If Paths Diverge

Chapter 40

It had been almost two days and they had not yet come to liberate the boy.

This fact perplexed him but was also disconcerting. Voldemort had assumed that Harry had been intended as a hostage who would be released upon Voldemort's recapture. He had obviously not meant to get caught himself, but now that he had, it was baffling that the Ministry would elect to ignore the boy's condition.

Unless they had nefarious plans for him too.

Perhaps they sought to punish Harry for daring to desire men. Or they wanted vigilante justice regarding the charges put against him for his alliance with Lord Voldemort. Though that was unlikely, as Voldemort had not been aware— through Jeffers nor any of his other spies at the Ministry— that there had been any lingering suspicions about the boy.

It was even possible that one of his Death Eaters had broken their Vow not to speak about Voldemort's announcement and had told the Ministry about their connection, revealing Harry to be a traitor.

He would slaughter that person when he broke free, if that was the case.

The senseless herds of wizarding Britain would want blood if Harry's true nature had been discovered. They would despise their hero, and what was a more appropriate audience for their hatred than the man who had corrupted him?

Harry was in danger here, certainly more so than he himself. They had already brought Voldemort low, made him suffer for his crimes, but Harry was still unsullied.

And terrifyingly mortal.

He glanced behind himself to regard the unconscious boy.

Voldemort's arms had grown numb and sore after hours of holding him, so he had been forced to reluctantly place Harry against the back corner of the cell. He now crouched in front of him, shielding him with his body.

Pointless.

When they came, without access to his magic, they would take Harry easily no matter how he fought. Yet fight he would. Because it was clear that Voldemort was not their only target. Or even, perhaps, their primary one.

He absently stroked a finger down the boy's cheek, encountering a line of dried blood as he did so. It was difficult to see Harry so vulnerable. He did not know what they had given him to keep him asleep. His vitals seemed stable, despite the various wounds and bruises marring his perfect skin, but he had not stirred in all this time.

Perhaps they meant for him to simply starve to death while Voldemort watched helplessly. Powerlessly. Uselessly.

He shivered, his mind at once supplying him with images of what they could do to Harry, and he struggled to fight them, to push them back. He could feel the despair that was woven into the stones of this cell relentlessly wrapping around him, dragging him down, enticing him to give up, but he had someone to protect now. For Harry, he had to stay coherent. He could not succumb to the madness of the Purgatory Chambers because once he did, all would be lost.

The door suddenly opened and Voldemort— unthinkingly, incomprehensibly— took the offensive, running forward and smashing his fist into one of the men that had entered. The body fell, but then more followed, two shoving him against the wall, away from Harry, leaving the boy wide open and undefended.

He shouted something, trying to bite, but there were too many of them crowding the cell, all touching him and grabbing him— like Grayson, like Walker, thrusting their tongues in his nostrils, peeling off layers of his skin— restraining his arms and hands and laughing, mocking everything from his actions to his inability to protect Harry—

Harry.

He tried to stretch over their heads to see what had become of the boy, but there were too many of them and they had dragged him down the wall several inches. He shrieked words, but even he did not know what they were and no one heeded them anyways.