Chapter 37: Embracing Regret
Chapter Text
Harry awoke well before dawn, filled with a torrent of anticipation at the thought of accessing the Potter vaults. It was more than curiosity; it felt like a step towards reclaiming a lost piece of himself. Unsure of what to expect, but having seen the Slytherin vault, he was practically giddy at the possibility of finding familiar grimoires, journals, keepsakes, and maybe even portraits of his relatives.
After his shower, Harry was met by Tipsy as he tried to magically tame his damp hair into a semblance of order, though the outcome remained as unruly as ever.
"Good morning, Master Harry!" she squeaked excitedly.
"Good morning, Tipsy." Harry greeted her fondly. "Thanks for the help last night; that sobering potion was exactly what I needed. And you did a fantastic job with the party."
Her smile widened so much that he feared she might hurt herself. "You is very welcome," she beamed. "I have all of yous birthday presents. Should I get them now?"
The newly turned seventeen-year-old hesitated. Normally, presents were something to look forward to. But this year, he found himself not as eager. He was certain they would include insincere gestures and attempts to curry favor from Voldemort's sociopathic followers and any aspiring ministry officials hoping to ride the new Lord Potter's elevated status. He was equally uneasy about what the light side might send. Or if they would send anything at all since everyone in the Order now knew of his duel using dark magic, they had to see what he was slowly turning into, what he was becoming. A part of him assumed that they would cut ties with him sooner rather than later, probably even become openly hostile.
"Perhaps put them in one of the receiving rooms. I can sort through them later," he suggested, concerned that the presents might actually dampen his spirits. He didn't want anything to undermine the euphoria he was still experiencing from the previous night's party and the unexpected gift from Voldemort. That, along with the anticipated access he was about to gain to his heritage, was setting this birthday up to be the best one he'd ever had. Which really was a sad thought if he reflected on it properly, which he promptly resolved not to do.
As the sun finally reached an acceptable morning hour, Harry found himself at the entrance to the manor early, brimming with an eagerness he struggled to contain. His nervous energy was unmistakable.
"Your impatience is showing," observed a refined voice.
Harry turned to find the Dark Lord stepping out from a side corridor leading to his private quarters. Clad in dark robes trimmed with green, he exuded an aura of formidable power and menace, the fabric flowing gracefully around him. He embodied the very essence of the Lord Slytherin title he had recently assumed.
Trying to compose himself, Harry realized he truly hadn't grasped how significant this moment would be for him. It was made all the more complex because it was the wizard who had killed his parents who would be accompanying him. His hands brushed against the side pocket of his cloak where the Slytherin watch was safely tucked away. He had wrestled with the decision of whether to bring the watch today and ultimately chose to carry it. Pushing aside any thoughts of what his parents might think, he attempted to steady his emotions.
As the Dark Lord neared him, Harry averted his gaze from Voldemort's penetrating stare, aware that his involuntary hand movements and the turmoil he fought to conceal were likely not lost on those discerning crimson eyes.
"Come," Voldemort said, sparing Harry the need to articulate his feelings. In an instant, they both apparated to Diagon Alley, greeted by the warmth and brilliance of the morning sun. The Alley was bustling with early risers, a contrast to the tense atmosphere Harry remembered from his last visit months ago when the whispers of war seemed to loom over every interaction. Now, the sound of children's laughter and the sight of parents letting them roam a bit freer painted a scene of cautious optimism.
As they set off, Diagon Alley continued to come to life with the day's early promise. Shopkeepers were setting up for business, and the cheerful noise of motivated shoppers offered a lively backdrop to the day's start, leaving Harry feeling content. This is what life should be like, not one of fear, nervously awaiting a beckoning war.
The serene tranquility of the morning was interrupted when a gaggle of children, deeply absorbed in their play, happily pursued a bewitched toy broom that darted and weaved through the cobblestone streets, drawing them closer to the pair. Abruptly, the broom veered, charging straight for Harry and Voldemort, nearly colliding with the formidable wizard, who, with a nonchalant display of wandless magic, halted it mere inches from his face. To Harry's astonishment, Voldemort extended his hand, seizing the toy.
The vibrant cacophony of youthful laughter switched to miffed silence and contemplative stares as the children came to a halt, eyes fixed on their captured toy. The unexpected pause in their play seemed to attract the attention of several parents who had been passively observing their offspring from a distance. Harry could feel more and more gazes shifting in their direction, a slow ripple of recognition of who exactly was among them beginning to spread.
Oblivious to their parents' growing tension, the children only saw an obstacle to their play. They realized their toy, and thus their fun, had been interrupted by this elegantly draped wizard with enigmatic red eyes, prompting a silent debate among them about how to proceed. It was the youngest, a bold girl with pigtails, who took the initiative. With her gaze fixed on the broom now in the possession of the wizard, she stepped forward. Unintimidated by the formidable figure before her, she approached, extending her hand with a look of innocent expectation. Harry, caught in a panic as he stared at the unfolding scene, felt his eyebrows shoot up, disappearing beneath his dark fringe as he nervously switched his attention between the wizard and the young girl.
Before Harry could intervene, a sudden voice cut through the quiet that had enveloped Diagon Alley. "Katrina! What are you doing?" A mother rushed forward, her pace marked by anxiety, stopping dead in her tracks at the sight of her daughter facing the Dark Lord. Her complexion turned ashen, recognition dawning. "Katrina, come here, now," she urged, her voice tinged with a blend of fear and insistence.
Katrina seemed utterly unaffected by the severity of the moment. "I want my toy," she protested, her attention unwavering from the broom under Voldemort's control.
Her mother, mustering every bit of bravery she had, moved closer, her voice reduced to a faint whisper. "I'm sorry," she managed to say, advancing with deliberate care, driven by a primal urge to protect her child. The ambient noises of Diagon Alley dwindled, a silence enveloping the onlookers as the identity of the figure among them became increasingly known.
Voldemort's gaze shifted to Harry, their eyes locking in silent dialogue. "Sheep," he hissed contemptuously, his voice laden with scorn for the crowd's increasing palpable fear. Then, unexpectedly, he handed the broom to Harry, indicating for him to return it to the girl. Eager to prevent the scene from escalating, Harry approached the mother, the little girl following him just as he'd hoped, her eyes bright with the anticipation of reclaiming her toy.
"Here you go," Harry said, offering the broom with a cautious smile, hoping to diffuse the situation, that she would just take it and leave. The mother's thank you was barely audible, her words heavy with a relief that seemed to encompass more than just the act of returning a toy. Her eyes flickered between Harry and Voldemort, seemingly indicating that she was thanking him for more than the toy, that she recognized his presence next to the Dark Lord had likely contributed to her child's safety.
Awkwardly, Harry nodded, turning to return to Voldemort. The quiet of the square hung heavy, the community's unease tangible in the notorious wizard's presence. "They will have to get used to a Dark Lord in their midst," Voldemort remarked, his voice a sibilant hiss, continuing the conversation with his heir in Parseltongue, a choice that seemed to heighten the already palpable tension—a tactic Harry suspected, was deliberate.
Harry, driven by a blend of boldness and curiosity, hissed back, "I thought your public persona was Lord Slytherin, not the Dark Lord."
Voldemort's response was laden with smug satisfaction that did little to alleviate Harry's alarm. "You should never forget that they are one and the same," he asserted, resuming his purposeful strides toward Gringotts. Unsure how to interpret that, Harry hastened his steps to keep pace, feeling the weight of the admission settling uncomfortably upon him.
As they entered Gringotts, the grandeur of the wizarding bank enveloped them, its cavernous interior echoing with the clinks and murmurs of magical commerce. They moved towards an open goblin bank teller, commanding its attention in the otherwise quiet atrium. An elderly witch, engaged in conversation with another goblin teller, glanced over, her curiosity intrigued by the unlikely pair. Beyond her, it seemed they were the only clients.
"How can I assist you?" inquired the goblin, his dark eyes shifting from the Dark Lord to Harry, then back to the Dark Lord. Recognizing both wizards, he straightened his posture and adjusted his glasses up his nose more attentively.
"My heir has come of age; he would like to access the Potter and Black vaults. You will find the necessary paperwork on file confirming his inheritance of both," Voldemort stated authoritatively, assuming control of the conversation.
The goblin's gaze became contemplative, yet he nodded in acknowledgment. "Of course, Lord Slytherin. And will both of you be visiting his vaults?"
As Harry locked eyes with Voldemort's assessing gaze, he tried to push back the dread the simple question invoked. The idea of exploring the remnants of his family legacy alongside the very person responsible for their demise was more than he could bear. Despite reconciling with many aspects of his current circumstances, the prospect of jointly visiting the vaults represented a boundary he was not prepared to cross.
"I have my own business to attend to," Voldemort declared, turning his attention back to the goblin. "I require access to the Slytherin vault." Harry felt a wave of relief wash through him.
"Very well," the goblin said with a nod. "Strongborne will escort Lord Potter, and Snarlgrip will accompany you, Lord Slytherin."
Voldemort, finding the arrangement satisfactory, turned back to Harry. "I will meet you back here in the waiting area in two hours. Exercise caution, especially in the Black Vault." he advised, his voice softening as he switched to Parseltongue, "you may be hesitant to have me join you in the Potter vault, but old magic is dangerous to navigate. We will discuss how to best sort through your inheritance later. For now, do not take or touch anything unless you are certain it is safe."
The unexpected consideration from Voldemort left Harry momentarily stunned. He silently acknowledged the advice, then turned to greet the waiting goblins. Spotting Strongborne, whom he recognized from his past visit, Harry braced himself, the memory of their first encounter stirring no small amount of embarrassment within him. Voldemort's direction on the proper ways to interact with magical beings had since made Harry painfully aware of the faux pas he had committed in his initial greeting—a mistake he now realized held significant weight, considering Strongborne's stewardship over his family's finances.
"Greetings, Strongborne. May your gold forever overflow and your wealth be ever plentiful," Harry intoned, striving to convey the regard he had come to understand was fundamental when dealing with the goblin community.
The goblin observed him with a measured look before turning his gaze briefly towards Voldemort. "May your treasures always multiply, Lord Potter," Strongborne replied, acknowledging Harry's greeting before signaling for him to follow.
Harry trailed the goblin deeper into the bowels of the bank's cavernous vaults. They boarded the same rail cart used previously, though this journey was shorter than the one to the Slytherin vault. Arriving at his family's vault, Harry breathed a sigh of relief, grateful there were no trials to endure this time.
"Blood is used to access this vault," Strongborne explained as they halted beside a massive door, guarded by two lion statues as tall as Harry. Confused about what was expected of him, Harry looked questioningly at the goblin, who pointed towards a wall nearby.
A solemn stone pedestal stood there, its surface bearing the marks of age. On it, a small basin, intricately carved from the stone and no larger than a hand's palm, was set into the pedestal. It was filled with a clear liquid that, even in the subdued light of the vault's entrance, shimmered with a faint glow.
"A small prick to the finger is all that's required," Strongborne directed. Surprised, Harry stepped forward and complied, allowing a single drop of his blood to fall into the basin. The liquid reacted instantly, swirling with colors that shimmered like molten gold. An echoing click from the vault door signaled it had unlocked.
"I will wait for you here," the goblin stated.
With a sense of eager anticipation, Harry grasped the large golden handle and pushed open the door to his parents' vault. As he stepped inside, a cool breeze welcomed him, tinged with the faint scent of dust and untouched magic that had remained still for years. The vault was softly illuminated by enchanted lights, revealing riches that spanned generations.
Shelves filled with ancient books, gleaming artifacts, and precious family keepsakes lined the walls. Corners of the room held neat stacks of gold Galleons, silver Sickles, and bronze Knuts, a testament to the financial legacy left to him by his ancestors. He was glad the Dursleys never knew this small fortune awaited their wayward charge when he came of age; he was certain they would have found a way to steal it, even if it did relate to magic. Harry's eyes roamed the space, overwhelmed by the magnitude of his family's history and legacy, eagerly taking it all in.
Venturing further, Harry discovered various magical items, each with its own unique tale that he longed to know. There were pieces of enchanted jewelry sparkling with protective spells, rare potion ingredients in carefully labeled containers, and a collection of personal journals and letters that offered insights into the lives of his forebears.
As he explored deeper into the vault, Harry's attention was captured by an object that made him freeze—his invisibility cloak rested neatly folded atop a wooden chest, glowing with a familiar ethereal light. His heart leaped. He had believed it lost during his hurried departure from the Dursleys'. Yet, here it lay, awaiting his return. Seeing his cloak, a significant part of his father's legacy and a fundamental element of his own past adventures, stirred a profound emotion within him that was difficult to identify. Gently lifting it, Harry felt its familiar cool, light texture between his fingers as he draped it over his arm. It was like reuniting with an old friend, a companion through his most treacherous and decisive moments. The joy of having it back was immeasurable.
His gaze then drifted to a shelf adorned with grimoires and journals, their leather bindings aged and the names of his ancestors etched into them. He began sifting through them; they were a treasure trove of knowledge, brimming with spells, potions, and magical theories that had been explored and developed over centuries by his kin. The realization of having access to such a wealth of information, a tangible connection to the magical achievements of the Potters, was overwhelming. Harry felt moisture welling up in his eyes, grateful to be alone in this moment.
Steadying himself, Harry sorted through each relic with reverence, excited to delve into the pages steeped in generations of wisdom and insight. He retrieved the satchel gifted by the Dark Lord during his previous visit to the bank and began filling it. The leather bag, enchanted to contain far more than its outward appearance would suggest, was more than enough to accommodate everything he wished to take back to the manor for closer examination.
Among the treasures, Harry discovered journals penned by various ancestors. Each page he turned brought a smile to his face; the entries were filled with stories, personal reflections, and occasional humorous anecdotes that provided a unique warmth and insight into his family's history. The journals painted vivid pictures of their lives, detailing magical experiments and offering their thoughts on the world, making Harry feel as though he were engaging in conversations with them across the ages.
His hands trembled as he stumbled upon a journal written by his mother during her years at Hogwarts. Settling onto a nearby trunk, he began eagerly flipping through the pages. Her beautiful cursive and flowing, witty words made it feel as though she was right beside him, narrating her life directly into his heart. Overcome with emotion, Harry closed his eyes, taking a moment to steady himself as the weight of her echoed presence washed over him. He almost felt like he could feel her, that she was here with him in this vault. If she could see him now, what would she think? Would she be proud or turn away because of the path he'd chosen?
A warmth began to spread in his chest; initially, he assumed it was the overflow of his tumultuous emotions, but he soon recognized it as a tangible heat. Extracting the watch Voldemort had given him, he noticed he had less than thirty minutes before he needed to return to the main floor. Accepting his limited time left, he packed the grimoires and precious journals into his satchel with reverence, planning to examine them thoroughly once he was safely in his room.
Leaving the vault, Harry felt a poignant blend of fulfillment and yearning. While his heart craved to stay and immerse himself further in his family's history, the constraints of his two-hour window forced him to return to the present reality. Stepping out into the corridor, a sense of longing washed over him, accentuating the disparity between the sanctuary of the vault, where he felt a tangible connection to his parents and family, and the harshness of the world outside.
Here, it was Voldemort, not his father, who had bestowed upon him a coming-of-age heirloom. Instead of memories of his mother joyfully planning his coming-of-age party, her presence was confined to the yellowed pages of an aged journal. This extreme contrast left Harry's emotions whirling, unsure of how to process his feelings. He doubted the appropriateness of his gratitude for the celebration; was it wrong that he had felt valued and needed since it was orchestrated by the same wizard who had rendered him an orphan?
As he left the vault, a vortex of confusion and conflicting feelings engulfed him. The Potter vault, though merely a faint echo of genuine connection, represented the last vestige of his family. His current reality stood in stark contrast: it was the Dark Lord who stood outside, ready to escort him back to the manor, a place he was growing to consider his home more with each passing day. It all felt profoundly wrong, stirring a deep sense of unease within him.
"I trust everything was satisfactory?" the goblin inquired, eyeing Harry, who appeared shaken by the flood of memories from his family's past.
He nodded, trying to compose himself. One thing puzzled him. "My invisibility cloak was there. I thought it was left with my aunt and uncle."
The goblin's scowl caught Harry off guard, his sudden hostility surprising the young wizard. "When we retrieved your vault key from your previous guardian, we discovered it in his possession. As he is no longer permitted access to anything belonging to the Potter lineage, we returned it to the vault for safekeeping."
Relieved, Harry nodded. "Thank you."
Soon, they arrived at the Black vault, which also required blood entry. Harry wasn't surprised that a dark family like the Blacks would have such a requirement, but upon reflection, he was taken aback that his own family did as well. Perhaps the use of blood magic wasn't as taboo as the current Ministry portrayed it to be. Knowing that the Potters were traditionally associated with the light side of magic, this realization forced him to reconsider his stance on certain rituals he had been hesitant to try. While there were rituals he genuinely wanted to explore, he had been resisting, fearing the implications if he displayed too much willingness to delve into dark magic. But if his own family used blood to secure their vault, maybe Voldemort wasn't manipulating him when he told him that blood magic used to be a common type of magic.
As Harry ventured deeper into the Black vault, he couldn't shake the feeling of foreboding that washed over him. The atmosphere here felt darker than in the Potter vault; he could sense the lingering presence of dark magic and cursed artifacts. Amidst the opulence, his eyes were drawn to a gold cup hidden behind a shelf that seemed recently disturbed. There was an inexplicable pull toward it, a magnetic force that seemed to beckon to him. However, a sense of unease settled in Harry's stomach, and he tore his gaze away from the cup, heeding Voldemort's advice, instinctively knowing that some discoveries were best left untouched, especially within the confines of the Black family's legacy.
Aware that his time was quickly dwindling, Harry shifted his focus to the most promising collections of books and manuscripts that filled the vault. His fingers trailed over the spines of several volumes, each promising knowledge and insights into the dark arts and beyond. Selecting a few that seemed particularly intriguing, along with a grimoire that seemed to hum with latent power, Harry gathered these items and dropped them into the satchel.
With his selections made, Harry took one last look around the vault, the gold cup lingering in the back of his mind. Clutching the leather bag closely, Harry made his way out of the Black vault, the door closing behind him with a resonant thud that echoed the finality of his departure. As he stepped back into the dimly lit corridor of Gringotts, he quietly followed the goblin back to the main floor, where he met the Dark Lord, who awaited his heir's return.
S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S
Dinner that night was a tense and awkward affair, characterized by a palpable quiet that hung heavy in the air. Despite the opulent setting of the dining room and the sumptuous spread laid out before them, there was an unmistakable tension that existed between the two wizards.
Harry, usually buoyant and talkative about his latest research, found himself suddenly uneasy in Voldemort's presence. The weight of their tangled history, exacerbated by the day's events and the stark reality of Voldemort's involvement in his orphaning, cast a dark cloud over any semblance of casual conversation.
Harry had finished reading his mother's journal before dinner, each word a beautiful yet emotional reminder of the vibrant life she had lived and the love she had shared with his father. The injustice of their premature deaths gnawed at him, fueling a deep-seated resentment towards the wizard seated beside him. Harry felt hollow, the weight of his grief and anger pressing down upon him.
"You have been rather subdued tonight, my heir," the Dark Lord prompted, cutting through the silence. The crimson gaze focused on him, stirring a mix of apprehension and rebelliousness within the young man.
Wanting to maintain silence yet aware that ignoring the prompt would be unacceptable, Harry hesitated, wrestling with a storm of emotions that threatened to drown him, leaving him unable to articulate his thoughts. "I... I'm not sure," he admitted, his words barely audible. "I really don't want to talk about it."
Voldemort's expression seemed to temper imperceptibly, a fleeting glimmer of insight dancing across his intelligent features. "You must move beyond this, Harry," he warned, his tone not quite a command but laced with firmness. "The past is behind us."
Harry couldn't quell the surge of resentment at the suggestion, the pain of his parents' loss raw and agonizing. "Do you even regret it?" he blurted out, unable to contain the question any longer. He searched Voldemort's eyes, seeking any hint of remorse, any trace of humanity concealed beneath the facade of the Dark Lord.
Voldemort's gaze hardened, a glint in his eyes betraying a depth of contemplation. "Regret is a luxury I cannot afford," he declared after a moment, his tone devoid of sentiment. "But I have had ample time to reflect on the consequences of my decision." Harry furrowed his brow, uncertain of where Voldemort was heading with his words.
"I do regret the loss of magical life, of losing powerful witches and wizards. Including your parents." Harry sensed a shift in Voldemort's demeanor, an almost subtle acknowledgment of the tangled web of choices and outcomes that had led them to this moment. While not outright apologizing, there was a hint of remorse buried beneath layers of pragmatism and calculation.
"And I regret losing fourteen years because I reacted to a prophecy that never should have held any weight." Voldemort's voice trailed off; his expression inscrutable as he mulled over the implications. "It has forced me to reconsider my approach. And destined us both to this new path that neither of us could have ever anticipated and yet offers so much possibility."
Conflicting emotions surged within Harry. He wanted to ask him if he'd really changed. But he didn't know if he could accept the response, unwilling to hear the Dark Lord say something that made him realize that vicious darkness was the only path that lay ahead. Or worse, fearful of lies and manipulations because the Dark Lord thought it was what his heir would need to hear to get over the day's events. The subtle admission of regret sparked a flicker of hope within him. He clung to that hope desperately; it was all he had.
"Is this real?" Harry asked, at last, hating the desperation in his voice. Emerald eyes locked on crimson, searching for any hint of sincerity amidst the shadows of deception.
Voldemort's expression remained inscrutable, his gaze acute. "Reality often defies our understanding, Harry," he replied cryptically. "What matters is how we respond, the path we choose."
Harry exhaled in frustration, a weight of uncertainty pressing down upon him. "I don't know what to do with that," he stated. Starting this conversation was the last thing he wanted, but he knew he couldn't avoid it. After spending a day consumed by his parents' memories, the realization that he had slowly come to see Voldemort more and more as a guardian, as someone whom he respected and hoped to impress, had never felt so inconceivable; it was almost too much to bear. He had to believe that he hadn't betrayed everything his parents stood for, that his decisions were not only for his own good but for the betterment of the wizarding world. That he wasn't just a pawn being manipulated to betray everything.
Voldemort regarded Harry with a knowing gaze as if seeing through the layers of his chaotic thoughts. "What do you hope to gain from this conversation, Harry?" he inquired. "What is truly bothering you?"
Harry swallowed, unwilling to admit out loud that he was beginning to hope that the Dark Lord was someone who genuinely cared for him, that he was someone who would help him navigate this beyond-crazy world. That Harry's wasn't to be discarded once his use ran out. The party and thoughtful gift the previous night had touched him deeply, blurring the lines between ally and adversary more than ever before. Voldemort had become both the greatest blessing and the most daunting trial in his life, and coming to terms with this truth was tearing him apart.
"I don't want another war to start," he said instead, unwilling to vocalize his inner turmoil, his deep-seated betrayal of his parents. "I don't want the same darkness that claimed my parents to continue, for more innocent children to grow up like I did."
Voldemort fixed Harry with an assessing gaze as if suspecting he hadn't spoken the whole truth. "That is why your presence at my side is invaluable," he remarked, his tone measured, deliberate. "To act as an intermediary, navigating this intricate maze of conflicting interests. Another war is unnecessary. You've witnessed this in what we've already achieved."
Harry frowned, wishing more than anything that what the Dark Lord said was true. "But that only exists if everyone submits to you," he countered. "If the ministry and light yield. What's to stop you from killing them once they do? Or worse, if they don't?"
The intensity in Voldemort's gaze deepened, sending an involuntary shiver coursing through Harry's veins. "You've been my apprentice for a year now, Harry," Voldemort emphasized, his tone unwavering. "By this time, you should have grasped the essence of who I am. Do you truly believe I am incapable of ruling without resorting to murder and needless suffering?"
Reluctantly, Harry admitted that aside from the Dark Lord's own followers, there hadn't been any widespread torture or atrocities under Voldemort's rule since their negotiations. None, at least that the Potter Lord knew of. But the Dark Lord still firmly believed that everyone would eventually fall under his rule; for those who continued to resist, what would happen to them?
The fear Harry had tried to suppress since pledging his unwavering loyalty echoed in his thoughts. "What happens when your power becomes absolute, and someone without your mark displeases you? Will you still keep your promises when there is no reason to temper your anger?"
Crimson eyes locked onto emerald sending shivers down Harry's spine. He sensed the surge of dark magic radiating outward, the dark wizard's emotions beginning to fracture his usually impenetrable demeanor. "Harry, I am a wizard of my word," Voldemort declared, his tone thick with annoyance, signaling his distaste for having to defend his actions. "I have proven as much. Our agreement was clear: your loyalty as my heir in exchange for the freedom to act in a way that's true to your nature. I vowed to spare the innocent as long as you remain by my side. This commitment remains unchanged, unless you suddenly wish to abandon your role, relinquishing your position by my side. Is that what you're trying to convey to me?"
Harry exhaled deeply, feeling the weight of the watch in his cloak's pocket—a tangible reminder of the choice he had made and the path he had willingly embarked upon. Voldemort had appeared pleased with him the previous night, celebrating his coming of age. He had thought that was real. Just as real as Voldemort's anger when Harry's life had been put at risk because he had been unwilling to defend himself. Was he now risking the trust and respect he had earned, prompting the Dark Lord to question his loyalty after all they had been through and all the efforts Voldemort had shown in acknowledging his heir? Or was this all a manipulation?
"I'm not saying I want to step down, or that I want to leave your side. It's just that I feel as though I've betrayed them," he admitted, his eyes lowering in a mix of shame and discomfort at his own confession.
"Why?" Voldemort's question was sharp, cutting through the silence.
Wasn't it obvious? Did he really need to explain that he sought their replacement in the one who'd taken their lives?
Observing Harry's distress, the Dark Lord shook his head, his expression etched with annoyance. "So strong, yet so fragile, my perplexing little lion. I've taught you so much, and yet, in moments like these, you unveil the extent of what you still lack to understand." Harry, feeling a rush of embarrassment, was uncertain how to interpret this nearly affectionate admonishment.
However, Voldemort wasn't done. "Do you relish the role of a martyr, eager to be exploited by anyone who might wish to manipulate you?"
Harry recoiled, struck by the words. "No." Hadn't he repeatedly expressed his hatred of being powerless, of being manipulated? Everything he had done was in defiance of that very fate.
"Then why impose such constraints on yourself?"
The accusation left Harry stunned; he hadn't, he did not. These were constraints imposed by the world, not self-inflicted. "I don't," he retorted with vehemence.
Voldemort's lips twisted, his expression turning cruel. "It is time you stop lying to yourself. You are no longer a child sacrifice, a shield for the light to be controlled," Voldemort sneered, his intense gaze and the full force of his magic pinning Harry back in his seat. "Stop being confined by other's expectations. You must rise above that. I've seen sparks of it. You did it with my followers and at the Ministry; I've even seen hints of it in your interactions with the Light. But only when your back is to the wall or when I have forced you. When you feel you have no choice.
Voldemort's headshake was slow, laden with disappointment, a sentiment Harry could palpably feel. "I have done everything in my power to make you strong, to ensure you can stand independently. And yet, you have not embraced this truth yourself. Abandon these perceived expectations and the incessant desire to appease the world."
The Dark Lord leaned closer, his magic intensifying. "Tell me, Harry, what's the purpose of our discussion tonight? Why do you fear rebuke by souls who no longer reside on this plane? You've confined yourself to this manor for weeks because you are avoiding judgment from those who would have merely used you and then cast you aside. After everything you have fought for, this power you have acquired in the name of autonomy and control, you are throwing it away. You are lying to yourself if you think I'm the one restraining you. Instead, you've chosen to be shackled by your insecurities and self-imposed limitations. They weaken you."
Numbly, Harry gazed at the Dark Lord, his mind reeling. The words struck a chord, yet Harry wasn't so naive as to think these promises of freedom and liberation meant independence from the Dark Lord himself. And yet, Harry had already made his peace with this, having chosen to align with the Dark Lord not for the sake of his own freedom but to protect everyone else. And so far, his decision had paid off. If he had committed to this path, then why did he allow the chains of all the other expectations to continue to bind him? Surprisingly, he found himself agreeing with Voldemort. Could he really be free of all these other expectations? Trying to balance the expectations from the light, his friends, and what he believed his parents would have wanted was tearing him apart. He had chosen this path, chosen Voldemort. Could it really be as simple as letting everything else fall away?
"Do you still want me by your side?" Harry's voice was soft, hesitant… Exposing the inner conflict that was slowly destroying him. Part of him dreaded Voldemort's affirmation, while another part feared rejection even more.
"Yes," Voldemort replied without hesitation, his face impassive, but his sharp crimson eyes intensely focused on Harry as if seeing into the very depths of him. "As I have clearly shown you. I have honored my commitments, provided you with all I promised. The only remaining obstacle to the power you desire is yourself. The real question is, do you wish to remain by my side?"
Harry briefly shut his eyes, sensing a burden easing that had been with him since his visit to his parents' vault. His current reality, standing with the Dark Lord, had unexpectedly brought him more than he could have imagined. The encounter with his parents' heritage had left a void within him, yet paradoxically, the last year had been filled with a sense of hope unprecedented in his life. It was a different future than he had ever imagined, yet it had turned out to be significantly better, making him realize his role in shaping the wizarding world's fate was just beginning. He knew this was where he was meant to be, where he felt appreciated, and where he could make a real change.
"Yes," he uttered, his voice low but resolute. Emerald met crimson; Harry felt more committed to this than he'd ever been to anything in his life. "I do."
Voldemort's expression shifted subtly, a spark of satisfaction flickering in his crimson eyes. "Good," he stated firmly, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken promises. He extended a hand, placing it reassuringly on Harry's arm. Surprisingly, Harry found the contact not unwelcome but rather grounding. Instinctively, he found himself leaning into the touch slightly. "Fate has little regard for the timid or the weak. You are destined for more than you could have ever envisioned for yourself. I have faith in you, my heir; it is time you have faith in yourself."
S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S
The morning following the perplexing dinner, Harry made his way to the receiving room where Tipsy had arranged his presents. Amidst the lingering complexity of the night's conversation, just before parting ways for the evening, the Dark Lord had suggested he spend the next day going through his gift, subtly emphasizing the importance of responsiveness to influential gift-givers. Though not explicitly commanded, Harry discerned an unspoken expectation characteristic of his roles as both Lord Potter and the Dark Lord's heir—roles he had just confirmed he wished to uphold. In a way, he found solace in the Dark Lord's experienced guidance, a semblance of normalcy reinstated amidst the emotional complexities of the day he had endured.
As he entered the room, he wasn't particularly surprised by the substantial pile of gifts awaiting him; given the attempts of the Dark Lord's followers and ministry officials to curry favor, he had anticipated as much. He quickly sorted through the presents, prioritizing those from people he actually knew.
Many of the gifts proved to be practical offerings—rare potions, valuable books, and tastefully crafted artworks adorned with either the Slytherin or Potter crest. Some even bore both emblems, juxtaposing the stag of the Potter crest with the serpent of Slytherin, a combination that left Harry feeling deeply uneasy.
Shifting his focus to the gifts from the dark families he was acquainted with, Harry encountered an array of opulent and intriguing items, each a testament to the wealth and prestige of its sender. Among these, a particularly fascinating gift came from Draco—a set of ancient, silver-crafted dueling daggers, their handles intricately designed with emblems of the Slytherin lineage. The craftsmanship was exquisite.
Even more shocking were the gifts from both Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, and, astonishingly, Bellatrix Lestrange. Lucius had sent a rare, first edition of a dark arts tome, its pages filled with powerful and forbidden knowledge. Narcissa's gift was a beautifully woven black fur cloak, enchanted to shield the wearer from detection by the most common magical means. Bellatrix, in a move that was both surprising and unsettling, had contributed a box containing a collection of cursed amulets, each bearing a dark enchantment that pulsed of significant power. He'd have to ask Voldemort what they were meant for, but he suspected it wasn't anything good.
However, it was the gifts from those aligned with the light that stirred the greatest sense of discomfort within him, which he chose to open last.
Molly Weasley had sent a modest tin of baked fudge, conspicuously without a note. Alastor Moody had provided a book titled "How to Spot a Dark Wizard," which appeared to be a worn, secondhand copy, possibly from the Auror Department. Harry couldn't help but feel darkly amused as he flipped through its pages; the gift was probably intended as a jab, but he found self-deprecating humor in the gesture. After the conversation he'd just had, he was determined not to let such provocations drag him down. The Dark Lord was right – it was time to shed the unnecessary burdens he'd been carrying. Accepting he couldn't satisfy everyone was liberating; if only the ex-Auror could see him now.
Ron had sent Quidditch supplies accompanied by an awkwardly penned note inquiring whether Harry was still permitted to fly. Hermione's gift was a charmed journal designed to facilitate immediate communication between them, with a note explaining she held the counterpart and that it was enchanted to ensure only she and Ron could access its contents. Inside, a heartfelt message implored Harry to reach out, hinting at unsettling rumors circulating within the Order about him.
Ginny's present was a small, enchanted figure of a hippogriff that pranced around gracefully when touched. The delicate craftsmanship and the thought behind it stirred memories of his godfather, Sirius, making no small amount of emotions swell in Harry's chest. Her note was straightforward yet sincere. She missed him, hoped he was well, and told him that she trusted him, that she knew his motives were good, and that everything he did was to make the world better and safer. He stared at it, unblinking, hoping she was right.
Remus and Tonks had combined their efforts to send a gift with a box filled with delicious looking sweets. That they sent the gift together surprised Harry; he hadn't realized there was any depth of relationship between the two. Included was a letter from Remus, similar to Hermione's it was laden with urgency and no small amount of sincere worry that pierced Harry more sharply than the rest. The werewolf had expressed a profound sense of guilt over Harry's predicament, voicing a desperate desire to speak to him in any arrangement that Harry felt comfortable with.
In the days following the influx of gifts and his emotional journey to the vault, Harry found himself with plenty of time on his hands as the Dark Lord became engrossed in other urgent matters. He wondered whether this newfound distance was deliberate, perhaps meant to give him space to process his recent emotional upheaval, or if Voldemort was simply tied up with pressing concerns. Regardless of the Dark Lord's intentions, the break proved beneficial for Harry, granting him the chance to reaffirm his commitment to the path he had chosen. Even after everything, it still felt like the best option before him.
As he wandered the gardens and surrounding estate outside the manor walls, a sense of calm and clarity enveloped him. This wasn't the path he had anticipated, but he found solace in knowing he was still making a difference, and he felt certain of the Dark Lord's genuine desire to have him by his side.
While Harry doubted his parents would approve of his decisions, he found that his original motivations remained unchanged. He still harbored a desire to protect others and to temper the Dark Lord's more destructive tendencies. Additionally, he couldn't deny the allure of the magical strength and proficiency he had gained in navigating the wizarding world, and he was eager to continue honing his skills. He was of age; it was his life to live, and he was satisfied with his decision.
Resolved in at least one of his decisions, his thoughts shifted to a new dilemma: how to navigate the relationships with his friends and the individuals aligned with the light who wished to remain connected with him. It wasn't until a few nights later, during dinner, that Harry was given an opportunity to broach the subject of the gifts and the requests for meetings that had been weighing on his mind.
"Remus has requested a meeting to talk," Harry mentioned, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled over the meal.
"And what is it you desire?" Voldemort inquired, his tone carrying a sense of genuine interest. Harry was relieved that their conversations had returned to their usual rhythm, the tension surrounding his birthday dissipating.
Harry shrugged, still sorting through his own thoughts and oddly eager to hear Voldemort's recommendation. "I'm not sure. I feel like I owe it to him to meet at least once since I haven't seen him since Dumbledore's trial. But it's different than with Ron and Hermione. I don't fully trust him not to attempt to bring me back to them. That he'll accept that this was my decision to make."
Voldemort's gaze grew thoughtful. "If you desire to see him, you may extend an invitation for him to come here. You will be safe within the protections of this manor."
Harry's eyes widened in surprise at the suggestion, that Voldemort would willingly welcome a known member of the Order into his home. "And you won't harm him?" he asked, his tone skeptical, laced with a hint of challenge, though devoid of any real animosity.
Voldemort smirked, a dark amusement twinkling in his eyes. "Only if he causes you displeasure." The statement, while ostensibly protective, carried a hint of control that left Harry feeling uneasy, even as he acknowledged a certain level of flattery.
"Alright, thank you," Harry said, appreciative of the gesture even if he was slightly disturbed by the threatening overtones. "I'd like to think about it, but doing it here does seem like the safest option."
Harry hesitated, his eyes lowering to his clasped hands in his lap, a silent admission of his apprehension. Voldemort, attuned to these subtleties, quickly noticed his reluctance.
"Is there something else?" Voldemort inquired.
Gathering his courage, Harry resolved to address the other matter that had been weighing on him. After receiving Hermione's gift, he contemplated not mentioning it, rationalizing that he was entitled to some privacy. In any other circumstance, such rebellion would be considered normal by someone his age. However, such rebellion didn't usually involve guardians like Voldemort—a Dark Lord known for meting out lethal punishments to those who crossed him.
With Voldemort granting him more autonomy recently, Harry felt an increasing cautious optimism about his future. However, the Dark Lord's early admission of monitoring all incoming and outgoing items meant he was likely aware—or would soon become so—of the charmed journal Hermione had sent. Or if he weren't and caught it, he would likely become greatly displeased.
Considering Hermione's intelligence and the enchantments she mentioned designed to disguise the journal as ordinary, Harry recognized the potential risk it posed. He hoped being honest with Voldemort would mitigate any potential fallout and preserve their trust while giving him the best chance at keeping the present.
"It's about a gift I received from Hermione," Harry began, deciding that transparency was the best approach. "It's a charmed journal designed for real-time communication. She's written that it's protected by spells that make it appear ordinary, but I know you monitor everything. I wanted to be upfront about it, to avoid any misunderstandings or... repercussions." The Dark Lord's face remained unreadable. He hoped his honesty would not be punished, that this would not fall back on Hermione in some way.
"I wasn't sure if using it would breach our agreement regarding open communication with them under your supervision," Harry added cautiously.
Voldemort leaned back, his expression contemplative as he took a sip of his wine. "Your forthrightness pleases me," he responded after a moment. "Bring the journal to my office tonight. I want to inspect it to ensure it's free from any malicious enchantments."
Harry nodded, relieved yet curious. The fact that Voldemort seemed unaware of the journal's existence was unexpected. Did it imply a level of trust towards Harry that he did not check his gifts, or had Hermione managed to outwit the Dark Lord's surveillance?
S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S
As Harry made his way towards Voldemort's private quarters, he held two items in his grasp. The first was the two-way journal Hermione had gifted him. The second was a ritual book he had discovered the other day, one that held the first ritual he felt comfortable attempting. The revelation that access to the Potter family vault required a blood sacrifice had fundamentally shifted Harry's perspective on blood magic. If his own lineage had historically embraced such methods for safeguarding their vault, perhaps using blood magic—albeit cautiously and starting with less severe rituals—wasn't as perilous as he had once believed.
Moreover, Harry's unease with their candid conversation about his commitment to remain at Voldemort's side had left him feeling the need to prove himself. He hoped that engaging in a ritual might smooth over any trust lost during his emotional turmoil after visiting his family vault. But most of all, Harry hoped that demonstrating a willingness to engage in such practices might distract Voldemort from scrutinizing Hermione's journal too closely. That it would earn Harry a measure of freedom in his communication, allowing him to preserve a semblance of privacy in an otherwise closely monitored existence. It was manipulative, but Voldemort really only had himself to blame.
Upon reaching the Dark Lord's office, Harry knocked and waited for the familiar command to enter.
Crossing the threshold, Harry was greeted by the increasingly familiar setting of Voldemort's personal study. He nodded in acknowledgment to Voldemort and took the offered seat, facing the Dark Lord across his desk. The desk was set as it had been the night of his birthday, with an amber crystal decanter and two glasses.
The Dark Lord arched a questioning eyebrow, his gaze shifting pointedly towards the container of whiskey. Harry looked from the offered alcohol to Voldemort with a measure of uncertainty, puzzled by this sudden, unexpected emphasis on drinking. Aside from the night of his birthday celebration, Voldemort had never explicitly encouraged him to consume alcohol; he'd actually forbidden overindulgence the one night he'd caught him intoxicated.
With a silent gesture from his yew wand, Voldemort took it upon himself to fill a glass and float it towards Harry. "You are of age now," Voldemort supplied as Harry instinctively reached out to take it. "It is customary for Lords to offer drinks during working sessions or evening gatherings. It would be beneficial for you to acquaint yourself with the taste of strong liquor and understand your limits. The one occasion I confronted you indulging too freely, it was evident you were unprepared for our encounter."
Harry felt a warm flush of embarrassment at the memory, eyeing the amber liquid in his glass with a mix of curiosity and caution. "I'm not sure that learning how to get drunk under the Dark Lord's supervision is the best idea," he said, his tone a blend of jest and earnest concern. He could see this going wrong in so many ways.
To Harry's surprise, Voldemort's response was a soft, amused chuckle—a sound Harry could scarcely believe was coming from him. "Then you are fortunate the objective here is to learn moderation, not inebriation," Voldemort clarified, a glint of amusement in his crimson eyes. "Now, about this journal," he said, extending his hand expectantly, steering the conversation toward the matter at hand.
Harry glanced at the two books resting on his lap—the journal from Hermione and the ritual book he had selected. It seemed that the Dark Lord's attention was also drawn not just to the journal but to the ritual book as well.
"An interesting selection," Voldemort remarked, his gaze shifting between the two books before settling back on Harry. "Let's examine the journal first, and then we can explore your reasons for bringing the ritual book."
Reluctantly, Harry passed the journal to Voldemort, wishing they could have started with the discussion on rituals. He had a hunch that delving into the topic of magic and rituals might have predisposed Voldemort to be more lenient or at least more open to conversation about the journal.
Voldemort meticulously flipped through the journal's pages, then raised his wand to silently cast a series of spells that were beyond Harry's ability to recognize. "A clever creation," he commented after a tense few moments, during which Harry waited apprehensively. "Was it your Muggle-born friend who created this?"
Harry nodded, "Yes, I believe so," genuinely surprised by Voldemort's acknowledgment of Hermione's ingenuity, especially given his usual disdain for anything that indicated a muggle background.
"It is linked solely to its counterpart, presumably the one your friend has," Voldemort elucidated, examining the journal closely. "I detect no enchantments for surveillance or any hidden purposes." He then lifted the journal, flipping it to the last page and angling it towards Harry. Carved into the black leather, Harry could see several small runes. "If she crafted these, they are indeed remarkable. They conceal the magic within the journal, rendering it undetectable and, to all outward appearances, merely an ordinary journal."
His words underscored the significant achievement Hermione had managed, affirming the boast she had subtly made in her note—that theoretically, no one would be able to discern its true nature or functionality. It hinted that it had been snuck in, the Dark Lord seemingly unaware of it's true use. "Additionally, it's enchanted to capture the magical signature of the first person who writes in it, ensuring only that individual can write or read from it thereafter."
Voldemort's gaze shifted from the journal back to Harry, adding, "She's exercised commendable caution. Attempting to bypass the protective enchantment with a different magical signature would likely result in the destruction of its contents. It appears secure and will accomplish what she intended."
"So, you won't be able to read it?" Harry inquired, taken aback by Voldemort's admission of a limitation.
Voldemort responded with an indulgent smirk. "With sufficient motivation, I could replicate the enchantment to grant myself access. However, fortunately for you, I have no inclination to do so." He handed the journal back to Harry. "You may keep it, but I advise you to exercise discretion in your communications."
"You won't attempt to read my entries?" Harry pressed, surprised by the assurance.
"There are ways I can verify the contents of your communications without directly accessing the journal," Voldemort stated, his gaze sharp and penetrating, subtly hinting at his proficiency in the mind arts. "Provide me no cause for suspicion, and there will be no need for me to intrude."
Feeling relieved, Harry carefully tucked the journal into the folds of his robes. Though glad to have retained the means to communicate with his friends, he now confronted the daunting task of discussing the dark magic he had employed during the duel. There was no overt reason to hide this discussion now that they had a secure means of communication, yet Harry found himself hesitant to broach the subject. Even with his newfound determination not to regret his decision to commit to the dark, it was a conversation he was not eager to have with his best friends.
"Now, tell me about the book you've brought," Voldemort inquired, shifting the topic.
Harry hesitated, suddenly uncertain, still beyond nervous, wondering if experimenting with one ritual might lead Voldemort to expect him to delve deeper into similar practices.
"You're overthinking it," Voldemort observed, catching Harry's wary glance. "Tell me, which ritual has caught your interest?"
"The one that could correct my eyesight," Harry admitted, a blend of hope and caution coloring his words.
Voldemort tilted his head slightly, contemplating Harry's admission. "There are potions readily available for that purpose—legal remedies to enhance your vision. Why not purchase one of those?"
Harry was aware of the expensive potions that corrected eyesight, but even after witnessing the vast wealth within his vaults, he still considered such an expenditure frivolous. "It seems like an unnecessary waste of my money," he remarked quietly, taken aback by Voldemort's seeming attempt to dissuade him from pursuing the ritual.
Voldemort's expression shifted to one of consideration, clearly doubting the truth of Harry's alleged reluctance. Given Harry's financial capacity and Voldemort's own indifference to such expenses—evident in the lavishness of Harry's party—the suggestion to purchase the potion seemed the obvious choice.
"There are also other ways. I am highly skilled at potions, as is Severus," Voldemort mentioned, his tone implying he might be aware of Harry's continued interactions with the former potion professor. "You could obtain that potion at no cost from either of us if you're concerned about the expense."
The suggestion caught Harry off guard; the idea of requesting Voldemort to personally brew the potion had never crossed his mind. The notion that the Dark Lord might be willing to do so was astonishing. Harry found himself grappling with this unexpected turn. More importantly, why was Voldemort seemingly steering him away from the path he'd wanted to pursue?
"I thought you'd be pleased I wanted to try a ritual," Harry finally said, his voice laced with poorly veiled disappointment and confusion. He averted his gaze, wrestling with his thoughts. The unexpected resistance from Voldemort to what Harry had assumed would be a welcomed initiative left him uncertain.
"Harry, look at me," Voldemort commanded softly, prompting Harry's emerald eyes to snap upwards. "Your willingness to explore various magics is commendable, and yes, it does please me. However, I'm concerned about the specific ritual you've chosen. You know the inherent risks involved. I expect you to approach them with wisdom. Correcting your eyesight could be achieved without any potential consequences, whereas a mistake in this ritual could leave you blind. I encourage you to pursue what will make you stronger, to gain more power, but to do so judiciously and to your greatest benefit. This ritual is unnecessary. I want you to select another."
As Harry tensed, the Dark Lord frowned, likely sensing his heir's hesitance and deducing that Harry was worried this meant the Dark Lord wanted him to perform an even darker ritual, that the denial was a ploy to make him delve deeper into dark magic than he was ready for. Crimson eyes narrowed as if aggravated by Harry's apparent conclusions.
"I won't force your hand on this; it would not be safe if I did," he said, his annoyance evident. "You need to be fully committed to whatever ritual you decide on. I won't risk your life due to a lack of will to see it through. And I won't allow you to conduct one just for the novelty of it. If you want your eyesight fixed, you and I can brew the potion together this weekend. I've been meaning to test your potion skills, and this will serve adequately."
Harry groaned internally, already anticipating the complexity of a potion that commanded such a high price on the market. He was certain it would be beyond difficult to make. Yet, he also felt an unexpected warmth at Voldemort's offer to jointly brew the potion and that the Dark Lord seemed to care about his safety in conducting rituals.
Voldemort shifted his focus from Harry, his crimson gaze now fixating on the ritual book before him. "Come back when you've found a different ritual. Perhaps bring a selection, and we can evaluate their merits to identify a suitable choice for your initiation. Your readiness to embrace this journey signifies growth. But I do not want you to underestimate the risks involved. Like introducing you to potent dark magic, it must be intentional; you must be ready. I won't lose you to an avoidable mistake."
Harry soon left the room, his mind buzzed with thoughts of the task ahead, determined to find a more suitable ritual to present to Voldemort. He felt eager to prove himself, to demonstrate his commitment as well as his magical prowess to succeed at such difficult magic. Equally lingering in the back of his mind was a tinge of embarrassment over his initial choice, a reminder that he still had so much to learn. This reflection only intensified his resolve to grow stronger, to demonstrate that he was deserving of the knowledge and time given to him.
S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S
Voldemort observed his heir's departure with an evaluating gaze, a hint of satisfaction curling the corners of his mouth into a pleased smile. Anticipation stirred within him as the door shut with a definitive thud, sealing the room's silence around him. Alone in his office, he savored the moment of reflection, his thoughts alight with the resolve and fervor he had glimpsed in Harry's vibrant, yet vulnerably sincere, emerald eyes.
As he considered the interaction they'd just had, the Dark Lord felt a profound sense of gratification that his efforts were paying off, that his ward had committed himself to finding a ritual worthy of being conducted under Voldemort's guidance. It was clear the youth had gotten over whatever reservation had haunted him when he visited his parents' vault, returning to his master's feet with renewed commitment, eager to regain any perceived favor lost in the wake of his emotional response to his recently acquired legacy.
But it was more than just the rituals, than this one act of submission. For Voldemort, every interaction with his heir had become a captivating chase of cat and mouse, intertwined with a dance of cunning on the grand chessboard of their shared destiny. Each engagement, every nuanced act of direction and manipulation, was designed to mold the future to his exacting vision, reinforcing his supremacy and edging closer to a decisive triumph over a protégé who consistently proved his worthiness of such intricate tutelage.
The young wizard, brimming with untamed power, held the potential to shift the wizarding world's equilibrium. Voldemort had slowly come to view Harry as the quintessential vessel for his ambitions, a potent force woefully overlooked by the Light. Determined not to replicate such an oversight, he was intent on permanently binding the boy to his will, leveraging his raw potential for his own strategic ends.
And he would succeed. His patience was beginning to pay off in full. Each interactions was becoming more than mere acquaintanceship, even more than a master and apprentice; a delicate ballet of influence, where guidance was interwoven with subtle control, pushing the young wizard towards a dual path of subjugation and magnificence. Each day, they moved closer to the fate he envisioned, playing a game devoid of conventional boundaries, driven instead by a relentless pursuit of dominance and mastery.
Gazing at the now-empty chair, Voldemort felt a sense of anticipation for what lay ahead; soon, he would be unstoppable, poised to claim the world as his own.