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Here comes a tornado of Voldemort's charming manipulation for Harry! I doubt Harry can help getting whisked into it. Of course, there is also Daphne Greengrass who will be out for his blood.
Harry lay in his bed, replaying the strange events and Daphne's declaration in his mind.
He scoffed quietly. What made Daphne think he was willing to fight with her over Lord Voldemort? What made her think he was willing to comply with her demands?
In the garden, he had been in such a state of surprise that he wasn't thinking clearly. He had been a fool to even consider he might have been capable of fooling Lord Voldemort. The Dark Lord would notice immediately if Harry feigned ineptitude. It was inevitable.
Furthermore, even if everything did turn out successful, who was there to guarantee that Harry and his friends would not be killed?
He turned over onto his side. No, this would not do. As much as he wanted to get away from Voldemort, he could not do it in this way; he would not be used as a chess piece by Daphne Greengrass out of all people.
With a strategy hatched to fail, Harry had no doubt Voldemort would be furious when he found out. And Harry had no desire to be at the centre of his wrath.
He didn't care what Daphne thought of his decision. She might feel that Harry was afraid of her; he identified her misconception through her body language: the arrogant tone, the raised chin, the wand which she twirled calmly in front of Harry's throat – but he truly wasn't. He wasn't daunted by her in the least. Unsettled, perhaps, by her declaration of him as a threat, but he wasn't scared of her.
The only reason he had even considered her proposal of feigning incompetence was so he could be free of Voldemort once and for all, but it was now evident that the only person to reap the gain was Daphne Greengrass. Harry's anger flared at the thought.
Daphne's conceit and greed were astonishing. Did she really think Harry as senseless and spineless as to act in accordance to her every wish? If so, she was delusional.
Abruptly, his bedroom door opened with a soft click, and the silhouette of a person crept soundlessly across the room to his bed. Harry quieted his breathing. The curtains were lifted up. The invader leapt back in shock at Harry's alert, wide-open eyes. "Harry!"
"Daphne… What are you doing?" Harry was almost equally surprised.
"I thought you were asleep," said Daphne icily. "Seems like I misjudged."
"I said, what are you doing here?" Harry repeated, stonily. "Especially when I'm presumed to be sleeping?"
"No matter," Daphne said dismissively. "Have you made up your mind?"
Harry glared daggers at her. "I'm not going to do it."
"I beg your pardon?" Daphne looked infuriated. "How dare you, you little cheat?"
"I never promised anything," he said, simply.
"Potter!" Daphne seethed. "I'm warning you –"
"I've made up my mind and you will not change it."
"This is your only way out. You said you wanted to get away from the Dark Lord."
"I do," Harry sneered. "Just not as your dead pawn."
"Listen up, Potter, I won't let you mess things up for me. You're going to do it whether you like it or not."
"Oh?" Harry said, in an innocent tone. "And how are you going to do that?"
"I have my own conspiracies," she said pleasantly. "If you don't watch out, you may just find yourself in the middle of one."
"Your threats are empty," Harry deadpanned. "While mine are not."
"And what may they be?" Daphne inquired mockingly.
Harry leaned back casually in his bed, and folded his arms. "If you do not drop this subject and leave my room, you may just find Voldemort hearing of this." It was a lie; there was no way he would ever run to Voldemort for help but then again, Daphne didn't have to know that.
"You will tell the Dark Lord?" she said.
"Perhaps."
"Then, perhaps, I made a wise decision to come tonight," Daphne said. The next second, her wand was in her grasp and Harry was bound tightly to his bed by a well-aimed spell. "Do I seem like the impulsive type of person to you? I do not leave behind evidence that can get me in trouble."
Struggling to free himself, Harry lashed out to no avail. He had not expected anything remotely similar to this to happen.
"Save your strength," Daphne said softly. "I've warded the room. No one can hear you if you scream."
"What are you going to do?" he spat defiantly.
"I owe you some explaining, Harry. Have you heard of Legilimency?" Daphne said, looking at Harry, who remained stubbornly silent. "I'll take that as a no. Legilimency is a rare skill, an art, which allows talented witches and wizards to read the mind of another. These witches and wizards are known as Legilimens. The Dark Lord is one such wizard."
"I know Voldemort can read minds," Harry said. "He mentioned it the day he asked me to become his apprentice."
"This should be easy to clarify, then. Suppose you followed the original faking uselessness idea and the Dark Lord applied Legilimency on you, upon suspecting something?"
"He would know about your actions," he answered.
"Exactly. Earlier, you asked me why I came. I tell you now that I came to plant a few false memories in your head; had you followed our initial plan, it would have been extremely likely that the Dark Lord would skim through your mind in hopes of finding the problem to your ineptness. In the case that happened, he would have seen only your desire to feign incompetence and none of the part I played. This means that even if my former plan had failed, I would lose nothing and the entire blame would be put on you."
"You're appalling," Harry snarled. "You will not get away with this –"
"Pity, by morning you will not remember a thing; not the events in the flower garden, not tonight, not anything that paints me in bad light." Daphne smiled coolly. "Seeing as you will not oblige, I will have to use something that differs slightly from the original false memory charm I was going to cast on you. You have heard of a Memory Charm, I suppose?" Harry glared at her, and shook his head stiffly. "Really?" Daphne let out a scorning laugh. "Your duelling skills may exceed those of your age but your ignorance of the wizarding world never ceases to amaze me."
"You'll regret this," Harry cautioned. "I will come after you."
"Not before you recover your memories." Daphne raised her wand and smirked. "Obliviate. All your knowledge about this our little secret will soon be gone."
Before Daphne left, she caught a glimpse of the empty portrait beside Harry bed. Empty, just as it had been when she had entered. All for the better; it was best if there were no witnesses, even if they were just wretched portraits.
...
Harry woke up with a pounding headache, it felt like a sanding machine grinding against his skull. When he tried to raise his head, his nerves were fiercely attacked by tiny needles. "Ouch," he grumbled. "Tom? Tom, are you there?"
"Yes," came the nonchalant reply. "You should hurry up. Your lesson with Lord Voldemort is in ten minutes."
"Oh, God," he groaned. "Do you think he'll have my head if I do not make it?"
"Most likely," Tom answered breezily. "I suggest you do not test his patience."
"Doesn't matter." Harry slumped back against his pillows. "Let him take it. Who knows? It just might help get rid of this … killer headache."
"You have a headache?" Tom asked, serious now. "Do you know what caused it?"
"No," he said, massaging his tender temples. "I have no idea. I can't even remember anything."
"Can you recall what happened after I helped you with the Summoning Charm?" Tom said.
"It's all hazy," Harry muttered. "What's the point? Right now, I can't even think."
"You are pathetic," Tom sneered cuttingly. "When I ask you a decent question, I expect you to answer it."
"You're not helping in the least," Harry said, wincing at the sharp sound.
"Well, if you have the energy to retort, perhaps you're not in so much pain, after all," Tom said coldly.
"Okay, fine. I went to the flower garden, and I think I walked around a little, and then I came back. You weren't here, and I was tired so I went to bed early."
"Good enough," Tom said, shortly. "Go back to sleep. I'll handle whoever Lord Voldemort sends here to fetch you, and himself, if I have to."
Cursing his head, Harry lay down again and managed to sink into a slumber almost immediately.
...
The next time Harry woke, it was not voluntarily but by a series of brusque shakes. He cracked open his eyes reluctantly and found, to his alarm, Voldemort's face hovering within a few centimetres. With a yelp of surprise, Harry recoiled as further away as he could.
"Relax, Harry," Voldemort said, calmly. "I am only here to check on you. Tell me, where does it hurt?" Harry remained obstinately silent, refusing to expose his weakness. "Come on, Harry, wilfulness will get you nowhere."
"I can't tell for sure; it's everywhere. Except it isn't very painful now, just a faint throbbing," Harry quickly added.
"Oh?" Voldemort asked, darkly. "I was under the impression you had fainted from the pain. It would seem your condition is not very serious. Perhaps Tom lied to me."
"Oh no, my Lord," Tom said from his portrait, with a subtle trace of mockery in his words. "I wouldn't dare."
"You are becoming too undisciplined, Tom; your behaviour is disgraceful. Remember who your master is. If you weren't a portrait –"
"He didn't lie!" Harry fibbed, in a frantic attempt protect the older boy. "I was unconscious for a while."
"Hmm," Voldemort murmured, "are you sure?" Harry nodded vehemently, hotly replying, "Yes, absolutely!"
"There you go, my Lord." Tom smirked triumphantly. "The proof, close at hand. Harry has vouched for me." There was a hidden taunt concealed in his words somewhere that Harry could not name, but it had a direct impact on the Dark Lord, whose eyes glinted dangerously.
"Thank you, Tom," Voldemort said ominously. "Leave us for a while. Go to your frame in my office, and wait there for me." Harry saw Tom linger for a moment with an uncooperative expression, before he was gone and his canvas was empty once again.
Harry was shocked by the exchange between Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort; he couldn't believe the former could have been so daring as to leer at the Dark Lord. Even he hadn't, on any account, paraded with such insolence in front of the dark wizard. He had a gut feeling there was something unexplained concerning the two.
"Now, Harry, you should drink this." As he said it, Voldemort handed Harry a flask. "It will temporary bring the headache to an end, until tomorrow morning, when it will perhaps be gone for good."
"Okay." Harry downed the flask in one gulp, and tried to overlook the foul taste of putrid socks. He nestled comfortably under his duvet, savouring the instantaneous effects of the potion.
"Would you like me to read you a story, Harry?" Voldemort sat down restfully on Harry's bed, and plucked a children's book from thin air.
The look of content on Harry's face immediately transformed into one of open horror. His mind could not absorb this insanity, but it couldn't deny the new weight on his bed either. Never in his wildest, most horrendous nightmares would a scene like this happen. Lord Voldemort offering to read him a story as if he was a five year old!
"It is a collection of bedtime stories titled Tales of Beetle the Bard. The stories include Babbitty Rabbitty and her Cackling Stump, The Wizard and the Hopping Pot, The Fountain of Fair Fortune, The Warlock's Hairy Heart, and The Tale of the Three Brothers. Shall we start from the first?" Voldemort inquired, seeming to take malicious pleasure from Harry's discomfort.
"Please, no! I mean…it's hardly suitable for this occasion!" Harry exclaimed, stumbling over his own words. "It's fine. I can manage on my own. I don't mind. You can leave if you want."
"Is my presence not welcome?" Voldemort asked, forebodingly. He raised his eyebrows mockingly. "If you do not wish for me to read you a story, then how is chess? You do know how to play?"
"I do. But…" Harry trailed off. He wondered whether he was going crazy; it wouldn't be a surprise, especially with all the deceits Voldemort was spinning up. No matter how he looked at the situation, this particular scenario seemed impossible.
"Chess is not only simply a game but also training for the mind. It weaves around strategy and manipulation; one has to learn when to sacrifice a pawn for the greater gain. With that said, I doubt you can win me." Voldemort smiled, and replaced the book in his hands with a chess set. "You can be White, and I shall be Black."
"How befitting," Harry commented, without thinking.
"Indeed. In the end, black shall triumph, leaving the white in pieces."
"What do you mean by 'in pieces'?" Harry asked.
"This is Wizard's Chess, and you will soon find out," Voldemort replied casually. "It is your turn first."
"Pawn to e3," Harry said.
"Knight to h6."
Soon, Harry discovered that the chess pieces literally tussled with each other, wincing the first time one of his pawns shattered into fragments. Soon he got used to seeing them wiped out one by one as Voldemort's army unrelentingly fought their way across the board.
"Check," the dark wizard said, smiling.
Harry looked to see his king in danger of capture by Voldemort's bishop. He made to move his king one square to the left when Voldemort's voice stopped him, "Are you sure about that, Harry? My rook is ready over there. I can checkmate your king." In desperation, Harry protected the king with his queen as a shield.
In altogether five minutes' time, Voldemort managed to capture Harry's queen, and in a total of seven minutes, he successfully cornered the king. "Checkmate," the Dark Lord said smugly.
"Urgh, that's not fair," Harry protested, forgetting for a while that his opponent was Lord Voldemort. "You've had more experience than me. I bet I can win if we go for a second round."
The Dark Lord chuckled in amusement at Harry's antics. "Is that an open invitation?" The determined look on Harry's face answered it all.
It turned out, in spite of his determination of steel, Harry still lost. Three times in a row. He just didn't understand how Voldemort creamed him so effortlessly. When Voldemort made him yet another offer to play again, Harry sourly declined. "Thank you, but no thank you."
"Very well," he replied agreeably. "If you are in such a mood, I shall not force you."
"Don't you have to teach…Daphne?" Harry asked, twitching suddenly. For reasons unknown, he felt an irrational hatred at the name.
"I called the lesson off," Voldemort answered lightly. "Is there a problem?"
"No," Harry said quickly. "Are you leaving soon?"
Voldemort raised an eyebrow. "You want me to leave? I plan on staying until it is your bedtime."
Harry's jaws dropped. "But that's hours and hours away! We haven't even had lunch! You're not serious?"
"Harry, as a word of warning, you are one inch away from blatant disrespect," the Dark Lord cautioned. "My intention is to remain until the very last hours. You will just have to endure my company."
At those words, his heart sank to the very depth of his stomach. Harry licked his lips nervously; he really didn't see how he could withstand a whole day being so intimate with his new guardian. Apparently, Voldemort was getting more and more creative with the techniques of slow torture.
Harry was brought back to harsh reality when Voldemort impatiently snapped his fingers, summoning Spookie. "House elf, bring us a medium plate of butter chicken, a large plate of roast vegetables, two cottage pies, two small plates of honeyed eggs, two small plates of sauced meatballs, a handsome quantity of strawberry tarts, and two separate bowls of German chicken soup."
Spookie bowed so low that its nose touched the floor. "Yes, Master. Immediately, Master." It scuttled away without even glancing at Harry.
"Why do you have to be so severe on your servants?" Harry blurted, unthinkingly.
Voldemort's eyes narrowed for a second, as he decided on an answer. "Harry," he said softly, "aside from the fact they are your inferiors, house elves want to be treated like this. Do you see the poor relationship you've developed with your elf, simply because you regarded it as an equal? That is cruel; forcing it to go against its nature, to absorb your kind words while not comprehending."
Harry looked up at Voldemort sceptically. "I think it's because of the restrictions you put on them. Spookie's terrified of conversing with me, ever since the time you chastised –"
"A stronger creature with a more independent mind would not buckle under mere words. Tell me, Harry, will you collapse if I stayed overnight to lecture you on your uselessness?"
"No," he reluctantly replied. "But that is beside the point –"
"Precisely. You will feel indignant and provoked, perhaps, but you will not crumple. Humans, the species altogether, with Muggles and Mudbloods included, are more complex and sophisticated than beasts and animals alike; they are blessed with creativity, independence of mind, intelligence, the gift of learning from experience," explained Voldemort, in a manner counted for patience. "Put them on an uninhabited island, and they will survive, and not only that… they will flourish. In that sense, Muggles and wizards are the same."
Hearing Voldemort finally acknowledge the skills of Muggles, Harry leaned forward keenly.
"Muggles are clever enough; they achieved what we cannot without magic. They have designed elevators, automobiles, and harnessed the power of electricity with the help of what they call the 'simple machines', consisting of the inclined plane, the lever, the wheel and axle, the pulley, the wedge and the screw. They are higher in the fields of science, technology and biochemistry than us."
Harry smiled slightly, and nodded. He was listening without encouragement now.
"We post letters by owl, but it can be slow and easily intercepted. The Muggles have produced an item called the telephone, with which they speak directly to the person they wish to communicate with," Voldemort said. "However, I still consider us the superiors. While I acknowledge the efforts of Muggles, I cannot help but pity them; we can so effortlessly achieve the same with magic, without wasting so much time on scientists, biologists, doctors and psychologists. With all-mighty magic at our every disposal, from daily household tasks to duelling, are we not the superiors?"
Harry grimaced. Voldemort had a rational point, a twisted ration, but logical nonetheless. For that reason, he remained silent.
There was a crack, and Spookie appeared again, balancing a massive tray on its shaky shoulders. "Lunch is here, Master," it squeaked.
"Master and Young Master," Voldemort corrected curtly. "Dismissed."
"Thank you, Spookie," Harry said softly, with a polite smile. He watched with disappointment as the house elf scurried away without even admitting his thanks, while Voldemort looked on with faint amusement.
"Eat," Voldemort commanded. "You are too scrawny for your own good."
Harry glanced at the Dark Lord reluctantly. "The master of the manor is to eat first," he recited. Voldemort's lips twitched violently as if he was suppressing laughter. "As amusing as it is to let you carry on the formalities, I have to inform you that I have no concern over who gets the first bite when it is just the two of us dining in private."
As Harry dug in hungrily, he saw out of the corner of his eye Voldemort observing him while making no move to eat. He felt ill at ease under the intense scrutiny.
"Strawberry tart?" Voldemort offered. "I personally am rather fond of them."
Harry choked on his soup, and ended up coughing. If anyone else but Voldemort himself had told Harry that the Dark Lord was fond of strawberry tarts, he would have thought them insane; it was hard to envision the inhumane wizard liking anything sweet. "No thanks," Harry spluttered.
"Meatballs, perhaps?" Voldemort said, seemingly determined to shove all of the food down Harry's throat.
"No, thanks," Harry mumbled, slightly unnerved by the bizarre turn of events. "I'll have them later." Since when did Voldemort care how much he ate?
"Suit yourself, Harry," Voldemort said, and gracefully reached for a strawberry tart. Harry could not help but stare as the Dark Lord opened his mouth, to reveal two rows of perfectly shining teeth, and bit into it. It seemed like such a normal, human thing to do, that not one person could possibly believe Voldemort, the darkest wizard of all time, would act this way.
"Eat, Harry," Voldemort ordered. "This lunch will not end until you have finished your share."
...
By the end of the meal, Harry realised just how much food Voldemort had requested. It was many times the amount he normally ate. While Voldemort smoothly sipped his soup and dined on the tarts, Harry was forced to eat everything else.
"Congratulations, Harry. I thought you were never going to finish," Voldemort said, smirking.
"I think I'll never touch butter chicken again," Harry growled.
Voldemort chuckled. "Ever the negative, dear Harry. Speaking of your negative views, I thought we'd tackle the Dark Arts."
Harry stiffened immediately, the hairs on his neck rising. "What do you mean?" he asked warily.
"What I mean, Harry, is that I know of your rejection and revulsion towards the Dark Arts," Voldemort said. "All I ask of you is to be a little more open-minded, and hear my opinion on the subject that has done nothing to earn so much hostility from you."
Despite Voldemort's mild manner, Harry's tolerance snapped like a piece of thread against scissor blades. Enough was enough. Dining politely with the Dark Lord was one thing while hearing him admit openly he was going to mould Harry into a dark little monster was something wholly different.
"No, thank you. I'd rather not be as open-minded as so my brains leak out, nor will I allow you to brainwash me," Harry countered, using the witty phrase he had heard from the mouths of many others. "Besides, perhaps the best way to pass an ability onto your students is to demonstrate it yourself."
Voldemort's darkening expression cast a chilling shadow over the atmosphere. "Harry," he said softly, "my request was not unreasonable. I have shown you both mercy and leniency, and stayed my hand. Now however, I find myself tempted to teach you a precious lesson." He snapped his fingers.
Promptly, Harry was hauled unceremoniously from his bed and thrown to the floor where he was callously bounded to one of the bed posts. He thrashed wildly to free himself, but to his dismay, found the magical ropes tightening.
"Do not struggle, Harry. The ropes will grow tauter every time you move, thus causing you more grief. If you continue to be stubborn, you will soon find yourself choking," Voldemort stated.
As if on cue, the ropes rubbed painfully against Harry's wrists. Comprehending, he stilled himself; at least being bounded was better than getting scraped raw by unbreakable cords.
"Much better," Voldemort said. "Now that you are quiet, we will proceed with our discussion. According to what you said earlier, I am attempting to brainwash you – but I can tell you right now that your point is untrue. You have a mind of your own, and I am not forcefully trying to control it; all I wanted was to make my thoughts known."
Harry remained silent. He wasn't a fool; Voldemort could easily brainwash an individual with mere words… But if so, what was the difference between persuading with a valid argument and brainwashing?
"Secondly, you accused me rudely of being close-minded. Tell me, Harry, if I am as close-minded as you speak of, why are the Mudbloods still alive? If I saw them as nothing but contaminating filth, why are we keeping them alive in a society ruled by myself?" said Voldemort. "True, they are filth and their redeeming qualities are few, but without Mudbloods – say if we gassed them like Hitler did in World War 2 – the number of witches and wizards will disastrously decrease. If I was close-minded and blinded to all perspectives but my own, will I still be able to see the facts?"
"You are no better than Hitler," Harry said.
"I agree, but I am more successful. Hitler committed suicide in his bunker in 1945 when the advancing enemy countries were right on his doorstep. He may have been a brilliant politician, but his passion for Germany and his hatred of the Jews blinded him. He and I are similar in many ways, only I am not as…fiery."
Harry glowered fiercely at the Dark Lord, trying to pierce him with his gaze. "I didn't know you were familiar with Muggle history."
"I am not as close-minded as some people would like to think," Voldemort responded. "We are getting off track. From your sense of justice, would you say the Dark Arts are moral?"
"No," Harry replied definitely. "It's evil."
Voldemort laughed. "What a naive young boy. There is no good and evil, only power and those who are too weak to seek it."
"You're wrong," Harry disagreed. "Good and evil exists. You are the very definition of the latter."
"For those who follow by such a strict set of definitions, the world must be black and white. As much as I would like to consider myself 'evil', I am not. I may be as close to 'evil' as you can get, but even I am not completely 'evil'. For your information, you are not very 'light' or 'good' yourself."
"What do you mean?" Harry cried.
"You are familiar with not only the Dark Arts but also the Unforgivables," Voldemort said. "How hypocritical of you, Harry, to reproach others where you have gone wrong."
Harry spluttered at the accusation. "I've only used the Cruciatus, and only when forced, excluding the one time during the duelling competition."
"You are mistaken; you have used the Dark Arts frequently and for numerous intentions," said Voldemort. "You have developed a disgust for the 'Dark Arts' when you do not even have a well-defined concept of what they are. The curse you repeatedly used in duels, the Sectumsempra Curse, is dark."
"I thought…" Harry trailed off in frustration. "No one's ever told me."
"Exactly. Why have you never recognised it as a dark curse earlier?" Voldemort said. "Because the light curses can do just as much damage. Dark and light are restricting titles that sort a variety of curses into different categories, when in reality, they blend into each other. There is no telling what you are using is dark or light."
"Most of the dangerous curses are dark," insisted Harry, realising his argument was growing weaker and weaker against Voldemort's. "The effects of lighter curses are relatively milder."
"Ah, Harry, you are learning quickly. Already starting to use 'lighter' instead of 'light', have we?" Voldemort said. "Lighter curses can be used for bad intentions while the Dark Arts can be acquired for the opposite. Tell me, would you hesitate to kill me with the Killing Curse if it meant you could save your Mudblood friend?"
"I don't know," Harry muttered, doubtfully.
"You will not hesitate. Now tell me, is killing me a moral thing to do?"
"Killing itself is not moral," Harry said. "But –"
"Killing with a good intention is absolutely fine," Voldemort concluded for him. "Thank you, Harry. You've finally transferred to my view of thinking." He snapped his fingers again, and the ropes binding Harry slipped away. "Get back into bed."
"You said you were going to 'teach me a lesson'," Harry said.
"I've already taught you a lesson, and you have absorbed the contents marvellously well." Voldemort smirked. "I have just remembered; I have important business to deal with. It seems like I will not be staying until nightfall. Enjoy yourself, Harry."
Harry watched Voldemort let himself out with a sinking feeling; he would have been happy to see such a scene, if only the Dark Lord had not taken to 'teaching' him. He would have been content sticking to his former beliefs, but now…
He sighed in frustration. Had his prior values all been ridiculously naive? Was there really no light and dark? Was it up to an individual to judge whether their actions were moral? Voldemort's twisted truth was really getting to him. Harry wanted nothing more than to dismiss Voldemort's words for garbage, but he knew they were genuine.
Killing was wrong, Harry was sure of that. But he wasn't sure of all the rest. He had used curses from the Dark Arts numerous times. Surely, that didn't make him evil? Was there even such a thing as evil? Harry's mind was a swirling whirlwind that sucked up pieces of information that made no sense.
Should he carry on as he was, or ought he to stick to only the spells known to be classified as light? Would that make any difference if he harmed people using 'light spells'? Would it be just as bad as using the Dark Arts?
Damn Voldemort to the depth of hell, messing with Harry's previously clear mind. Everything was so complicated. Voldemort would force him to learn the Dark Arts whether he liked it or not. Perhaps the only way was to oblige and let his destiny take him.
—0O0—
Voldemort was joined by Severus Snape, who bowed low before him. "How did today go, my Lord?"
The Dark Lord smirked, seeming to be in high spirits. "Perfectly. Harry is confused, as he should be, and he likely will start to react better towards the Dark Arts."
"My Lord, if you do not mind me asking, how did you manipulate him?" Snape inquired.
"By using sound reason and appearing…slightly more human. Harry craves attention, even the attention of his loathed guardian, even if he does not know it yet," said Voldemort. "Soon, Harry will truly be my apprentice."
Disclaimer: Harry Potter will never belong to me. I can only wish.
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