If Paths Diverge

Chapter 29

Harry walked up the cobblestones towards where he knew the cage was located. It was raining, but that didn't bother him. His glasses had a permanent repelling charm on them and his robes came with the standard impervious spells woven in.

It was late, he didn't need his watch to tell him it was well past midnight. He had gone home after work today and continued to agonize over what to do about Voldemort. It had been two days since he'd spoken with Percy, since Hermione had suggested he visit, and two long days since Neville had warned him not to go.

He hated being told what to do.

Or, rather, what not to do.

He had two choices, as far as he could tell: wait until he could pressure Percy to grant him a private meeting with Voldemort, or simply fuck it all and go see him in Diagon himself.

His purposeful stride in the rain made it clear which one he had chosen.

He was done waiting.

And the Horcrux had been working. He remained clear-headed and himself while he was carrying it. He refused to put it back in his ear, though the hole had probably closed up anyways.

Voldemort will just have to re-pierce it when he puts it back on me.

No.

He was not here to rescue Voldemort.

He was here to see for himself what had been done to the man he loved.

He would not hide. He was not a coward. But neither would he let Voldemort persuade him that killing Ron had been necessary. Acceptable.

If Voldemort's condition was dire, he would commit to freeing him soon, but with a Vow on his magic in place this time and an understanding that their... involvement was over.

He loved Voldemort, but he could never forgive him.

He turned a corner, his mind settled and resolute—

And then his eyes fell upon the minuscule cage that the giant of a man was imprisoned in.

His legs trembled and simply refused to move any further.

Fuck.

There was a body curled up on the floor of the cage. Naked. A shining, vivid white in the darkness. It did not seem to be moving, but of course, it had to be.

Harry had not yet killed him.

And he knew he never could, which was why the Vow was so crucial to his plan. Voldemort could escape but not to a bloodbath.

His foot scraped against the stones, slowly bringing him closer to that broken body soaking in the rain.

He began to walk again, almost like he was Imperiused. His eyes were riveted on that body.

He was close now, maybe ten paces.

He stopped.

That lithe, elegant back was facing him, each vertebrae poking through the pale skin, which was slashed with angry red welts. Coloured bruises marred that perfect, hairless skin, some in the shape of fingers or hands, others larger and indicating that he had been struck with heavy objects. Repeatedly.

This was going to suck.

A mad desire to flee surged through him, but he fought it. He owed Voldemort at least the courtesy of witnessing what he was suffering for Harry.

Again. Someone he loved was suffering for him.

He bit his lip until he tasted blood and then jerked his foot forward to get the momentum again to take him all the way to that impossibly tiny cage.