“What do you mean they cannot marry?!”
Mrs. Weasley's wail was still in Harry's ear when he arrived at Azkaban. He didn’t know why he came; he wasn't due back for another few days. But his fists just kept clenching.
He descended to the cell dug from the crust beneath the prison. He saw no one, not down this path where only one man was held.
Everyone had always said that Azkaban couldn't hold him. But after the Battle of Hogwarts they (recklessly, cruelly) started saying, “...but maybe Harry Potter can.” It was a life sentence for Harry, to contain Voldemort in Azkaban until one or the other died.
The cell, an arena for two, was enormous, but Voldemort had made it his own with what little magic was available to him.
And he was there. “My jailer,” the whisper-soft voice said, standing from his armchair. He curled his fingers, and Harry knew that he was testing to see if his magic had been returned to duel, but no magic spun. “This is not a planned visit.”
“It's not a visit at all!” Harry’s magic snapped and lashed the rock wall, shaking the delicate cavern ceiling above them. It was a promise of relief to come, and it felt good.
And of course, Voldemort could read Harry well. “What has happened, Harry? What has made you wince and crawl all this way to me?”
“Do you have any idea what you've done?!”
Voldemort eyed Harry's uncharacteristically shaky hand. “Tell me. What have I done?”
He made Harry his Horcrux, used Harry's blood to form his body, bound their souls to live and die together…
Miss Weasley and Mr. Potter cannot marry , the lawyer had said, because in every meaningful wizarding way, Mr Potter is already married .
Words from years ago spun in Harry’s mind: Lord Voldemort is my past, my present, and my future .
“You trapped me.”
Voldemort narrowed his eyes, wordlessly calling the kettle black. But then he gestured to Harry’s wand and said, “Then by all means, Harry. Free us.”
Harry tightened his grip. It would be so easy to curse him. He couldn’t even fight back now, not without his magic. But then he wondered, Mrs. Weasley’s cries in his ear, what about after?
Harry remembered Ginny's teary, accusing eyes. How she ran up to her old bedroom at the news. How wrong and embarrassed and guilty he felt.
Fights with Ginny were a lot of silence and then a lot of words, and Harry didn't get it. He understood blood and a dark room and running and hurting. With that, he was fluent. With that, he could express himself.
Maybe that’s why he came here.
He stared at Voldemort. Voldemort stared back, measuring Harry’s reactions.
Voldemort never cried. Never. And if he ever did, he would always be the bad one with no excuses, anyway.
Maybe…
Harry’s magic cracked the island open.
Azkaban can't contain them, anyway. Nothing can hold them.