Harry blinked, his dreams quickly fading into a murky vaper, sliding like water between the metaphoric fingers of his subconscious mind. He remembered Hermione shouting at him, begging him to return home. Ron had called him a traitor, shaking his head in open disapproval. And Remus, he had just looked sad. His worn, amber eyes staring at him in silent accusation.
Sighing, he pushed himself up onto his elbows and grabbed his glasses from the nightstand. His eyes swept over the room. His room. Or at least the room that Voldemort was allowing him to have. It was better than anything the Dursleys had let him use. And that truth was just as sour to swallow as the fact that he had woken up in this room by his own choice, his own free will. He could scarcely believe that he had agreed to return with Voldemort and be trained by the wizard who had murdered his parents.
His emerald eyes glanced down as his arm. He was grateful that the sleeves of his nightshirt covered the ominous marking he now bore. He cautiously pushed his fingers against the cuff, lightly pulling it up so that he could see the still angry, red marking that adorned his bicep. The snake looked so real, more threatening than it had the night before. And that eye looked like it was staring back at him, seeing straight into his soul. He would need to discover what the mark did, what power it gave its owner. Voldemort had already said that like the Dark Mark, he could use it to summon him. And to track him, which he didn't think was something the Dark Mark had. That night in the cemetery he knew there were Death Eaters who had not return on the night of Voldemort's resurrection. If Voldemort could track them through their mark then they would have been even more foolish to disobey. Sighing he glared at it, it was also likely they could feel pain from it judging by how Snape reacted to his own. Not that Voldemort needed help in the pain department, Harry thought morosely.
He dropped the sleeve back down, returning his hands numbly to his lap. Glancing around again, he wondered what he was supposed to do. The wardrobe was still there, filled with immaculate clothes that were certain to fit him perfectly. He shifted his gaze to the bookcase in the corner. He was confident that it had not been there when he'd been forced to the Burrow the previous morning.
Curious, he rolled off the bed and padded barefoot over towards it. It was large, with five shelves that were filled to the brim with ancient tombs. A large, dusty, worn brown one that was eye level quickly caught his attention. He pulled it out gently. It seemed ancient. Hermione would have loved it.
Magick Conceived, was proudly displayed in a cursive script across the front binding on the leather cover page. He let out a slight hmm of interest, walking back over towards the bed. It wasn't like he wanted to wander around Voldemort's manor and risk running into him or any of his dark underlings. He might as well stay in his room and keep himself busy. With that thought, he turned the first page.
He glanced up, blinking rapidly when the door suddenly swung open. His neck cracked as he brought himself up from the hunched position he had adopted over the book. With a quick glance at the sun, it was clearly well past morning and into midday. How long had he been reading? His stomach let out a slight rumble. He hadn't even thought of breakfast or tried to call the elf who had claimed it would serve him food at all hours, should he wish it.
"Find something interesting?" Voldemort inquired, his voice deceptively casual as the Dark Lord strode in. Harry glanced down; the large tomb before him was turned to a page at least a quarter of a way through. He was surprised despite himself; he wasn't one to become a bookworm. Ron would have been seriously affronted.
Despite his anger at the man, Harry couldn't find it in himself to deny the claim. The book was beyond fascinating. It dived into a concept called core magic; how witches and wizards had a predisposition towards different types of wielding. That they were born that way, and some had the capacity to learn all three; light, dark, and grey, while others had no dispositions towards certain spectrums at all. If what it said was true, a truly dark wizard would be incredibly weak if only able to cast light spells. And a light wizard would have no aptitude towards dark magic. The two seemed almost to reject the others, as far as foundational magic-wielding was concerned. It could be a severe disadvantage depending on the blood and disposition of the family.
"This can't be true," he muttered, tilting his chin to the side, deep in thought. He watched warily as Voldemort shut the door with a decisive click, then turned and strode towards him. Pulling out his wand, Harry flinched, but the wizard only silently conjured a cushioned chair that materialized next to the side of the bed. Sitting, Voldemort reached out his hand, silently commanding the book.
Harry frowned at the outstretched hand and unspoken demand.
"You promised cooperation in exchange for your friend's lives," Voldemort reminded him, his tone callous.
Sighing, Harry handed over the tomb. It was Voldemort's book; it was only in this room because the Dark Lord allowed it. Which triggered a thought he wasn't sure he wanted to travel down. "How can I trust anything you give me?" He knew Voldemort would try and sway him, draw him to the dark's side. It wasn't by luck that a book like this drew his attention. If anything, he was sure there must have been a minor compulsion on it. He wasn't one to be drawn to a book that size or even read it non-stop all morning despite how interesting he had found it.
"Did you compel me?" He should have been angrier. But then, his eyes shifted toward his arm again, glancing at the mark that was just beneath the sleeve. Voldemort had branded him; of course, he would compel or curse him or anything else the monster thought appropriate given his status as a prisoner.
"Only to select the book. Your enthrallment was entirely your own," came the easy reply, red eyes studying him amusedly.
He glanced back at the book, unsure. It made it sound like dark magic wasn't evil. That the core was merely compatible with different kinds of magic, some were easier to control than others and that each witch and wizard was different. It was a very academic approach to a topic he knew to be emotionally charged. He had never even considered it, that dark arts could be anything but evil. They had to be; the dark arts were responsible for untellable horrors. He knew that Voldemort and his followers used them against innocent muggles, against even the Longbottoms and other pure blooded families. It could be nothing but evil. And yet the book had used plenty of examples of light spells causing just as much havoc.
"You've never been taught anything like this before, have you, Harry?" His tone was knowing; there was a light in his eyes that Harry did not like. The hairs on his neck rose as he stared back guardedly.
"I can't trust anything you give me," Harry refuted again. But in the back of his mind, the text rose up. A light wizard trying only to cast dark magic would harm its core. The same went for a dark wizard. To do so with no access to the core's true allegiance could cause illness or even death; it was like starving out the wizard's soul. Was it true? Was banning dark magic actually killing a portion of their population?
"Then, perhaps an experiment?" Voldemort challenged. He reached into his cloak pulling forth Harry's wand. Harry felt a small gasp escape his lips. He had not dared to hope to ever have it returned. "Your word, you will not try and attack me?" Voldemort asked, dangling it before him, lazily twirling it between his long fingers. His tone made it clear that not only did the Dark Lord doubt Harry would succeed in attacking him, but that the punishment would be quite severe should he try.
Eyes narrowing, Harry scowled at the man. Clinching his fists, he nodded tightly. It wasn't like he was a match for the dark lord. And he had promised to stay and learn. If he rebelled this early, Voldemort would immediately go after his friends again.
He could see the satisfaction oozing from the older man as he extended his hand, allowing Harry to grab the wand quickly. Even outmatched, he could not stop the relief and warmth that raced through him at being reunited with what felt like an extension of his body. It was like his heart made whole. It was like air returning to his lungs.
"If Dumbledore had spent any time training you, you would not be so helpless without it," Voldemort observed coldly.
"Well, thankfully you showed up to right all his wrongs," Harry spat back, not eager for another Dumbledore bashing session that would leave him more confused than he started.
The crucio he received made his verbal rebellion utterly not worth it he decided as he gingerly pushed himself up on one elbow then the other. In his agony, his limbs had jolted him off of the bed, he had fallen bodily to the floor. He winced, shifting his thigh as a burst of pain shot from his hip. He was sure he had bruised it in his fall. He glared up at the Dark Lord.
"That was a warning," Voldemort cautioned, glaring down just as vehemently. "If I am to be your teacher, you will afford me the proper respect I deserve. If you cannot stomach 'My Lord' yet, you will call me sir. And you will not talk back. Understand?"
When Harry didn't respond immediately, he quickly found himself at the end of his brother's wand again. The Dark Lord held his stare, the threat of further punishment clear.
"Yes, sir," he muttered, the words filled with more loathing than he reserved for Snape. But he would be a fool to fight something like this. He may be considered a brave lion, but we was intelligent enough to desire living long enough to be a brave lion the following day as well. A dead lion won no battles, and there was no glory for the dead to enjoy.
"Good, now get up."
With a huff, Harry pushed himself slowly back to the bed. He quickly snatched his hand out as he rose, grabbing his fallen wand then sat back on the edge of the mattress. It felt odd to be sitting here in a bedroom with Voldemort staring back at him. He blushed faintly as he realized he wore nothing but a nightshirt. If he survived the encounter, he swore to himself that getting dressed would be the first thing he did as part of his new prisoner's routine.
"Good; now which part of the book do you doubt?" Voldemort probed, almost as if he did not just strike Harry down with a crucio.
Harry paused his exasperated inspection of the wizard, suddenly feeling deeply uncomfortable. It was one thing to argue and fight with Voldemort, but to have a civil conversation? And one centered around academia? It felt like an alternate reality. If he had not seen the snake-faced, skeletal man emerge from the cauldron in the cemetery, he could almost believe the impeccably dressed, mid 40s, clean-shaven, and well-toned man before him wasn't a murderous, and psychopathic Dark Lord, hell-bent on killing all of the muggles and forcing the wizard population into servitude. Almost.
But then he glanced back into those red eyes, the calculating and terrifyingly intelligent red eyes that were reading his every move, taking in his every breath, observing the way he cocked his head, how he clinched the sheet beside him. Assessing how he had agreed to call him sir and how Harry had verbally struck out when he insulted Dumbledore. Those were not the eyes of a regular wizard.
Dumbledore had told him on many occasions that Tom Riddle was a genius. Ahead of his peers in all areas, Riddle was a true prodigy. And Harry believed it, knowing what the man had done as a teenager and later as a Dark Lord left no doubt that the man was in his own league. They were terrible things he had accomplished, yet still immensely impressive in their own way. He was said to have dived deeper into the dark arts than even Grindelwald. He had managed to rally a significant amount of the wizarding community to rebel against their own kind. He had even succeeded in thwarting death.
He knew he would need to tread lightly if he hoped to maintain any resemblance of sanity here in this prison. "That we are born with a disposition towards light or dark magic," Harry said at last when the silence was becoming uncomfortable.
"Or grey," Voldemort added, raising a well-groomed brow. His stare seemed pointed as if he were suggesting Harry fell into that category. The thought struck a chord with the teenager; with everything he read, it almost felt right. Like that was a truth he had been withholding from himself. It was as if his own magic craved him gaining this understanding. But he could trust none of that, unsure of Voldemort was behind the unknown thought.
"Or grey," he conceded softly.
"Tell me, what do you think powers a spell? Why can some witches and wizards cast what are considered spells of powers, and others cannot?"
Harry frowned, ducking his head in consideration. Black fringes of messy hair tumbled over his eyes, which he half-heartedly pushed to the side. He vaguely recalled McGonagall and Flitwick talking about this in his early years. That the magical core grew with the child. There was a reason they were supposed to wait until they were eleven to start casting spells. To start early could deplete the core. And to deplete it entirely could kill the child. Or even adult for that matter, but it was much rarer as they grew in age. The core was more adapt at controlling the output of power and the witch or wizard would likely pass out before they drained themselves to the point of risking death.
"Your core," Harry replied, when it was clear that his silence was unappreciated.
"And what did you learn about cores in this book?"
"It made it sound like your core had a predisposition towards certain spells."
Voldemort nodded. "Correct. As I'm sure you have surmised, my core is dark. Dark magic comes very easily to me, almost instinctive."
Harry could believe it, he had no doubt Voldemort was exceptional in the dark practices. To the detriment of the word.
"If you are so dark, then how can you perform light spells? If what that books implies is true, then someone as dark as you should have no skill with light magic."
Voldemort nodded again, his sever expression softening slightly. If Harry did not know better, he would almost believe that Voldemort was enjoying teaching him. Dumbledore had said he wanted to be a defense instructor at one point. It was not so difficult to image having the red eyed middle ages Tom Riddle sitting before him in a defense against the dark arts class soliciting this same discussion.
"Core aptitude can be trained over time. But you are correct. For most, it is very strenuous if not impossible to perform strong magic of a differing orientation from your core. For weak wizards, they have no chance; if they try to force a powerful spell, it could kill them. Think of your Patronus spell, I heard you're quite adapt at it. How many of your peers could perform it?"
Harry did not know how he felt about be complimented by the Dark Lord. On one extreme end of the spectrum, he felt the darkest most hidden part of his subconscious preen, on the other, he was horrified.
"The DA was able to get a third of the members to perform the corporeal charm by the end of last year," he murmured, not sure where the conversation was heading.
"DA?" The man arched an brow.
"Dumbledore's Army," he admitted quietly. He had to admit it sounded ridiculous, calling themselves that, especially realizing it now in front of Dumbledore's sworn enemy.
Voldemort leaned back in his chair; his face scrunched in a sneer of derision. "You stood up an army for that man?" His tone was a mix of revulsion and disbelief; Harry had never seen such a cross yet bewildered look graces the Dark Lord's features. It was clear how low he thought the headmaster had fallen if he was building an army of children to fight on his behalf and perhaps was even regretting his promise to keep Harry's friends safe.
"It was just a club," Harry offered, shrugging self-consciously, his cheeks heating slightly. "When Umbridge would not allow us to practice spells we started it, Hermione talked me into teaching some of the other students how to protect themselves."
Voldemort let out a thoughtful hmm, his eyes scanning over him in unmasked consideration. "And you said you were able to teach other students to cast a full Patronus?" He inquired.
Harry nodded. "It took us most of the year, but yes, six or so managed by the end of it." The memory of the silvery Patronus floating around the Room of Requirements brought a sad smile to his face. Would he ever see his friends again, or would Voldemort keep him locked away in his secret manner?
The Dark Lord did not respond immediately. He was silent as he seemed to consider the news. With a slight shrug, he continued. "I would imagine they are all children of strong light families," he proposed, already seemingly disinterested.
Harry wasn't sure. He knew Ron and Ginny were pure-bloods, but Hermione most certainly was not, and he wasn't sure about Cho or Luna. They may have been half-bloods like himself. Ernie was a pure-blood. "It was a mix of pure, half and muggle-born," he admitted, he saw no harm in that, but he would not reveal their names less it made them targets. He had seen the way his eyes lit up briefly when he had said that six others knew the spell.
Clearly, the Dark Lord held the spell in some consideration; he did not want him to decide some of his friends were too powerful to be left ignored. "I would not call them the strongest in my year," he added with a shrug. Perhaps the revelation disproved whatever point Riddle was trying to make as well. Then suddenly, a thought struck him. "Can you perform it?"
The red eyes locked onto his, and Harry felt a chill run down his spine. He internally berated himself for allowing his defenses to drop even slightly. This was the Dark Lord, after all, and he was practically challenging his power with a question such as that. If the book was to be believed, a wizard as dark as Voldemort would have an immensely hard time channeling such a light spell.
"What do you think?" He all but hissed, his eyes dilating to the fineness of that of a snake as he stared back mockingly.
Harry swallowed, dropping the glare in the uncomfortable moment. Did he believe the Dark Lord could cast one of the lightest spells he knew of? One that's very essence was derived from happiness? He supposed Tom Riddle found joy in something. But he imagined it was the type of joy that was derived from a crucio. Could a happy thought born of pain and suffering power the luminescence creature that brought up the spirit of his parents back to the land of the living, could that be born of something evil in nature?
If it was true that Voldemort would immediately sense a lie, he didn't want to put himself in that situation. But he wasn't ready to openly stand against the Dark Lord on something so trivial. He opted to change the topic.
"If what you said was true, that we are born with a certain core but can train it, can anyone master both branches of magic?"
The stare narrowed, Voldemort's head tilted minutely as he considered him. The faintest twitch of his lip showed the man was amused, allowing him not to answer.
"What do you know of power levels and magical auroras?" The Dark Lord inquired.
He let out a slight breath, relieved Voldemort had moved on from his foolish inquiry. Racking his brain, he realized he did not know much; he knew that witches and wizards were born with them; it's what set them apart from muggles. That they developed as the child grew, that adults had larger ones, and that was why they were capable of performing more sophisticated levels of magic.
"It takes energy to cast magic," the Slytherin provided, tugging his thoughts in the direction he wanted to lead the boy, his tone back to a deceptive casual. He was once again Dark Lord turned instructor. "It takes more energy to cast against your core's natural tendency. You waste more energy, and the spells are not as strong as if you were to focus in the field you are gifted with at birth."
It made sense to a degree. He had always heard that the dark arts were draining. But it was light wizards that warned him off of them. And they certainly would not want children to practice them so anything that aided with deterring a child from them would be useful to the light's cause. Not that he disagreed with them, the Dark Arts could only cause pain and suffering. Death and destruction followed in Voldemort's wake.
The Slytherin's velvety voice brought him back from his musings. "By making an entire spectrum of magic outlawed, we are crippling our own, making ourselves weaker. A core that is forced to reject its natural constitutions becomes weaker over time. The wizard or witch never learns to wield spells at their strongest. One could argue that it is inhumane to starve yourself to such a degree."
"And you think that both light and dark magic should be allowed to be practiced equally in the wizarding world?" Harry concluded, quickly sensing the purpose of the discussion.
To a degree the words rung true. He could believe that some witches and wizards were better suited for light or dark arts, hell whole families had dedicated themselves to the pursuit, but that didn't change the reality. The dark arts were inherently evil. It was both what Hogwarts and the ministry taught. Just because Voldemort was a Dark Lord who loved them and some witches and wizards were better at them did not make them any less evil. "Dark arts are still dangerous." Harry pressed, unwilling to be led. "Just because some find them easy does not make them right."
Voldemort all but sneered at his response. "Anything can be dangerous; don't be stupid, child." The venom in his voice surprised Harry. The teen leaned back slightly, sensing a pulse of darkness from the man.
The Slytherin heir pulled out his long yew wand, the one that harbored the same feather core of his own holly. Harry stiffened as it was directed at his chest, eyeing it warily at is hovered but a few inches from him. His grip tightened on his own that was lowered uselessly against the side of his leg. He would never be able to dodge or counter in time. And he had given his word not to attack. But did that mean he could not protect himself? Did he even stand a chance if he could get his wand up in time?
His eyes shifted from the tip of the wand back to the Dark Lords' face. Raising his chin fractionally, he waited. He would not cower back or beg. The Slytherin heir smiles at the young lion, his stare watching, taking in every tensing of muscle, every shortness of breath.
"You are brave boy; I'll give you that," his tone left Harry unsure if it was a compliment or an insult. Coming from the snake, it was likely an insult, but Harry decided to take it the way a Gryffindor should, with pride. But his sense of self-preservation was enough to hold his tongue and not give a quick response. Instead, he waited, watching the wand in trepidation that was directed at his heart.
"What type of core do you think you possess? That of a light wizard or a dark?"
Harry wanted to claim light immediately, he was the hero of the light by all accounts, but he paused, recalling what Voldemort had claimed earlier. The Dark Lord's head titled slightly, sensing his hesitation.
"You said I was grey," Harry said at least, his voice quiet. He wasn't sure why he didn't say light. Perhaps it was because he was confident the Dark Lord would hear his uncertainty.
"And I asked you what type you think you have," Voldemort pressed, his lips twitching faintly. "Don't tell me that the brave little lion already doubts himself? It hasn't even been a day."
Harry swallowed, glaring back. His heart had begun pounding uncomfortably in his chest. He had cast the Patronus spell as a third year, he reminded himself, forcing himself to see through the mind game. And you also cast the crucio on Bellatrix, a snide voice usually suppressed to the utter recesses of his mind whispered back.
His breath was coming slightly faster now as he remembered her twitching beneath his wand. It had been brief; he doubted he'd even casted it correctly. But in his hatred and despair of losing Sirius, it had felt so right at the time.
"I'm not doubting myself," he snapped, his grip tightening on his wand. "I despise the dark arts and everything you stand for. I do not doubt that. I despise you and what you stand for!" The last came out as a hissed shout. He was shaking slightly. He forced himself to take a calming breath to bring himself back under control.
The pale lips smirked; the Dark Lord laughed softly. "I do not doubt that you do," Voldemort agreed. "But that does not mean you do not have an affinity for darkness."
Harry shook his head. "I do not," he denied. And that felt true. He could sense it just as clearly as he sensed the hesitation to claim to be of the light. Perhaps he was grey, but he knew he was not dark.
"Well, let's put this trivial argument to rest," like a snake, the wand swished into a circle then flicked outwards, backing him in a blinding white light, "anima revelare," Voldemort incanted.
Harry flinched as the white light washed over him like a mist, tickling his arms and coating his whole body. He jerked his wand up, pointing it at the Dark Lord in defense, already knowing it was too late, that whatever Voldemort had planned against him was done.
"What was that?" He asked faintly, glancing down at his arm. His skin was glowing softly.
"Lower your wand, or will remove it from you." There was no banter or amusement. He even realized that Voldemort had switched to the snake tongue, adding an even higher quality of deadliness to the command.
Forcing his wand hand to drop listlessly into his lap, Harry glanced from Voldemort to the Slytherin's wand. His heart was pounding, he knew he was in a vicarious situation and moments away from a crucio or from Voldemort punishing him through his scar. And it was for something he felt he justified in. "I can apologize," Harry said softly, in what he hoped wasn't an argumentative tone. "If that is what you require. But it was instinct, you cast on me without warning. I don't even know what you did. How can you expect me to become powerful but not have an instinct to protect myself? I stopped myself from casting against you."
Voldemort frowned, Harry could tell he was considering the words, but the Dark Lord still had a desire to punish him, to put him in pain just to prove his place. "I know you're stronger than me," Harry added, unsure if flattery would be of value. It wasn't like it was a contested fact, it would be laughable to try and say Voldemort wasn't the most powerful wizard for sure in their room, likely in the world. "It was just an instinct to react. I swear."
Eyes narrowed in contemplation, Voldemort allowed the slightest of nods. "Alright, but if you ever attempt to cast against me, then our deals are void. You will still remain mine, but the first thing I will do is take vengeance on all your friends. Do you understand?"
Harry nodded, hit gut turning. What had he gotten himself into? He was now marked, likely unable to ever escape Voldemort, and with every move he made he felt like he was walking through a viper's pit. The original deal was that he would return and learn from Voldemort. He supposed under the obedience clause, him being told not to raise his wand against the Dark Lord made it binding. But if Voldemort expected him to suddenly become this meek, pathetic servant, Harry was certain he would fail miserably. Every one of their engagement would end in threats or torture the way this was going. He suspected he had a very bleak existence ahead of him, and given he'd grown up with the Dursley's, he was astounded he'd managed to land himself into to new low.
"I understand," he avowed. Arguing would get him nowhere, especially with the vicious mood the Dark Lord had descended into. Perhaps he could flip it back by going back to instruction, Voldemort had seen to enjoy that and he had certainly treated Harry better when they were discussing magic. "What was that spell?" He probed again.
Voldemort's eyes roamed over him, as if debating whether to allow Harry the respite of changing the subject. Making up his mind, he nodded. "Look."
Voila… what do you all think? Should Harry's world be rocked a bit more? Should he remain the lights little lamb? I would love some feedback - good or bad, just to know there is any interest in the story… thanks!
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