like a ghost, gliding over the forest ground, unaffected by hunger or thirst.
Sometimes Voldemort disappeared ahead, melting between the trees like vapor. Other times, he lingered just a few paces ahead, his red eyes gleaming from under his hood. Harry could sense a growing anger through his scar, mixed with some sort of strange anticipation. Whatever or whomever Voldemort was looking for, they were probably getting closer…
In between the guilt and gnawing anxiety, flashes of curiosity surfaced. What – or who – was Voldemort looking for? It had to have something to do with the scar, their "connection"… Was Voldemort on the verge of finding out how to separate it? Would the pain finally stop then? Would that also be the moment Harry's heart beat its last...?
That night, the fire crackled between them. Harry sat with his knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them, the warmth doing little to touch the cold that had settled into his bones.
He didn't know what compelled him to ask. Maybe the silence had grown too heavy, or maybe the weight of uncertainty had finally pressed too hard on his chest.
"Are they still alive?"
The words were soft, but they broke the stillness. Voldemort didn't look up right away. He sat still, head bowed, as though listening to something only he could hear.
Then, slowly, he raised his eyes and met Harry's across the fire.
"Who?" he asked, though the ghost of a smirk touched his lips… He knew exactly who.
"The Order," Harry said, and his voice came out rough. "Ron. Hermione. Everyone at Hogwarts."
Voldemort studied him for a moment, as if trying to decide whether to answer at all. The firelight danced in his red eyes.
"Alive," he said at last. "For now."
Harry's hands clenched tighter around his knees.
"They've proven useful," Voldemort added, almost idly, "or at the very least... distracting. Worrying will not help them, Harry, but obedience might."
Harry didn't respond to that. He wasn't sure if he could trust Voldemort on this. He needed Harry to comply, so of course he would tell him that they were still alive. On the other hand, Voldemort would relish seeing Harry suffer about their deaths…
"Who's Owle?" Harry asked after a while, his voice cautious.
Voldemort looked at the fire. His eyes narrowed slightly.
"The one who came before," Voldemort finally said. "The one who knew the secret first."
"What first secret?"
"Don't push me, Harry," Voldemort said softly. "You would not like what I might do to you in return."
Harry stared at the flames, refusing to answer.
"He lived long before the Founders," Voldemort continued softly, after a while, almost to himself. "They say he vanished with knowledge no one should possess. Not even I."
Harry stared. "You're looking for him?"
"I'm going to find him," Voldemort said. "If he is alive, I'll make him speak. And if he's not… his magic will tell me what he knew."
"You really think he'll help you?" Harry asked before he could stop himself.
Voldemort's expression flickered. "He will not have a choice."
He stood then, the flames flickering in the folds his robes. It looked like he wanted to say something, but he turned around and disappeared into the darkness again.
Harry didn't know what to do with this new information. He curled up on his side and stared at the fire. What choice did he even have? He was strung around like a puppet, forced to obey to prevent getting hurt, or worse, his friends getting hurt. He was tired… Just so, so tired. He wasn't aware of falling asleep. His surroundings all disappeared into a dreamless sleep in what felt like the first time in many, many days.
The sky bruised pink when Dawn crept slowly into the forest. The light found his way through Harry's eyelids. He groaned as he pushed himself up. Every muscle protested. But, like every morning, he forced his legs to follow the dark cloaked man he hated so much.
They were walking in silence. The cold, barren landscape stretching endlessly before them. Harry's mind drifted to the others, making his chest tighten painfully… And then, he felt it. A subtle tug in his mind, a funny misty outline around his thoughts… Dark. Twisting his mind to something else…
Harry staggered, clenching his fists. Not again.
He fought back the wave, closing his eyes and summoning their faces. Ron's lopsided grin. Hermione's fierce determination. Sirius's laugh. Hagrid's clumsy warmth. The flood of memories filled him, and the pain in his scar receded.
He opened his eyes and found Voldemort staring at him.
"You are resisting," he said coldly.
Harry didn't answer.
"Stop it. Stop using them. They are weaknesses."
"They're what keep me sane," Harry shot back.
Voldemort's eyes narrowed. "You will stop," he snarled. "Or I will make you."
They stopped beneath a low-hanging thicket, its branches weaving overhead like spindly fingers. The fire in Harry's chest surged. He stepped back. His scar burned again, sharper this time, and his vision blurred. He flinched when the pressure was building.
His scar seared with a fresh wave of pain, and he nearly buckled. He couldn't take much more of this; he was going to collapse. But Harry did not back down. With all the strength he could muster, he pushed against Voldemort's thoughts. He thought of the one person whose memory hurt his thoughts as much as Voldemort's when he was forcing himself in Harry's mind – Sirius. His godfather's face, his barking laugh, the warmth of his presence, and the words of encouragement he'd given him. And then there was the memory of his friends – Ron, Hermione – the ones who had always stood by him, who had always cared for him.
The pressure in his mind wavered at last. Harry had experienced this before, but only faintly. The memories of the people he loved most helped against the Dementors, and apparently, they worked on Voldemort too. His mind surged with the images, and he focused on them, pushing outward, fiercely, as though trying to shield himself.
Voldemort's mind pushed against his, but the strength behind it had faded. For a moment, Harry almost believed he could win. He could keep Voldemort out. He could finally take control.
But then, with an almost sickening lurch, Voldemort gathered his strength again. Harry felt his mind tremble, the walls around him cracking. He could sense the fury, the rage… it was terrifying.
"Enough!" Voldemort's voice lashed out. His presence began to push harder, battering against the block. Harry held onto the memories, gritting his teeth as the pressure worsened, fighting not to scream out.
It was too much. Harry's breath hitched, and he could feel his mind cracking under the strain. For a brief moment, the wall faltered, and then it collapsed.
A sharp, excruciating stab of pain tore through Harry's mind, his head exploding with unbearable force. The floodgates opened, and all of Voldemort's rage, flooded Harry's thoughts with such force that Harry couldn't even scream. He was suffocating under it, drowning in the darkness.
And then, just as quickly as it had come, the pressure lifted, leaving Harry gasping, disoriented, his heart racing, his body trembling.
Voldemort stood before him, eyes gleaming with fury.
Before Harry could react, an excruciating pain exploded through his body. It was white-hot agony exploding through every nerve, like his very bones were splintering inward. He writhed against the ground, and a scream tore out of him before he even realized it. It ripped his throat raw, but he couldn't stop – couldn't breathe – couldn't think.
And then, finally, it stopped.
His vision swam; the pain lingering like a distant echo. Harry rolled on his stomach and got up in a kneeling position.
"It has been a while since you forced me to punish you, Harry," Voldemort said, the relish in his voice unmistakable.
Panting slightly, Harry narrowed his eyes at Voldemort, but didn't respond. He steadied himself before getting up.
"You're still fragile," Voldemort said quietly, almost thoughtfully. "I expected more by now. But perhaps this is all you are… A little, trembling boy with delusions of courage."
Harry still didn't answer. His hands curled into fists. He tasted something metallic in his mouth.
His heart pounded, part fury, part fear, part something else—something that clawed its way up from inside him like a scream that refused to be voiced. He wanted to hurt him. He wanted to see him crumble. Just once. His fingers twitched.
Do it. Just do it. Now.
But he didn't. His courage faltered under that red, pitiless gaze, but he couldn't stop himself from glancing back at Voldemort.
Still, something inside him snapped. He was done.
He didn't plan it. There was no strategy, no calculation. Just motion. One moment he was in front of Voldemort, the next he was running. He tore into the woods, stumbling at first, then sprinting. Branches lashed his face, thorns tore at his arms, but he didn't care. He had to get out. The rush of both fear and freedom pulsed in his veins.
Behind him, the forest was too quiet. Voldemort didn't call after him. He didn't shout. He didn't even laugh.
Harry ran harder.
He almost slipped through the mud, and every step felt like it might be his last. But he didn't stop. He couldn't. His body started to scream in protest, but Harry managed to speed up his pace. He didn't know where to run to, he knew it would not be lasting very soon.
Something shuffled in front of him, and Harry took a dive through the bush. Forcing a path through the leaves, he scrambled his way to the small stream. Harry expected Voldemort to materialize any second.
He slowed down a little, turning to see which side to take. His heart pounded loudly, his breath bursting out in short, ragged gasps. He caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, and sprinted again.
Following the stream, he jumped over a small rock formation and crashed hard into the underbrush. He almost wasn't able to pick himself up again. He dug himself deeper in the leaves before he heard it. Muffled footsteps. Harry pressed his hand against his mouth and remained still. A few twigs snapped. Harry braced himself. He screwed his eyes shut against his burning scar.
"I am aware you like to play hide-and-seek, Harry," whispered Voldemort's voice through the darkness. Silently, Harry pressed himself deeper against the ground.
"But I do not have patience for such silly games. Come out now, Harry, and I might even be lenient. Refuse…"
The footsteps grew louder. Voldemort must be right above him now. Harry knew running had been foolish; staying hidden was even worse. But it was too late now. He kept his eyes closed, suppressed a scream when another searing pain shot along his scar.
"Very well, Harry," hissed Voldemort. "I accept your challenge. You are going to regret this when I find you. Which will be very, very soon."
