Harry trailed behind the tall Slytherin, his footsteps echoing softly in the corridor, the cold stones beneath his feet adding to the sense of foreboding that hung in the air. Careful not to tread on Nagini, who slithered between them with an eerie grace, he kept his gaze fixed on the ground.
"Put your mask back on," Voldemort's command cut through the silence. Harry suppressed a sigh. With a resigned acceptance, he placed it over his face, feeling the familiar magical seal encase him. The mask molded itself seamlessly around his glasses, allowing him to see and breathe, yet shrouding him in an eerie anonymity. He was once again struck by how impressive the dark lord's magic was, even in the small things. It seamlessly warped around his glasses, framing his face in a way that he could see and breathe perfectly despite what he knew to be small slits.
As they continued down the corridor, the weight of what was about to happen settled heavily on Harry's shoulders. Tonight, he would be presented to all of Voldemort's followers as the Dark Lord's apprentice, a path he could no longer envision himself escaping from. It was the only way to keep his friends safe, and now, with the promise to temper the Dark Lord's wrath, he suspected it was the only way he could ever hope to contribute to the war in a way that helped the light. It had been foolish to think a child such as he could stand up to the Dark Lord with only raw magic and skill. But maybe, just maybe, he would still be able to do some good.
And to do so, he thought morosely, would require him to actively take a spot beside the Dark Lord. The entirety of the dark side, maybe the entire wizarding world, would now know what had happened to him. He suspected there would be spies among the Death Eaters, infiltrators from the Order, their eyes always watching for some piece of information to bring back to the light. Snape had once hinted at it, that there was more than just him, just none as trusted as the potion master.
But with everyone summoned tonight, even the lowest-ranking spies would see him if they existed. The fear of exposure gnawed at him; the revelation of his allegiance to Voldemort would send shockwaves through the wizarding world, and he would be confirming it tonight. The anticipation of this moment, mixed with the dread of its consequences, created a turbulent storm of emotions within him that he was struggling to handle. How could anyone expect a sixteen-year-old to combat this, to stand and win against a Dark Lord as powerful and conniving as Voldemort?
Sadly, despite the menacing nature of the man before him, Harry couldn't deny that Voldemort was proving to be a better guardian than anyone else ever had. In these last few months, Harry had been fed, trained, and cared for—promises made by Voldemort were being fulfilled. He had even promised Harry freedom, the second-highest position in his ranks, and it appeared that was on the brink of becoming reality. He imagined his parents would be turning in their graves at the sight of their own son bearing the mark of the very darkness they had fought against, given their lives for. The irony was not lost on him, the bitter taste of regret lingering on his tongue as he followed Voldemort further into the depths of the manor.
And worst, the young Gryffindor couldn't shake the disbelief he felt. He hadn't believed Voldemort's claims months ago when he was trying to entice Harry into accepting the apprenticeship. The idea of leading the dark forces against the light was something he didn't want, nor could he bring himself to accept it in any form. And yet, it seemed Voldemort was willing to provide him with more opportunities to contribute to the war than Dumbledore ever had. The problem was that Harry now found himself on the wrong side of the battle, and the weight of that realization pressed heavily upon him.
In no time, they reached the chamber, the throne room. Just as they were about to enter, Voldemort paused, turning toward the anxious teen.
"You have pleased me more than I expected," he said thoughtfully, his crimson eyes washing over the masked teen. "Stand tall, don't cower. If they sense weakness, you'll find yourself challenged to a duel at every chance they get. If you truly hope to shape this war and protect those you care for, then you have to be someone worth respecting. It is no longer just me you need to impress if you hope to amount to anything. And do not forget you represent me now. As with everything, I expect you to meet my expectations in this." He paused, assessing the teen. "I would not bring you before them if I did not think you were ready. And do not forget why you have agreed to this; this is the only way you can help your friends, that you can save any of them."
Finding himself unable to respond, Harry fractionally nodded, the weight of Voldemort's expectations pressing on him. He felt a mix of conflicting emotions, anger that he was in this mess, resolve and desire to see it through and try to protect those that he could. As they stepped into the throne room, his mind raced with what he was about to do. He paused, mid-step; the sight that met his eyes was both grand and foreboding, the room shrouded in the darkness that was black cloaks and silver masks filling the chamber, illuminated by the flickering candlelight that danced upon the ornate walls. The number of attendees had nearly doubled again.
Voldemort led him to the front, where the imposing throne stood, its sinister aura casting a chilling atmosphere. Harry's heart pounded in his chest as he realized the significance of this moment. He was about to be introduced to Voldemort's followers, acknowledged as the Dark Lord's apprentice. It was a role he had accepted out of necessity, but now, in the face of the gathering darkness, he couldn't help but question his own resolve.
The room fell into a hushed silence as Voldemort elegantly descended onto the throne, his graceful movements belying the cruelty that lay within. His regal figure, in the prime of his new body, exuded an air of malevolent authority. Illuminated by the flickering candlelight, his handsome and refined features took on an otherworldly quality. His chiseled face, once a symbol of aristocratic charm, was now etched with the marks of power and immortality. His piercing red eyes, vibrant as rubies, reflected back the flames, seeming to be alive with darkness and an undeniable aura of malevolence. The Death Eaters remained silent, their attention fixed on their Dark Lord, captivated by his mesmerizing presence.
Beside him, Harry stood, the weight of the mask on his face a horrific reminder of his new identity. As Voldemort raised a hand, commanding attention, Harry felt the burden of the Wizarding World bearing down on him. The assembled Death Eaters turned their masked faces toward them, their eyes hidden, their expressions inscrutable. In that moment, Harry understood the gravity of his position. He was no longer just a boy; he was a pawn in a game of darkness, a player on a perilous chessboard where the stakes were nothing short of the fate of the entire Wizarding World.
"Tonight, my faithful followers, we stand on the precipice of a new era," Voldemort's voice resonated through the chamber, commanding respect and fear, sending chills down the spines of those present. "For far too long, we have hidden in the shadows, biding our time, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. That moment has arrived."
His crimson eyes glowed with a fervent intensity, reflecting the flames dancing in the torches that lined the walls. "The Wizarding World trembles in fear, shackled by feeble wizards and feeble leaders," he continued, his voice laced with disdain. "But no more. Our time has come, the time to rise from the ashes of obscurity and claim what is rightfully ours."
A low murmur of agreement rippled through the assembly, masked faces nodding in unison. Harry stood behind Voldemort, his heart pounding in his chest. He was grateful no one could see his expression, the absolute dread coursing through him.
"We will no longer cower in the face of the so-called 'Light.' We will crush them, expose their weakness, and bring them to their knees," Voldemort declared, his voice growing stronger with each word. "Together, we will rewrite history; darkness will no longer hide. You will no longer have to hide your true identities. You will be free to live the lives you were destined for; magic will no longer be constrained, tied down, and feared as it has been for decades."
The Death Eaters erupted into fervent applause, their masked faces contorted into expressions of loyalty and devotion. Harry watched, his stomach churning with disgust and fear. Voldemort's words resonated with power; it was impressive how his followers hung on to his every word. These were not witches and wizards forced into submission; he could feel their hunger in the room, it was palpable.
"You, my followers, are the chosen ones," Voldemort proclaimed, his voice carrying the weight of prophecy. The irony of his word choice was not lost on Harry. "Embrace your destiny. No one shall stand in our way. No one shall deny us what is rightfully ours. I only ask in return that you trust me, that you follow me. Honor the timeless tradition, my dark followers, of submitting yourselves to the power of a reigning Dark Lord who stands before you, ready to change the world in ways you can scarcely imagine. Yield completely to me, and I promise that you will be rewarded."
As the applause died down, Voldemort's gaze flickered toward Harry, and for a moment, their eyes locked. In that silent exchange, Harry sensed a challenge, a test of his resolve. He straightened his posture, steeling himself against the doubts that threatened to surface.
The Dark Lord's attention returned to the assembled dark followers. "Prepare yourselves, my Death Eaters. Soon, we strike fear into the hearts of our enemies. Tonight marks a significant change; the light has lost more than that can comprehend. We have gained something that will change the tide of the war, strengthening the dark side beyond measure.
"Tonight, I present to you my apprentice, the one who will stand beside me in the battles to come." His gaze flickered toward Harry, his crimson eyes glinting with an odd mixture of pride and something Harry couldn't quite decipher.
The Death Eaters murmured amongst themselves, their whispers sending shivers down Harry's spine. He clenched his fists, steeling himself against the scrutiny. The moment stretched, heavy with anticipation, before Voldemort spoke again, his words slicing through the silence like a blade.
"Step forward, Harry," Voldemort commanded, his voice soft but carrying a weight that filled the room.
Harry wasn't sure how he managed it; he felt frozen with fright but somehow took a small step forward, coming level with the Dark Lord.
"Behold, the one who will help us achieve our rightful place in this world. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, now reborn in darkness. I have been instructing him for a while now, and he has exceeded my expectations in every way. Not only is his power formidable, but he is mastering the dark arts in ways many of you could only dream of."
Harry keenly felt the atmosphere in the room shift. The followers around him stiffened, their movements becoming more deliberate and calculated. Their eyes, hidden behind masks, bore into him with a mixture of curiosity, skepticism, and a hint of awe. The knowledge of his identity had a tangible effect on the Death Eaters. It was as if a puzzle piece had finally fallen into place, and now they could see the bigger picture.
The weight of their collective gaze bore down on him, each pair of eyes adding another layer to the burden he carried. He was no longer just Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, but Harry Potter, the Dark Lord's apprentice. The title felt like a shackle, chaining him to a destiny he had never chosen for himself.
Harry clenched his fists at his sides, his jaw set in determination. He refused to show any sign of weakness, any crack in his resolve. He had accepted this role out of necessity, but he wouldn't back down. He would find a way out of this, a way to protect his friends and turn the tide of the war, even if it meant playing the part of the obedient apprentice.
"I have trained him as my own and will continue to do so. That should serve as a warning to any of you who might ill-fatedly attempt to seek vengeance for the actions of a baby, actions that I myself have forgiven him for because he has seen the error of his ways and agreed to serve me."
The words hung in the air, heavy with manipulation and deceit, but to the Death Eaters, they were like a promise, sealing Harry's fate as the Dark Lord's apprentice. The weight of his new identity pressed down on him, and he felt more like a prisoner than ever before.
His fists tightened, nails biting into his palms as he struggled to maintain his composure. He had never sought forgiveness from Voldemort. He had no choice but to comply, to endure this twisted mentorship or be tortured and watch his friend die. But the truth was irrelevant in the face of the lie Voldemort spun for his followers.
As Voldemort continued his speech, his crimson eyes glinted with possession, making Harry feel ill and vulnerable. He was nothing more than a pawn in this game of darkness, a tool to be used for the Dark Lord's ambitions. The renewed realization settled in his chest like a stone, and he fought to keep his breathing steady.
The tension in the room was tangible. Harry stood there, masked and silent, his eyes concealed but his mind racing. He was acutely aware of the Death Eaters' gazes, of the expectations and judgments that rested upon him. His existence had become a performance, a carefully crafted act, and he wondered how long he could maintain the facade before it consumed the last remnants of his true self.
"Remove your mask, Harry. Show them that you willingly stand by my side. That you have chosen this life."
The threat was crystal clear, a reminder that Harry had chosen this to save Lupin, Ron, Hermione, and all his friends. He had agreed to the mark and accepted the apprenticeship to spare those he loved. Once again, Voldemort had masterfully manipulated everything. To maintain the goodwill he'd earned, to try and temper the Dark Lord's actions, he had to submit.
Harry was shocked his hands weren't shaking as he reached up and removed his mask. There was an intake of breaths, but Harry only had eyes for Voldemort. Anger and betrayal clouded his emerald gaze. His fury was palpable; Voldemort had presented him in this manner purposefully. Spies were present, that was now certain, and this was a show meant for their benefit. This wasn't the surface agreement Harry had given to observe and listen. Voldemort was presenting him as something much more. And Harry hated that even in this, the small Tom Riddle voice that liked to whisper to him at night when he felt like it was all becoming too much to take, told him to use this. To accept the gift because it meant he would have more freedom among the Dark Lord and his followers. To not do so would return him to being a helpless captive, unaware of what was going on in the outside world and powerless to do anything about it.
In that moment, standing beside the Dark Lord, Harry felt the full weight of his choices. He was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, now reborn in darkness, a prisoner of his own circumstances, trapped in a role he had never asked for, a role he wasn't sure he could escape, let alone survive.
"As you all can see, he stands here freely. I have chosen him to be my apprentice, and I am very pleased with what our side has gained. You will treat him with respect; he is now second only to me. I will be displeased if any of you act in a manner unbefitting one who is the apprentice of your Lord."
The weight of those words settled on Harry like a suffocating cloak. He was no longer just a pawn in this deadly game; he was now a player, forced to navigate the treacherous path ahead. As the Death Eaters bowed in acknowledgment, Harry's gaze met Voldemort's, and in that moment, he understood the gravity of his choices. There was no turning back now. The die had been cast, and he was bound to this dark fate, whether he liked it or the spectacle, Voldemort dismissed his followers with a sweeping gesture, his dark figure descending from the throne with a regal yet malevolent air. Harry awkwardly trailed behind him, his steps hesitant, his mind in tumult after the harrowing experience of being introduced as an apprentice and a supposed aspiring dark minion. The shadows cast by the flickering candles danced around them, mirroring the darkness that had settled within Harry's heart. He could not believe what had just transpired, that Voldemort had claimed he willingly came to the dark side, that he desired this place next to the Dark Lord, the murderer of his parents.
"How could you? How dare you!" Harry's voice hissed, sharp with anger, as he caught up to Voldemort. His hands trembled at his sides. "You lied. You spun it as if I willingly came to you, as if I wanted to be a Dark Wizard! Seeking forgiveness from you? You should be begging forgiveness from me!"
Voldemort spun around, his crimson eyes ablaze with a predatory glint. A searing pain shot through Harry's skull, dropping him to his knees. He cried out, his hands jerking to his forehead, white-hot agony pulsing through him like tendrils of fire. It was excruciating.
"Are you finished?" Voldemort's voice cut through the air, cold and cutting, echoing off the stone walls.
Harry glanced up from his knees, gasping for breath, his vision blurred by tears of pain. His head throbbed as if it might split open any moment, each pulse echoing the torment within him.
"Have you forgotten yourself, my foolish little lion? A tiny taste of power, and it has gone straight to your head." The Slytherin's wand appeared in his hands, twirling with agitation through his long fingers. A scowl graced his lips, anger and power emanating off him in waves, dark tendrils weaving around him like vipers ready to strike. "I should crucio you, but we still have to meet with my inner circle." He stepped forward, the tip of his wand resting under Harry's chin, tilting it up. "What has gotten into you?"
Pain still rippled through his scar, a relentless reminder of how quickly Voldemort could consume him again. Harry took in a shuddering breath, anger pulsing through him, mingled with a small amount of fear. But he couldn't act as if what happened was acceptable.
Spiteful emerald eyes met searing red. Harry leaned back from the wand, but Voldemort loomed over him, pushing it forward, the tip pressing just enough to send a prickle of agony on the tender skin.
"You lied. To them and to me." The words tasted bitter on Harry's tongue, a vicious truth he couldn't swallow.
Voldemort's lips twitched in disapproval, his expression a mask of calculated indifference. "I'm a Dark Lord, Harry. I will do anything to secure my power." He paused, giving him a knowing look. "You may not like my methods, but I thought you wanted a chance to influence this war? If all of my followers believe you are against them, against me, that you are a spy from the light, then how do you expect them to take anything you say seriously? How can I consider your suggestions if they will question everything you say? You should be thanking me. I have given you a gift, more power than you deserve, and opened the door for you to take it. You will only have yourself to blame if you ruin this opportunity."
Harry shook his head, his mind reeling in disbelief. "This can't be real. If this gets back to the light, to my friends, they'll think I've betrayed them. You make it sound like I came to you willingly, that I voluntarily abandoned them."
Voldemort's lips curled into a sinister smile, his eyes gleaming with malevolence, two burning coals in the darkness. "Oh, but you have, my dear apprentice," he sneered, the words dripping with venom. "Whether you've accepted it or not, the truth remains. You have my mark. You have agreed to study under me. You practice dark magic daily. You have betrayed them. Now, get up. This night is far from over. Another outburst like that, and I will burn the blood traitors' home to the ground, and if anyone is inside, so be it."
Harry's breaths came in ragged gasps as he struggled to his feet, leaning against the cold stone wall. His anger burned, but so did confusion and a sense of betrayal. Voldemort's words cut deep, sinking into the very core of his being like icy daggers. The realization that he was trapped, not just physically but mentally, settled heavily upon him like a suffocating darkness. This wasn't a game; this was his life, and he was ensnared in a web spun by the most dangerous wizard in history. And he hated that Voldemort was right. His words would grant him more authority to maneuver, to be able to speak up without immediate scrutiny. If the dark thought he was on their side, they might actually listen to him. But at what cost?
As he steadied himself, Harry met Voldemort's gaze, defiance sweeping through him like a fierce wind against the night. "You think you can break me. Bend me to your will. But I won't give you that satisfaction. Lie to them, but you and I know the truth. These games don't change that."
Voldemort's cold laughter echoed down the corridor, a chilling sound that reverberated through the very stones of the castle. "Oh, Harry," he sneered, his voice laced with mockery, each word dripping with venom like poison from a serpent's fangs. "You have already lost, and I haven't even begun to play with you. Do not lose control again; it is no longer just your friends' lives at risk. You have committed to this path, taken your place at my side. Blow this opportunity, and you'll have no chance to influence the war. All this potential and time you've spent growing stronger will be wasted. Is that really what you want?" He gave Harry a knowing look that cut straight to the teen's soul. He hated that Voldemort could read him so well after their time together. "Now collect yourself and meet me in the dining room. I have a war to win."
Harry remained against the wall, a chill seeping through his robes, mirroring the icy grip of fear in his chest. The weight of his choices bore down on him, threatening to crush his spirit. He closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing, but the fear lingered. Was Voldemort right? Had he betrayed them, and he was simply blind to it? Was accepting a place on the dark side the best way for him to protect any of them, or was he lying to himself? Was this truly his only option?
When he finally moved, he struggled to find any strength, any determination. He felt exhausted and defeated. Clenching his fists, he whispered to himself, "I won't let him break me. I won't let him destroy who I am." He had to stay present, remember that Voldemort was the master manipulator, a puppeteer pulling strings in a deadly dance. This wasn't a show for the Death Eaters as much as an attempt to make Harry feel like he had to voluntarily submit. He glanced down at the black and gold mask that had fallen to the floor during his punishment, a symbol of the facade he was forced to wear, the persona that Voldemort wanted him to accept and claim.
Bending down, he picked it up and stared at it pensively, his fingers tracing the intricate patterns, the cool metal against his skin made him shudder. It was a symbol, a reminder of the mask Voldemort was trying to force him to accept. Harry's grip tightened on it as he made a vow: you want me to wear a mask? I'll give you a mask that even you can't see through.
With newfound determination, he pushed the mask back in its rightful place, covering his face once more. He straightened his shoulders and marched toward the dining room, his steps heavy but resolute. Whatever lay ahead, he would meet it head-on. If Voldemort wanted to give him power, then he would just have to take it
AN: Voila! This was soooo much fun to write. I'm really enjoying this story! Please let me know what you think. The inner circle is next, muhahaha. Let me know if you have any requests! As always, THANK YOU for the reviews, it really makes updates enjoyable 😊