Almost a full day had passed since Harry had the vision of his friends being captured. The teen had begrudgingly heeded Dumbledore's command and not taken any action. Like a caged lion, the young wizard had restlessly roamed the cramped confines of the house, his anger and irritability growing by the hour. He often found himself pacing the downstairs, much to his aunt's revulsion and his uncle's intense displeasure, which both voiced loudly.
"If you're not going to be of any use, boy, then at least don't darken our evening with your freakish presence!" his whale of an uncle finally spat out as Harry paced near the front window for the umpteenth time. He had tried to force his nephew out multiple times that morning to weed the yard and wash the windows, all of which Harry had resolutely refused.
"Fine," Harry sighed, turning toward the stairs and fleeing up to his room. He had no appetite for whatever scraps of food would have been provided had he forced his unwanted presence on them. Reaching his room, he collapsed on his bed, utterly exhausted from being unable to find sleep after Dumbledore and the rest of the Order had abandoned him the previous night.
How could they do this to him? After everything he had been through, they still refused to involve him. Moaning in frustration, Harry twisted on the tiny, lump-ridden bed, burrowing his head into the worn pillow dejectedly. Lying there, he breathed in and out deeply. The sun had yet to set, daylight and warmth mocking him with the long summer days.
Tomorrow was his birthday, it brought him more sorrow than joy. A day that should have been celebrated was quickly setting itself up to be the worst birthday in his meager history. With his two friends captured and at the mercy of his enemy, he knew there was nothing that would make the day anything but a day consumed with grief and pain. Flopping back on his bed, he sighed wearily, closing his eyes, praying he could lose himself to sleep. Exhaustion soon took him, pulling him into a restless slumber.
Blinking, emerald eyes glanced around wearily, a sudden sense of consciousness flooding his awareness as he took in his surroundings. His typical dreams were usually consumed by death: a black veil drifting back and forth to an unmoving wind; his godfather's and Cedric's accusing eyes staring back at him lifelessly; his mother screaming not to kill him... But this time was different. He found himself now in a parlor; black leather chairs and couches framed a monstrous fire cut into black marble stone. A poisonous jade-green carpet stretched across the room. Mahogany bookcases framed the walls, filled with ancient-looking scripts and scrolls, and a matching mahogany wooden table stretched across the middle of the room.
Harry spun around as a hiss startled him, causing him to take an alarmed step backward. His narrowed green eyes scanned the room, searching for the unseen threat. He swallowed hard, his anxiety mounting with each passing moment. Another step back and he flinched as he backed against one of the leather couches.
"Jumpy, aren't you?" a soft voice observed.
Spinning, Harry stared around, trying to identify the source of the soft voice. "Who's there?" he stammered, his heart racing. The room was completely empty. "Where are you?"
A soft chuckle resonated through the room. "Everywhere, child. You will never escape me."
Patting down his pockets, Harry was dismayed to notice he was wandless. Was this even a dream? Or a vision? Or had he been transported somewhere against his will, the blood wards somehow rendered useless? It certainly no longer felt like a dream; he'd never felt this aware in his sleep, different even from his visions. Another hiss quivered throughout the room, but it was unintelligible, like nothing he'd ever heard.
He twisted around again, frantically trying to find any hint of another's presence in the room. He felt power; there was something fearsome lurking out of sight that he could not identify. "Show yourself," he demanded, his voice not as firm as he would have liked.
"You first," the voice replied.
He spun around again. "What do you mean? What is this?" His hand clutched the back of the couch as confusion swept through him, unsure of what to think or believe. He was in the middle of the room; could the strange being not see him?
"Where are you?" a pressure pushed against his mind.
"I don't know," Harry admitted, his words true though he could not fathom why he answered, why he was playing along with whatever game this was. How had he been captured and transported without his knowledge? He had no memory of how he had arrived in this room.
"Yes, you do," more pressure pushed against him, and he could feel it upon his eyes, pulsing in his skull.
He spun again, desperately looking for the source of the strange, unrelenting presence surrounding him. "Stop that, what is this game? Who are you? Where am I?"
A laugh filled the room, cold and harsh, making him cringe. "You're in my home, little lion. Now show me yours." Unbidden, an image of Privet Drive came to the forefront of his mind. His uncle and aunt glared at him while a stout Dudley cowered behind his mother, trembling in fear.
"I won't tell you," he snapped, squeezing his eyes shut. It didn't feel like his mind was being infiltrated; there were none of the telltale signs or pain that usually accompanied Legilimency. But the pressure was still there; he could feel it all around him.
The laugh came again, this time colder and darker, and the voice sounded infinitely pleased. "You can't hide from me."
Harry jerked awake, glancing around wildly. He was back in his room, the heat of the fire no longer caressing his back. Gasping, he jumped to his feet, pulling the flimsy sheet from his entangled legs, his heart pounding in his chest. What was that? It didn't feel like a vision, and it certainly wasn't a dream. His scar wasn't throbbing; in fact, it felt eerily silent and devoid of pain.
With dread, he walked toward his window, gazing outside, but no one had appeared. He glanced up and down the finely manicured lawns, rows upon rows of perfectly trimmed grass. Tulips swayed lazily in the cool evening air. Everything was silent, with no one wandering the streets at this late hour. He checked the small digital clock adorning the nightstand. 9:28 shone brightly in neon green. He'd slept for about two hours. A sudden knock at the door caused his uncle to curse loudly from the first floor.
Grabbing his wand from beneath his pillow, Harry crept down the stairs. The echoes of the Telly rang out with whatever silly sitcom the Dursleys had plopped down on the couch to watch.
"What ruddy person comes calling at this hour?" The portly man grumbled, heaving himself off the couch as he waddled toward the front door.
"Uncle Vernon, don't," Harry called, reaching the last stair.
Harry's uncle glared back at him. "You don't tell me what to do, freak," he sneered, twisting the door open. They both turned, staring at an empty entry. No one was there. Harry knew he'd heard the knock. The fact that his uncle had responded was proof of that.
"Please, shut the door," Harry begged, his hand clutching his wand tensely at his side just behind his trousers, ready to defend at a moment's notice. Anxiously, he stared transfixed at the empty entryway. "You know there are…" He paused, about to say 'dark wizards,' but didn't want to hear the scolding that was sure to follow for using "bad words" in the house. "Bad people trying to get at me; that's why I can't leave the house."
To his immense relief, Vernon shut the door with a loud snort and an accompanied 'humph.' "That Dumbly fellow said they can't get near our house," his uncle scoffed, eyeing the teen irritably.
Aunt Petunia, in all her gangly giraffe-like glory, bobbed her head in agreement from where she sat in what had to be the most uncomfortable designer chair ever created. "They don't even know where we live. Can't get near the house. That's the only reason we entertain your presence here!"
Sighing, Harry refrained from rolling his eyes. If only the wizarding world could truly see how their alleged savior lived. Barely tolerated was an understatement, especially since the Order had been foolish enough to let them know that Sirius had been killed. Now his tragic excuse for a family knew there was little chance anyone would actually stop them from being ruthless towards their unwanted charge. Perhaps they'd accepted they could not "beat the freak" out of him, as Dudley used to call it, but that did not stop them from knowing that he was despised in this household.
"Alright, sorry I even bothered," he muttered as he turned and trudged back up the stairs. Perhaps it had just been a prank. They were right; if there was one thing he hoped he could trust, it was that the blood wards were still intact, or the house would already be up in flames.
Entering back into his room, he plopped down on his bed, dropping his head wearily into his hands. It was going to be another long night, and he didn't even have Hedwig to send out to write anyone about his bizarre dream. He'd sent her off earlier to Ginny, hoping to both comfort her at the loss of her brother and see if she had any information to share. It had been a horrible letter to write. What could he possibly say to her when he knew that he was at fault for the entire ordeal?
He had babbled multiple apologies, also writing that he knew it was unforgivable and not even trying to ask for forgiveness. He'd ended it by saying that he'd understand if she wanted nothing to do with him but pleaded for any information so that he could at least try to help. Drifting to sleep, he wondered if she would even respond.
Harry awoke feeling sluggish and full of despair. He had finally managed to doze off halfway through the night, with no more visions or odd dreams. It was certainly the worst start to a birthday he had ever experienced. If this is what turning sixteen felt like, he feared seventeen and adulthood. Not that he had much hope of reaching the next year. Every year since he had been introduced to the wizarding world had been more deadly and horrific than the last. With Voldemort back, he seriously doubted he would make it through the summer, let alone a school year filled with who knows what plots to target him.
He glanced at the book lying on the nightstand, Defying Darkness, that had multiple pages dog-eared, the spine gently used. Hermione had lent it to him at the end of the year. She had attributed this book as having many useful charms and spells that she had found to help him when he had competed in the Triwizard Tournament. The bright, bushy-haired young witch had encouraged him to read the whole thing, claiming it contained useful defensive and offensive spells. He had been skimming a chapter or two every night, trying to memorize as much as he could.
Tired of being weak and putting others in situations where they were forced to defend him, Harry had vowed to become stronger. Now, staring at the book, he was forcefully reminded that he had once again let everyone down. Hermione wasn't home poring over a book or skiing with her family as she should be. She was in a cell, likely being tortured at this very moment because Harry had foolishly put all his faith in Dumbledore. Grabbing the book, he tossed it against the wall in frustration. How had everything become so horrible?
Stalking out of his room, he made his way down the stairs. Having barely eaten the day before, he found himself starving. Mornings were usually his best bet to get an actual meal with Vernon gone to work and Petunia off gossiping with someone in the neighborhood. Dudley had been more decent than usual this summer; he suspected the large teen was still terrified from the dementor attack and maybe secretly thought Harry had been the culprit behind it. Whatever the reason, his cousin hadn't been as boldly aggressive with him this summer. He laughed and egged his father on, but whenever they were alone, he almost completely ignored Harry, to the young wizard's immense relief.
Reaching the kitchen, he rummaged through the fridge, selecting some eggs and a banana. Skillfully working the skillet, he soon transferred the fried eggs onto a plate and wandered over to the kitchen table. As he glanced out the window, his gaze fell upon the sky, a tapestry of gray and black clouds that seemed to swallow the light, with rain cascading down in relentless sheets, mirroring his somber mood. Upstairs, muffled voices and the sound of movement hinted that Vernon hadn't yet departed for work. The heavy thuds descending the stairs heralded the approach of his dense cousin. Typically, the overweight teen would settle himself on the couch, engrossed in the television for most of the morning, allowing Harry a moment of peace at the table to hastily consume his meal.
Suddenly, he heard a loud crash that sounded distinctly like shattered glass. Very expensive and hard-to-come-by designer glass that took the shape of a purple vase, if he recalled correctly. Looking up, he gasped in horror as his fears proved true. Shattered only a few feet from him rested the ugly lavender crème vase that his aunt prized so greatly. Glancing around quickly, Harry prayed that there was no one nearby to see what had happened. But luck was not with him today, as he made eye contact with Dudley, who had just so happened to be raiding the refrigerator on his way to the living room, oblivious to his mother's demands that he lose weight.
"Dad!" he bellowed, causing his massive double chins to jiggle. He cast a dirty smirk in Harry's direction, to the raven-haired teen's surprise. For some unknown reason, Harry almost felt betrayed and foolish for coming to think that he and Dudley had formed some loose form of understanding. "He's done you-know-what again and broken Mum's favorite vase!"
"What!" came a roar from above; Harry could hear his uncle storming from his room, the sound of the man resonating like a small herd of elephants. Sighing, Harry prepared himself; this birthday was just getting better and better. His uncle would certainly lock him to his room for the rest of the day, maybe even through tomorrow if his aunt made a significant fuss.
"Boy!" raged his bulky uncle, waddling down the stairs. "What is this racket I hear! Ungrateful I say, destroying everything in this home that your aunt and I kindly let you use out of the goodness of our hearts! I don't know why we tolerate you."
Feeling uneasy, Harry stood from the kitchen table; his uncle sounded far angrier than warranted for such a transgression. A large part of this anger was probably due to the fact Harry hadn't gone outside to complete his chores. Resignedly, Harry braced himself for a prolonged and demeaning scolding. But a small voice in the back of his mind urged caution. His uncle never moved quickly, yet Harry could distinctly hear him hurrying down the stairs. But to his horror, as his uncle appeared at the bottom of the stairs, a lecture did not seem to be his intention.
In his hands, he held a large baseball bat, an odd, manic gleam in his eyes, which seemed disturbingly devoid of life. "I've had it up to here with you squandering my hard-earned and respectable money!" he snarled, pointing a finger, thick as a sausage, at the vase, the bat swinging menacingly by his side.
"Yeah, Dad!" cheered Dudley, seeing what his uncle planned for his favorite target. "Get him good!"
"Uncle Vernon," cried Harry, taking a step back and drawing his wand. "What are you doing?"
"Ridding my home of the filth that has tainted it for far too long!" he snarled, advancing as quickly as his legs would carry him. "Now get out of my home, boy! And don't ever come back; you are never welcome here again!"
Harry could hear thunder rolling in the distance, as if to underscore the command. Rain hailed down, cascading across the roof and splattering on the pavement outside.
"You can't be serious," stuttered Harry, taking another step back. He still held up his wand but knew he would only use it if his uncle attempted to strike. "I have to stay here for the protection to work. You need the protection my presence provides."
"Fat lot I care," yelled his uncle. "Leave now, or I'll force you out."
Looking at the door directly behind him, then back at his uncle, whose advance had now slowed considerably due to the toll and demand of fitness running down the stairs had taken on the stout man, Harry made the only choice that seemed available.
"Fine," he snapped, his voice sharp with frustration. "Merlin knows you've treated me terribly from the moment I arrived. Good riddance." With those final words, Harry turned to the door, flung it open, and dashed out. The door slammed shut with a force that seemed to make the house tremble, echoing the intensity of the young wizard's anger. As he stepped off the porch, he deliberately stepped on the small flowers by the curb, ones he had tenderly planted just a week ago, channeling his fury into the act. Without a clear destination in mind or a plan for what came next, Harry started running down the street, driven by a need to expend the overwhelming anger surging within him.
As he ran, Harry half-expected a member of the Order to emerge at any moment, intent on dragging him back to the Dursleys. But he was committed in his decision not to return. If the Dursleys had cast him out, so be it. Perhaps this would force the Order to finally acknowledge his potential to contribute to the war.
The rain poured down on the incest teen. Harry's run tapered off to a breathless walk, his clothes clinging to him, drenched from the relentless downpour. Lightning forked across the sky, illuminating it in brief, intense flashes, while the accompanying thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. He barely registered the storm's theatrics as he slowed, his breaths coming in heavy gasps. Casting a hurried look around, he realized with a sinking feeling that he was utterly lost.
"Great," he mused bitterly, "Voldemort is after my friends, Dumbledore has forbidden me from stepping outside, my uncle is ready to beat me to a pulp, and here I am, hopelessly lost. What now?" With a mix of defiance and despair, Harry collapsed onto the damp curb, the cold seeping through his clothes, as he grappled with his predicament, utterly unsure of his next move.
"I hate my life," Harry whispered, pressing his hands against his forehead as a familiar pulsing pain began to throb.
"But so many people would kill to have it," came a deep, drawling voice, chillingly close to his ear. The unmistakable sensation of a wand pressed harshly against his back caused Harry's heart to skip a beat. That voice... he knew it all too well. The palpable aura of malevolence emanating from the figure behind him left no doubt—it was Voldemort himself. "Retrieve your wand from your pocket and drop it on the ground. Resist, and it will be your friends who pay the price."
With a barely perceptible nod, Harry's hands moved almost mechanically to his pocket, his fingers closing around the wand. The temptation to fight back surged within him, yet the threat against his friends extinguished any flicker of rebellion. Compared to Voldemort, he was but an amateur, vastly outmatched in power and skill. Any attempt at escape would surely end in disaster. With a sense of resignation, he released his grip, and the wand tumbled from his hand, clattering uselessly onto the wet pavement.
"Good, you can follow orders, boy. That pleases me," Voldemort's voice was a sinister murmur in his ear.
"The last thing I'd ever want is to please you," Harry retorted bitterly, barely turning his head to lock eyes with the cold, red gaze of his nemesis. The proximity to the wizard who had been a constant threat to his life since he was a baby sent an involuntary shiver through him, the breath of his parents' killer uncomfortably warm on his skin.
Despite the downpour that soaked Harry to the core, Voldemort appeared untouched by the rain, his robes shielded by a spell that repelled the water effortlessly.
Observing Voldemort now, Harry couldn't help but feel a jolt of surprise. Gone were the grotesque, serpentine features that had once defined him, replaced now by a visage disturbingly human. He had a lean nose and defined lips, his dark brown hair, flecked with silver—though scarcely betraying his true age—framed a face that might have belonged to Tom Riddle in his late forties or early fifties. Only the eyes, a deep, malevolent red, remained unchanged, holding Harry in a gaze filled with a chilling intensity.
"Mind your words, Potter. Provoking me would be unwise, lest I decide to silence you permanently. Now, stand up," Voldemort's warning was deadly calm, the threat unmistakable.
With the wand's pressure unrelenting against his back, Harry slowly rose, his eyes darting about in a desperate search for any hint of assistance. There should have been members of the Order shadowing him; it was inconceivable that they would leave him exposed, especially now, at such a critical juncture of the war. Yet, the desolate street painted a grim picture of abandonment, echoing the failures that seemed to haunt his life—the Order's promises to protect him now seeming as hollow as their efforts to save his friends, his godfather, and his parents.
"What have you done with my friends?" Harry's voice was barely above a whisper, a mix of fear and defiance in his tone as he sought to delay the inevitable. He clung to the faint hope that Voldemort might spare them, now that he had Harry in his clutches, but the reality was stark. They were all utterly at the mercy of this merciless tyrant.
"I told you if you came to me that I would not harm them," Voldemort responded, his tone chilling as he summoned Harry's wand with a flick of his own.
Facing Voldemort directly, Harry met his gaze, a mixture of defiance and bewilderment competing within him. The notion that he had willingly sought out the Dark Lord was absurd; he had only left because his uncle threatened him. Had it not been for the bat in his uncle's hands, Harry would have remained confined within the boundaries set by Dumbledore's protective wards.
Seeing Harry's puzzled look, Voldemort responded with a cold, mocking laugh, a sound that made Harry's skin crawl. "Do you actually believe your own kin would attempt to end your life? I had thought you were more intelligent, Potter. Your uncle was under the Imperius Curse."
Harry's glare shifted uncomfortably at the revelation. In truth, his uncle did not need magical coercion to show aggression, it had not seemed all that out of character at the time. His doubt must have been transparent, for Voldemort's expression darkened, his red eyes narrowing into slits. "Tell me, Potter," he asked, the question delivered in a venomous whisper, "have that filth dared to lay a hand on you before?"
Puzzled by Voldemort's sudden interest, considering his lifelong obsession with tormenting Harry and his disdain for Muggles, Harry hesitated before responding. It seemed out of character for Voldemort to show any concern for Harry's well-being, unless it was to ensure he remained the sole architect of Harry's suffering. "They've never physically harmed me, if that's what you mean. But they've made it clear I'm not wanted," Harry admitted, trailing off with a resigned shrug, chastising himself inwardly for engaging in anything resembling a conversation with the man who sought his end. The proximity to Voldemort only intensified the throbbing in his head, amplifying his sense of vulnerability.
The considering look he received left the teen feeling even more uncomfortable. "Take this," Voldemort commanded abruptly, extending his hand to reveal a stone that shimmered like a polished pearl, large enough to fill the palm.
Warily, Harry's eyes shifted from the mysterious stone back to Voldemort, uncertainty written across his face. Noticing Harry's hesitation, Voldemort arched an eyebrow and started to withdraw the stone. "I was under the impression you wished to protect your friends' lives," he said, a clear manipulation intended to make Harry comply with whatever disturbing plan the Dark Lord had in store for him.
With a frustrated growl, Harry extended his hand and snatched the stone, momentarily brushing against Voldemort's skin. This brief touch sent a shockwave of dizziness and excruciating pain through Harry, prompting him to withdraw quickly and stagger back. A faint, almost imperceptible smile flickered across Voldemort's lips, just before Harry was engulfed in an experience unlike any he had previously known. Black smoke swirled around him, and he found himself floating, weightless in a dark cloud, completely enveloped by the shadow.
In what seemed both an endless moment and a mere blink of an eye, Harry's feet abruptly met solid ground again. Yet the darkness persisted, swirling ominously, obscuring his vision entirely. Then, a pain far more intense than anything he had ever endured surged through his scar, forcing him to his knees on the cold, stone floor. The agony exceeded any spell he had faced, eclipsing even the Cruciatus Curse in its ferocity. Unable to contain a wrenching scream, Harry's hands flew to his forehead, pressing desperately against his scar in a vain attempt to alleviate the unbearable agony. Bright flashes of white light streaked across his field of vision as he crumpled, overwhelmed by the pain that threatened to consume him entirely.
"It hurts, doesn't it?" a smooth voice queried from behind him. Without looking, Harry could feel that Voldemort had manifested next to him. "And I have the power to stop it immediately, should I choose." Miraculously, the torment ended as abruptly as it had begun, leaving Harry on his knees, trembling in pain.
Gasping for air as he tried to steady his hammering heart, Harry looked around, blinking away the tears of pain that had formed unbidden. The enveloping cloud of ash had cleared, unveiling a bare space. The room was minimalist, cloaked in darkness with its black-painted walls, and featured a singular open doorway in the center of one wall, offering no other details or furnishings.
The sound of approaching footsteps redirected Harry's attention to the figure circling him, two black boots halting directly before his hunched form. "Your decision to join me here pleases me greatly, Harry," Voldemort stated, his tone filled with a quiet intensity. "As you've experienced, I have learned to manipulate the bond between us at will, to both induce and alleviate your suffering as it suits me." He paused deliberately, allowing the gravity of his words to permeate Harry's aching consciousness. "Are you curious to learn how I acquired such mastery of our connection?"
Harry remained silent, determined not to indulge Voldemort's manipulations by responding as if he were an eager participant in this twisted exchange.
Voldemort's tone hardened, acquiring a chilling sharpness. "Don't you think it is impolite to not speak when spoken to?" he inquired, his voice laced with an ominous quality that unsettled Harry. "Such manners will be promptly corrected, rest assured. But, as I was saying…
"You have always been able to feel my emotions the same way I could feel yours," Voldemort disclosed, capturing Harry's wary interest. The notion that Voldemort could sense his emotions was a surprise to the teen. "If you could feel my emotions, it made me wonder if you could feel my pain. The answer seemed obvious: undoubtedly, you could. I only had to figure out the means to do so. I have discovered how to channel my most agonizing memories directly to you. The pinnacle of my suffering," he elaborated, "stemmed from the night my own killing curse was turned back upon me. The agony of that experience was unparalleled, a torture beyond any conceivable measure."
Harry felt a shiver of fear as he realized Voldemort could wield the memory of his most harrowing moment against him. He could sense, more than see, Voldemort drawing nearer, the unmistakable shift in presence. An involuntary tremor coursed through him when the breath of the era's most dreaded wizard caressed his cheek once more, underscoring the imminent threat that loomed so closely.
"I possess not just the capability to dictate the pain you feel," Voldemort spoke, his tone chillingly detached, "but I've discovered that our physical connection amplifies this pain. Since my resurgence, the bond between us—and consequently, my influence—has grown exponentially. With a mere touch," he illustrated, suspending a slender, ghostly finger millimeters from Harry's cheek, causing Harry to tense in fearful anticipation. "The torment I can inflict upon you now will make the Cruciatus Curse seem like the faintest whisper of discomfort." Voldemort's finger inched nearer to Harry's scar, and a preemptive, excruciating pulse began to torment Harry, signaling the onset of a pain far greater than any he had known.
"You're already feeling it, aren't you?" Voldemort's voice was rhetorical; he expected no reply, and Harry was not disposed to give one. "I could, of course, decide not to inflict this pain upon you." Suddenly, the pain vanished as if switched off, but Voldemort's finger didn't withdraw. Instead, it traced a deliberate path under Harry's chin, tilting his head to meet those deep, red eyes. "However, I desire for you to know the extent of suffering I can inflict, especially now that you'll be my guest indefinitely. It's important that you grasp the magnitude of my power over you, dispelling any misguided notions of resistance you might harbor."
The ominous tone of Voldemort's threats left Harry profoundly disturbed; before he could react or shield himself, Voldemort's finger swiftly moved to press down on Harry's scar with cruel precision. Unable to resist, a scream tore from Harry's throat, unparalleled in intensity to any he had ever emitted before. The agony was beyond words, ravaging through his body as though devouring his very flesh from within. It felt as if thousands of needles were simultaneously piercing his skin, while an excruciating blend of icy cold and searing heat ravaged him, pulling him in opposite directions. His own screams reverberated off the walls, a stark, haunting soundtrack to his suffering.
As if from a great distance, a voice, soft yet imbued with a chilling calm, whispered in his ear, "Now, Harry, you grasp the full measure of my power over you." Moments later, a consuming darkness swept over him, engulfing his consciousness completely.
Voila! Thanks for reading 😊