CHAPTER 6: DYNASTY OF DARKNESS
Harry sat alone in his dimly lit room, his fingers delicately tracing the contours of a weathered, leather-bound book. The engraved words on the thick cover invited him to run his fingers over them again, each stroke revealing the history imprinted on the aged material.
On a flat rock by the window, Coilis, a house elf, reclined comfortably. The rock, a recent addition courtesy of the diligent elf, absorbed the warmth of the daylight, creating a perfect spot for Coilis to relax when boredom struck.
A subtle knock echoed through the room, catching Harry's attention. He gracefully rolled off his chair, making his way to the door. As he opened it, he peered down into the common room area to identify the visitor.
To his surprise, Bellatrix awaited him with two formidable companions. The man on her right emanated power, his bulging muscles and enigmatic expression hinting at a formidable skillset. On her left stood a lean figure, obscured by shaggy black hair that concealed his intense gaze.
"Hello, Harry!" Bellatrix's laughter echoed through the room as she danced around, an unsettling contrast to the discomfort evident on her companions' faces. From the vantage point of the stairs, Harry observed her with a slow blink.
"Bellatrix," he greeted, his voice devoid of emotion, leaving the two men visibly taken aback.
"He's barely eight! No child should sound like that!" the thinner man whispered to his burlier companion, both sharing identical expressions of disbelief. The air crackled with an unspoken tension, setting the stage for an intriguing encounter.
"Hope you don't mind, but I brought my husband and brother-in-law with me!" Bellatrix announced with a playful lilt, settling onto one of the green couches. Harry averted his gaze from her and turned his attention to the two men.
"Ah, Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange, I presume? I've heard much about you," Harry nodded, spinning around and leisurely descending the steps. The silver-lined cloak twirled gracefully as he walked, and he sensed Coilis following closely behind. Rodolphus, the burly man, offered a perplexed nod, still trying to grasp the purpose of their visit.
"Yep, that's them. The Dark Lord sent a raid on Diagon Alley now, so we can easily get you a wand while this is going on."
Understanding dawned on the Lestrange brothers, and with a resounding snap, they vanished. Bellatrix seized Harry's arm, and they disappeared with a peculiar 'pop.'
Diagon Alley unfolded into chaos, a cacophony of screams and the clash of curses echoing through the air. Bellatrix, amidst the frenzy, hissed directions.
"All right, the wand shop is the dirty one right there."
She unleashed a curse of her own before vanishing into the bedlam. Coilis, his loyalty unwavering, hissed urgently.
"Let us go, Master!"
Harry nodded, narrowly avoiding a mustard-yellow hex. Dropping to his knees, he began maneuvering through the tumult toward the indicated shop. Crawling determinedly through thick black smoke, he finally reached an old, rotting door. With no time to spare, he flung it open, rolled inside, and beckoned Coilis to follow as they sought refuge from the chaotic battleground.
The dim light filtering through the dirt-crusted window did little to dispel the shadows that clung to the corners of the room. A feeble lamp cast a dim glow, offering only meager refuge from the brutal world outside. The thin sheet of wood and glass, though seemingly fragile, served as a formidable barrier, silencing the chaos beyond—an intricate network of silencing wards that shielded the hidden sanctuary.
"Ollivander," Harry declared, scanning the dusty aisles, a shrewd awareness guiding him toward the man he sought. The reputation of the enigmatic wandmaker preceded him, and Harry knew he would find him somewhere within these walls.
"Ah, there you are," Harry mumbled, his gaze fixing on a crumpled figure tucked away in a distant corner. The man slowly raised his head, his dull silver eyes meeting Harry's. They sparkled momentarily, akin to distant stars, before dimming once more.
"Strange. Strange," the wandmaker murmured, rising to his feet, realizing he had been discovered. Harry, familiar with Ollivander's eccentricities, recalled the tales shared by Death Eaters and Sirius's heated arguments about the clumsy wand maker when Harry was just three years old.
"I assume you came for a wand? Tricky child, coming in the midst of an attack just to stay out of the Ministry's eye. You are a special child, are you not?" Ollivander's eyes gleamed with madness, and a soft hiss from Coilis prompted him to continue. With eager enthusiasm, he plucked several wand boxes from the shelf, presenting them to Harry, whose magical core rejected each one with a palpable sense of disappointment.
"11 inches, spruce with Dragon Heartstring," Ollivander muttered, passing down the wand and snatching it back in rapid succession. This ritual had repeated for about fifteen minutes, the urgency of the ongoing raid pressing Harry to find a wand swiftly.
Ollivander continued his mutterings, scanning the long, thin wand boxes on the lopsided shelf. However, Harry's attention was drawn to a solitary box, meticulously placed on a tabletop beside a book cataloging wands for various individuals. Though aged, it appeared to be the newest addition to the store, positioned perfectly as if awaiting a specific person.
"What is in that box?" Harry inquired, pointing directly at it. Ollivander spun around, his eyes widening as he beheld the box and then Harry himself.
"I wonder," Ollivander mused, setting down a cherry wand from his left hand. He hastened to the box, handling it with both speed and utmost care. Extracting the dark wood, he presented it to Harry, handle first, his silver eyes filled with fascination.
Harry took the wand gently, feeling a sudden, cool yet enchanting chill coursing through it and up his arm. From the dark brown tip, a thin white silver substance emerged, coiling and shaping into a miniature replica of Coilis.
The chilling sensation gradually dissipated as the misty 'Coilis' dissipated like smoke into the air. Harry regarded the dark brown wand with a hint of awe, running his hand down the polished shaft, sensing an undeniable connection between himself and the magical instrument.
"The wand has chosen," Ollivander whispered, gazing at the wand with a subtle smile, a hint of sadness tinging his expression, as if bidding farewell to an old friend. Harry's head snapped up, a curious blend of coldness and an unmistakable thirst for knowledge evident in his eyes.
"Why was this set aside, Ollivander?" Harry questioned, his tone carrying a subtle edge, but the genuine curiosity pushing through. Ollivander's haunting smile deepened, possessing an air of omniscience.
"Because that wand, child, has an owner already. It had been set aside for Mr. Daemon Potter, three years in the future," he whispered, watching Harry's face intently for any reaction.
Harry's fist tightened around the wand, envisioning it in the hands of Daemon, his... brother.
"This wand was set aside for Daemon?" Harry sought confirmation, his gaze avoiding Ollivander. The wandmaker gently lowered the wand, pointing it directly at Harry, and answered with a cryptic smile.
"No," Ollivander corrected, prompting Harry to meet his gaze in surprise.
"That wand is the twin of the Dark Lord's, Holly instead of Yew, but the exact same core, from the exact same source," Ollivander explained, his words sending a chill down Harry's spine.
His wand? The sibling, or rather, the twin of the Dark Lord's? The one offering to bind him?
"That wand is for the Boy-Who-Lived," Ollivander finally clarified, a small, enigmatic smile curling at the corners of his mouth. The revelation left Harry grappling with the weight of destiny and the mysterious connection between him, the wand, and the ominous title that had shaped his life.
"Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Potter?" Harry remained silent, his expression unreadable, as he deftly caught the small black cloak tossed in his direction.
"The raid is almost over. I assume you should go and make yourself scarce. If anybody asks, you were never here," Harry was told, and for a fleeting moment, a rare smile crossed his face. It had been years since such a genuine expression of joy had graced him. Accepting the cloak, he swiftly draped it over himself, concealing his features, and smoothly slipped out of the antiquated shop.
Ollivander's prediction held true; the raid was drawing to a close. The Death Eaters were being pushed back by individuals clad in bright scarlet and gold robes. These defenders twirled light blue and red curses, incapacitating the Death Eaters for their allies to apprehend. With snaps and pops, the defeated assailants vanished, urged on by Rabastan and Rodolphus. Meanwhile, Bellatrix engaged in a fierce duel with three of the scarlet-clad adversaries, leaving her occupied.
A window of opportunity presented itself, and Harry seized it. Rabastan signaled urgently for him to approach, and Harry, drawing on the speed honed from years of evading pursuit, darted towards them. However, just as he neared his destination, another scarlet-robed figure launched into action, hurling red curses at Rabastan. Reacting swiftly, Rabastan engaged in the duel, occasionally casting anxious glances at Harry, who skidded backward to avoid getting caught in the crossfire.
"Master!" Coilis hissed, having separated from Harry inside the wand shop. Harry whirled around, realizing the urgency of the situation.
A man in the resplendent gold and scarlet robes swiftly conjured a protective shield, intercepting a curse aimed at Harry, who stood panting, a safe distance away from the shaggy black-haired wizard.
"Relax, kid! We're here to help!" the man reassured, his tone stern but not unkind, as he deftly dispatched a Death Eater with a well-aimed red spell.
'So that's it,' Harry thought, regaining his breath and taking in the situation. 'He thinks I'm just a kid from Diagon Alley.'
The man raised the shield once more, allowing Harry a moment to scan the chaos around him. To his immense relief, Coilis emerged from among the fallen bodies, swiftly approaching.
"Prongs! Cover me! I got a kid here!" the man commanded another wizard dressed in scarlet, and with a cold realization, Harry identified him instantly.
There was no mistaking the messy black hair, the wire-rimmed glasses, or the air of arrogance that surrounded him. This was James Potter—the very cause of Harry's tormented childhood. The revelation hung heavily in the air, threatening to shatter the delicate balance of the ongoing battle.
"No!" Harry shouted, unleashing a sudden kick as the shaggy-haired man attempted to lift him. His foot connected with precision, striking the man in the groin and disrupting his concentration on a protective shield, just in time to block a cutting hex.
Harry dropped to the ground as the hex found its mark, the man crying out in pain. Seizing the opportunity, Harry sprinted once again, swiftly picking up Coilis who had bitten an unfortunate adversary.
"Come, Coilis! We need to get out of here!"
"The mad she-human is looking for you, Master," Coilis informed him. Harry hurdled over a twitching figure, suppressing his disgust at the sight of detached eyes and a nose a short distance away.
Sure enough, Bellatrix was frantically searching for Harry amidst the chaos, her mad eyes scanning the blood and curse-filled atmosphere. Aware of the consequences of shouting his name, she spotted him not too far off, running in her direction.
Bellatrix's scream pierced the air as a burning spell seared across her arm, causing her to drop her wand and grasp at the injured limb. Harry gasped, continuing his sprint even as a blond-haired man grabbed her from behind, twisting her arm in a brutal hold. The tumultuous scene unfolded around him as he raced to escape the pandemonium, leaving Bellatrix behind in the clutches of her assailants.
The man who had grabbed Bellatrix appeared to have lost his wand, but his muggle-born background endowed him with formidable fighting skills from childhood. Bellatrix, accustomed to dueling with magical opponents, found herself utterly helpless against his muggle fighting style.
Harry skidded to a sudden halt, just a few feet away, his eyes widening as he watched the fierce confrontation. Bellatrix gurgled, her air supply cut off as she struggled in a chokehold, her face slowly turning blue.
"No…" Harry whispered breathlessly, his gaze fixed on the oblivious blonde man. A burning fire, the same one that had struck Bellatrix, flickered nearby, but an intense coldness gripped Harry, as if he were slowly succumbing to the chill of death. He could almost envision his lips turning blue, ice tracing along his arms.
A yearning for a parental figure, someone who genuinely cared, welled up within Harry. Someone to fill the void with warmth, even if it were Bellatrix, at least for the moment.
The burning fire, which had seemed to wane, suddenly flared into an inferno—but not in its original location.
No sooner had the blonde-haired man screamed in agony than his body erupted into orange flames, a shade lighter than his cloak. He desperately flung Bellatrix aside, attempting to smother the flames consuming him. However, beneath the fiery coat, his skin turned black and charred, melting away and sloughing off in a gruesome mixture of red blood and blackened flesh.
Bellatrix, recovering from the shock, rolled away and retrieved her wand, aiming it at the auror. However, her intent to retaliate faltered as she beheld the ghastly fate of the man.
"Sirius!" the man screamed toward the scraggly-haired individual who had previously seized Harry. His initial shout was too quiet, a realization that prompted a cough, as he cleared his throat to scream louder.
'Quiet... You need to be quiet! Stop speaking... Just stop breathing... Just lie still and give in... Don't speak, and don't talk,' Harry chanted internally, an instinct he had honed during his time in the orphanage. He strained his magic, compelling it to align with his silent desire.
The man coughed abruptly as blood pooled in his throat, a resounding 'snap,' and his jaw cracked, forcefully closing his mouth. He succumbed, the life draining from him as he suffocated on his own blood, a grim conclusion amid the chaotic aftermath of the raid.
"Harry," Bellatrix whispered urgently, her sharp eyes scanning the area as she spun around, attempting to locate him. However, when she finally found him, he stood there, fixated on the soon-to-be lifeless body. His emerald green eyes were barely visible under the shroud of a thick black cloak that draped over him.
"Don't loo—"
"I did it," Harry interrupted, the words falling from his lips with a mix of defiance and revelation. Bellatrix, taken aback, gazed at him with a blend of surprise and something akin to admiration.
Without uttering another word, Bellatrix seized his arm, and in an instant, they vanished into thin air, Apparating to an undisclosed location.
x-(X)-x
Within the confines of his chamber, Harry lounged on a green and silver couch, his gaze fixed on the mesmerizing dance of silver and black flames in the fireplace. The radiant warmth emitted by the enchanted fire enveloped him, a comfort he sought after the recent events.
The door creaked open, breaking the silence, though it managed to maintain an element of secrecy. Harry slowly lifted his eyelids, revealing a coiled, slumbering figure—Coilis—resting on his lap. The creature absorbed the warmth emanating from both Harry's body and the nearby blaze.
"Harry," Bellatrix's voice sliced through the quiet air, a subtle murmur that might go unnoticed by the untrained ear. Yet, Harry, attuned to the nuances, caught every inflection.
"The Dark Lord requests your presence," she added, avoiding direct eye contact. Harry sighed, a sense of foreboding settling over him. He understood that this summons wasn't just a routine request—it held the weight of ominous possibilities.
Harry stirred, gently rousing Coilis from his slumber. With a single silted red eye, the serpent absorbed the gravity of the situation, responding to a series of Parseltongue whispers from his master that conveyed the unfolding events.
Having spent the past few days tirelessly exploring the expansive manor, Harry had managed to navigate its intricate halls. He familiarized himself with mundane locations—like the off-limits library, the array of bathrooms, the grand ballroom, the dining room, the bustling kitchen, and, most significantly, the Throne room where Voldemort awaited him.
Taking a decisive left turn, Harry inhaled deeply, his fingers fidgeting with the silver clasp beneath his chin. He lowered his arm slowly, reassured by Coilis's hissing whispers into his ear. Finally, he silently pushed open the door.
The Throne room's architecture dictated that the entrance was positioned a few feet lower than the elevated platform where Voldemort's imposing throne stood. Harry entered with stealth, his eyes lowered, a demeanor filled with an unusual blend of deference and respect.
"My Lord," he murmured, executing a bow with a grace beyond his eight years. It was remarkable how effortlessly he had adopted such traits.
"Rise," commanded the cold yet incisive voice. Harry hesitated for a moment but complied, his head still inclined slightly, avoiding direct eye contact.
"Bellatrix informs me of the events in Diagon Alley today," Voldemort drawled on, feigning disinterest while Harry sensed the intensity beneath the facade. Coilis, sensing the tension, tightened his coils in response.
"She speaks of your facile dispatching of an Auror, and not just any Auror, but a member of Dumbledore's army." The Dark Lord's eyes bore into Harry, seeking answers and motivations hidden beneath the surface.
Harry hesitated, unsure of how to navigate the delicate conversation. Opting for what he deemed best, he began, "My apologies, My Lord—"
"How?" Voldemort interjected, cutting off Harry's words. The young wizard met the piercing gaze of the ruby orbs, where a glint of interest lingered, masked by a well-practiced façade.
"Excuse me, My Lord?" Harry responded, a hint of confusion in his eyes, carefully veiling any other emotions.
"How were you able to harm the...wizard?" Voldemort substituted his words cautiously.
Uncertain of how to proceed, Harry stammered, "I...I wanted him to burn, and I didn't want him to speak..."
"So your magic complied and summoned fire," Voldemort finished, exhaling and reclining in his chair.
"He is as powerful as you first assumed, Master," Nagini hissed, emerging from behind the chair to offer her input.
Voldemort nodded thoughtfully, his gaze shifting back to Harry. "Tell me, boy, what are your opinions on Muggles?" he inquired, his fingers delicately stroking Nagini's scales. The question hung in the air, pregnant with significance.
"I hate them," Harry responded without a hint of hesitation, the sentiment deeply ingrained in his psyche over the years. "They are weak and selfish, fearing what they do not understand and destroying what they fear," he concluded, a peculiar glint in his eye. It was a gaze that might have sent shivers down the spine of anyone else, but Voldemort seemed almost pleased, if such a word could be applied to the Dark Lord.
"And tell me, child, who are your birth parents?" Voldemort inquired, delving into a territory that made Harry visibly tense. The Dark Lord, perceptive as ever, seemed to grasp the unspoken reluctance.
"I shall not hold your blood relations against you; I only wish to know who you truly are," Voldemort assured him. Harry nodded slightly, mustering the courage to look up, a trace of fear in his eyes.
"I—My true name is Harry James Potter," he began, and at the mention of his name, Voldemort involuntarily sucked in a sharp breath, though he remained silent, letting Harry continue.
"And I'm the twin to bloody Daemon Potter," Harry hissed with pure anger, the intensity of his emotions radiating through his magical aura. Even Voldemort, accustomed to such energies, could feel the prickling sensation caused by the strong currents of rage and other complex emotions swirling within Harry. The revelation hung in the air, laden with unspoken implications and a shared history that neither could escape.
Voldemort's face retained a small frown as he delved into deep contemplation, absorbing the weight of the revelation. The Boy-Who-Lived stood before him, silently pleading not to be tethered back to the light. Harry knew, and Voldemort understood. The chosen one sought refuge in the darkness, and Voldemort had no intention of denying him that sanctuary.
"You have a very promising future, child," Voldemort remarked, injecting an element of cryptic ambiguity into his words. Harry, grappling with confusion, managed to hastily recover before offering the proper respect.
"My... future? My Lord?" Harry questioned, his uncertainty palpable.
"You and I are very much alike, Harry. I intend for you to lead the dark in the name of Salazar Slytherin's Heir, if you are willing," Voldemort declared. Harry's eyes widened in comical surprise, and a smirk crept onto Voldemort's face.
"I intend for you to be my heir."
In an instant, Harry's head dropped, his gaze fixated on the cold stone floor. The weight of the proposition settled upon him.
"It would be an honor, but if that truly is the case, would that make me your son? Would that allow me to call you... Father?" Harry inquired, his voice carrying a mix of trepidation and longing. The question hung in the air, revealing the vulnerability beneath the surface of the young wizard standing before the Dark Lord.
Voldemort's absent-minded petting of Nagini ceased as he considered the implications of Harry's request. The idea hadn't initially crossed his mind, but upon reflection, he found himself open to it.
"I believe... that would be... appropriate," Voldemort conceded, his voice carrying a rare uncertainty in the face of such a decision.
A faint smile touched Harry's lips, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken bond forming between them. Sensing the unspoken desire, Harry ventured further, a plea laden with hope.
"May I have a new name, Father?" The word felt unfamiliar on Harry's tongue, as if awakening a dormant part of him that had long been buried. Yet, calling the Dark Lord "Father" felt oddly right.
"...You shall be known as... Shadow, the Dark Heir," Voldemort declared after a few contemplative moments. Harry found solace in the chosen name, a moniker that resonated with a childhood longing. In his younger years, he had often daydreamed of naming an owl (if he were to ever acquire one) Shadow.
"Bellatrix shall teach you the fine arts of dueling and spellwork; I expect only the best from you, Shadow," Voldemort commanded. For the first time since infancy, Harry felt a profound sense of belonging and purpose. The path ahead was dark, but in that darkness, he found a flicker of acceptance, a home in the shadows that had long eluded him.
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