Anomie

Chapter Fourteen: Convergence

Harry craned his neck to look up the dingy side of the apartment building, and in the space of a moment, he was awash with guilt - guilt about what he had done here and yet more guilt about forgetting. Now he was faced with bars set upon the small, vertically stacked windows where once there had been normal, happy homes, and he thought, I did this.

The blood pumping through his heart turned glacial as his initial horror was replaced with the clear, unbroken memory of the first time he had crossed the building's threshold.

He disarmed the wards, surprised that he remembered how to, and entered the building. His robes, drenched by rain, dripped onto the floor, and water streaked his glasses.

'What's this?' asked the man guarding the door. His eyes widened in shock and some fear as he realized who Harry was.

'I'm here to see him,' said Harry. He sounded perfectly calm, as if he weren't hearing spells and screams in his mind. As he walked up from the side door, Harry heard Ron and Hermione's feet striking the stairs behind him, their voices pelting his ears with urgent calls.

It was as though he were straddling two times. In one, the Auror, Rue, stopped by the door marked with a fading "7"; in the other, Ron threw open the door without hesitation and barked out a curse.

It was dizzying. He grabbed the doorframe and leaned against it for a moment to ground himself in the here and now. Rue asked if he was all right, or he thought she did, and he said, 'I'm fine. Let's go.'

His recollections of the hallway were not so fierce; Death Eaters with wands raised, shrieks muffled to silence by Dementors' mouths. He was moving much faster than he'd managed to then, when he'd fought for every inch of ground, so he managed to outpace the memories.

Until the door to room 7-3.

His hand landed on the knob. He held his legs steady as he walked in and swallowed his overpowering nausea. Despite trying to look anywhere else, Harry's eyes fixed immediately on the exact location of the worst decision of his life. He saw the stiff, bent fingers of the little corpse. There was a well-worn armchair there now.

Did he choose this room, or was it -

His thoughts on the question ceased. He wasn't sure he could even think of the name without becoming ill.

Two men were in the room; one sat in the armchair, and the other leaned against the wall. There was an atmosphere of waiting. Both heads shot up to face him.

'I'm here to see him,' Harry repeated. As long as that was all Harry needed to say, he hoped to keep his inner trembling to himself.

The man leaning against the wall nodded and thumbed at the bedroom door. They kept staring in his direction as he walked toward it. The door opened from the inside, and Harry's gut clenched in preparation for him.

Instead, out came a massive, muscular man slumped with exhaustion. His eyes caught Harry's, and his tired face broke out in a genuine smile that made Harry feel uncomfortable. It was one thing for one girl to be happy to see him, but from a group of people, it was far too reminiscent of the expectations laid on him before.

'Harry Potter,' the large man stated. He held out his hand. 'A pleasure to meet you.'

'This is Ajit,' said Rue. 'He's been looking after Voldemort.'

Harry's whole arm vibrated as the large man shook his hand even while his mind was disquieted by the ease with which she said his name. Rain pelted the windows.

'I'm here to see him.'

'I know,' replied Ajit. He stepped out of the way. Though the room he revealed was dark, Harry could make out a silhouette in the bed beneath a sheet.

When he stepped in the room and the door shut behind him, he stood by the entrance a while longer, not wanting to go nearer. He waited for a voice, but none came. Then he crept forward, wondering if being here counted if he wasn't heard. Harry just had to get close enough to confirm that he was really sick, and then he could send for a Healer, step back, and pretend ignorance.

A sheet covered the limp form up to his shoulders. Voldemort's chest rose and fell slowly as he took in shallow, reedy gasps of air. Surely that was enough to confirm that he needed help, but still Harry moved daringly closer.

He couldn't make out his face until he reached the foot of the bed. It was not the same face he remembered from the last day of the war - twisted by frustration, cursing him, demanding his magic be returned, swearing unspeakable revenges. This face was silent and still as the grave, and Harry was swept up in panic. He couldn't see Voldemort in that face; it was like a corpse. But he was still breathing, so he had to still be in there somewhere, didn't he?

Harry licked his lips and took a couple of shaking steps until he was standing beside the man who had ruined his life.

He sat down very gently on the side of the bed. 'Can you hear me?' he asked, his voice sounding too loud in the otherwise silent room. Before he thought the action through, he rubbed his hand on Voldemort's to wake him; the skin was cold and clammy, and he brought his hand back as if scalded.

Talking would, he hoped, make the situation less awkward, even though Voldemort seemed incapable of answering. 'How are you feeling? Well, that's a bloody stupid question, isn't it? You look like shit warmed over...no, just shit, you're not even warm.'

'I...I'm going to get help,' he added, and he stared at the face, willing it to make some response, even a blink.

Harry's hand fell on Voldemort's cold cheek of its own accord. 'You're really sick,' he said, his voice softer than before, and he applied just enough pressure to turn Voldemort's head to face him.

His lips were dry and cracked. Harry's eyes fell on a bowl of water on the nightstand with a cloth hanging out. Without really considering what he was doing, he picked up the cloth and dabbed Voldemort's lips with the wet corner.

Weak breaths grazed Harry's nails. He watched as the lips opened just a little more, allowing Harry to wet them more thoroughly, and he smiled. 'See, you're not dead yet,' he said, mostly to reassure himself.

He relaxed and lost his focus on his task, and it was then that he stilled, even as his fingers kept pressing the cloth onto the dry lips. Voldemort's eyes were open, and he was staring at Harry.

Harry barely breathed. He knew he should move his hand, yet something irrational made him freeze like a deer blinded by headlights.

He wasn't sure how long they sat like that, but Harry eventually, slowly, drew his hand (limp but for the force needed to hold the washcloth) away. There was something wrong about Voldemort's eyes when he looked closer; they were dry and bloodshot, and he was squinting as if he couldn't make Harry out properly.

'I'm going to get help,' Harry spoke in a barely audible whisper.

He wasn't sure if Voldemort could hear or understand him, but his whole body seemed to slacken, and his eyes fell shut again.

He put the washcloth back in place as soundlessly as he could and slid slowly off the bed. No emotions filtered through his shock-addled brain as he walked out of the room. The relatively bright light outside rendered Harry momentarily blind; thus Ajit's hand on his shoulder caught him by surprise and kick-started his brain again.

'Are you going to do something?' asked Ajit urgently.

'Yeah,' said Harry, deliberately trying not to think about his surreal encounter. 'Yeah, I'll get right on it. I'll have to talk to management.'

Ajit was grave as he said, 'I'm not sure if there's time.'

'There'll have to be,' Harry answered. 'I don't have the authority to bring in a Healer on my own.'

Thoughts of management threatened to tug Harry back into the past, so he fought back those memories too. Part of why he'd never even remotely considered seeing Voldemort before, aside from Voldemort himself, was the fear that he'd run into management, whose accusing, hateful gaze would make it impossible for Harry to not remember, just like this building did.

'Where can I find him?' asked Harry with pained resignation, realizing that the threat of Voldemort's death was far greater than that of a few deservedly awful recollections.

'You don't know?' asked Rue, voice rising in panic. 'None of us even know who management is!'

Harry was stunned. 'How can none of you know who management is?' How does this place run itself anymore?

'You know how our last manager died, of course,' said Ajit.

Complete silence followed. Harry's chest tightened; his breath came as a shuddering gasp. When he was able to speak again, he choked out, 'What?!'

Ajit was visibly concerned at how ill-informed Harry was, and Rue looked confused. 'Voldemort killed him,' Ajit replied slowly. 'He's not allowed to know who management is anymore, which means we're not, either, to make sure we can't let it slip.'

'But -' he sputtered, his mind working out what was being said, 'but if no one knows who management is, what is the point of management? What does management even do around here anymore?!'

He was flailing his arms, and he realized that he probably looked crazy, so he let them fall to his sides and waited for an answer. The guards looked at each other expectantly. Finally, Ajit provided, 'Well, we do send in requests, which are answered within a couple of weeks, and we receive edicts about how to spend the budget, but other than that...' Ajit shrugged.

It sounded insane to Harry, and he had to concentrate to prevent his jaw from hanging open. What sort of bloody prison was this? He'd never meant for it to be horrifically awful, but this was just plain disorganized. Hermione would have a fit if she knew. 'Right, well, I'll figure something out.'

He walked out the door without looking back, irrationally irritated by the lot of them. It was late, and Harry could feel tiredness creeping up on him, but he knew from what he'd seen that this couldn't wait until morning.

He would have to wake the Minister.

***

Crassus Haffley, the Minister for Magic, let out a loud, wide yawn. They were in the sitting room of his home; he wore a fluffy fuchsia dressing gown that barely came to his knees, and Harry wondered if he'd accidentally put on his wife's dressing gown instead of his own.

'Just tell me who management is and I'll take my case to him personally,' insisted Harry.

Haffley shook his head and struck Harry with as keen a look as he could produce at that time of night. 'Why are you taking such a sudden interest? It's been nearly nine years since von Rot's death and the naming of the new manager, and you never enquired after him before.'

He'd never met Haffley, but Harry knew from Hermione's description that he was a lot like Fudge, except savvier. He would play politics with Voldemort's life instead of doing the right thing, favouring the wait-and-see approach to avoid the risk that the news of Voldemort's illness would get loose in the Prophet.

Harry wasn't stupid; on the other hand, he wasn't sure how to get the information he needed from Haffley without making him suspicious. This was a game he hadn't played since school.

Casually, he said, 'I didn't know until now that von Rot was dead. It wasn't announced in the papers.'

Haffley twitched as he waved off his house-elf's offer of tea. 'You'd have kept it quiet, too, in my position. It was a horrific way to go.'

Harry nodded in understanding, pretending he knew what Haffley meant while privately wondering just how Voldemort had killed Torvald von Rot. 'But you must understand that it's critical for me to know who's in charge. I realize this may not seem like an emergency to you, but it is to me.'

Haffley sighed. 'Leave us,' he told his servant. The elf bowed and obliged him, instantly disappearing from sight.

'All right, Potter, I don't see the harm in it - and no one meant to keep you in the dark for so long, it's just that it never came up, you see. Now that you ask, I don't mind telling you that Voldemort's prison is run by Tristan von Rot - Torvald's son.'

The same crushing sensation collapsed Harry's chest as when he'd learned of von Rot's death, but this time his skin also prickled with the detection of something deliberately sinister. 'W-what? Tristan von Rot? That's impossible!'

Haffley sighed. 'I know that you and Torvald didn't get on, but his boy petitioned for the job, and under the circumstances -'

'That's impossible,' Harry repeated - because it was, and something was very wrong with this entire scenario. He felt around for a chair and, finding one, sank into it weakly, his knees shaking.

Haffley rumbled, 'Look here, it's nearly midnight! I don't need to explain my decision to you! I know he's not an Auror, but the job doesn't require hands-on work! Besides, giving the task to someone outside the Ministry helped keep his identity secret for so long - and no one else wanted it after what happened to Torvald!'

'It's impossible,' Harry whispered into his hands, unheard by the Minister. What was happening?

Harry stood up again, and without meeting the Minister's eyes, he said in monotone, 'Thank you, Minister. Sorry to take up your time.'

The Minister, clearly finding the whole line of questioning a waste, gladly showed him the door.

The rain had stopped. Harry didn't dare Apparate in his current state; he wandered down the lane past the lax Ministry security guards instead and watched his feet plop into large puddles.

After a few minutes of being shocked senseless, Harry's stomach lurched violently, and when he was out of view, he vomited onto the sidewalk.

Tristan von Rot, aged nine, had been dead for nearly ten years. Harry knew that for certain.

He was the one who'd murdered him.

***

The two guards in Voldemort's apartment were where Harry had left them. The Auror guarding the door was right behind him; Harry had dragged him up for a meeting.

'Where's the big guy - Ajit?' asked Harry.

'He's in the room,' said the Auror by the wall.

'Bring him here,' ordered Harry. After his complete breakdown by the Minister's home, he was finding it much easier to focus on what had to be done, as if he'd purged his negative emotions along with his dinner and drinks.

When everyone was gathered - except for Rue, who had left - Harry said, 'I'm taking over management of this place. If anyone doesn't like it, they can take it up with the old management - good luck with that.'

'You don't have the authority to do that!' blustered one of the Aurors.

The other rolled his eyes and clapped the dissenter on the back. 'Come on, it's Harry Potter.' He flashed Harry a grin. 'This is his thing.'

'So I take it none of you will object if I bring in a Healer?' Harry asked. No one said anything. 'Great. See you in a bit.'

'Thank you,' said a relieved Ajit to Harry's retreating back.

'No problem,' Harry called back.

***

Harry was exhausted and bored (because the alternative to being bored was thinking, and he still wasn't ready to process everything from that night). He slumped against the wall and kept his eyes closed as he waited for the Healer to do whatever he had to do. Ajit and one of the guards were in there with him. Another of the guards - the one who had disagreed with Harry taking the lead - was eyeing him carefully, but Harry wasn't going to oblige him by getting into a pissing contest at three in the morning.

Despite his resolution, Harry's tired mind finally gave way to his curiosity about what was going on here. He thought over what he'd learned about management; since he knew von Rot's only son was dead, someone had to be impersonating him to the Ministry.

Motive is key, Kingsley had once told him. All right, thought Harry, so who has the motive to weaken the prison management?

The answer was obvious: Voldemort himself. Most of the Death Eaters were dead or still in Azkaban, and none of the free ones had the incentive to bother. Voldemort had someone impersonating von Rot's son.

But if he had control of the prison, why hadn't he contacted management himself to get a Healer? Perhaps he couldn't contact management at the moment for some reason?

...And there Harry's energy for investigation ended. He could hardly believe that Voldemort still had the zest for intrigue; Harry had been burnt out of the business long ago. But it was typical of him, so he knew he shouldn't be surprised.

The Healer came into the room. Harry's eyes fell on Ajit's exhausted face - he nodded back, which Harry took as a good sign.

'I can hardly believe it, but he's got Tottergromit,' the doddering Healer told Harry slowly as he wiped his glasses. 'It rarely exists outside of the Caucasus, not human-transmittable...but I have no idea how he could have contracted it in the first place...' He rubbed his beard thoughtfully.

'You can treat it?' asked Harry urgently.

'Oh yes, yes, there's a potion,' he murmured. 'We have some collecting dust at St Mungo's. Three times a day for twenty-eight days. It's most effective if started at the new moon, but he doesn't have time to wait for that, so he'll need an extra week's dosage.'

Harry went with the Healer back to the hospital to pick up the potion supply and Apparated back. He trusted Ajit with the stash. 'I'll keep this in a safe place,' Ajit assured him. 'Thank you very much for all your help.'

He waved off the thanks. 'Don't thank me. This is my job now.' Again. 'Good luck.'

***

Harry Apparated home just as the rising sun was casting hues of orange and red across the sky. He wanted to collapse into bed from exhaustion, yet he was also unusually satisfied, as if his day had actually been worth something.

It had been so long since he'd felt that way that it was foreign and exciting, and it brought with it a rush of adrenaline that propelled him up the stairs with a skip in his step. He held his hands up to the light lining the hallway, remembering the sensation of having Voldemort's face against the tips of his fingers. What a strange night it had been.

When he stepped into the apartment, he was surprised to find the lights on.

'Harry?' said Ginny. She came at him from the kitchen; she was wearing her dressing gown, and there were dark circles under her eyes.

'Ginny?' he asked in turn. 'What are you doing up?'

'Where on earth were you all night?!' Ginny demanded, wiping tears from her eyes. 'I woke up around three, and you weren't here. Ron said he saw you leave the bar, but he didn't know where you were.'

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry you,' Harry answered, kicking off his shoes. 'It's a long story. I'll tell you later - I'm beat.' Truthfully, he hoped he could cook up a good excuse that didn't involve mentioning Lord Voldemort. They hadn't spoken of him often since they were married; his name only came up in their most heated arguments.

'So you're fine?' she asked - demanded, more like - with a hint of fury in her eyes. 'You worried me all night for nothing? You couldn't have popped by to say you were all right? What were you doing?!'

Harry sighed and rubbed his eyes. 'Ginny, I'm too tired for this right now. We can talk later.'

Not bothering to hide her seething anger, Ginny replied coldly, 'Ron says he wants to talk to you today.' She turned to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for herself. 'Have a good sleep. I certainly didn't.'

***

It had been a strange fever dream. Mostly he had nightmares about dying and woke up bathed in cold sweat, but this one had been different. His sickly mind had granted him the sight of the person he most wanted to see - Harry Potter.

He had so many questions. He was willing to swallow his pride, just this once, and beg for answers if he had to. Potter had stared at him, and before he'd dared to believe his eyes, his lids had fallen closed against his will. But the sight of him, who had all the missing pieces Voldemort so desperately desired, had fuelled his dimming spark of resistance against the dark of death.

He had struggled, long and hard, to wakefulness, feeding his determination with faith that Potter was waiting.

But all that greeted him when he woke was Ajit, there to coax another potion down his throat. He was so tired, but he didn't want to die, so he did his best to swallow it all. Then, forgetting to ask after Potter in his exhaustion, he closed his eyes again.

In the moments before Voldemort drifted into a restful sleep, he wished for that dream to return...