Darkness Within

by whimsical musings 1

On the fateful night when Ron and Hermione were abducted, the wheels of destiny began to turn. For Harry, the kidnapping of his friends shattered the illusion that the light side could protect those he loved. An ultimatum was presented, and a decision was made. Now, Harry stands at a crossroads: Can he protect those he loves without losing himself in the process?

8. Adjusting & Change

Chapter 11: Adjusting

Harry found himself back in his room, guided by the nervous elf. After swiftly downing the two provided potions, he stepped into the shower to rinse away the blood that freely dripped from his arm and other injured areas. The crimson streams swirled down the drain, marking the brutality of the encounter. Harry gingerly emerged from the shower, his wet footsteps glistening on the cold tiles, and retrieved the rolls of gauze that Tipsy had thoughtfully left outside the bathroom door.

In the dim light of his room, Harry awkwardly wrapped the more substantial cuts, pulling the gauze taut and tying it off with as much care as he could manage with only one hand.

Finished, he settled on the edge of his bed, his gaze fixated on the deepest scar on his forearm, the white cloth already stained crimson as his blood continued to seep through. The potions had provided some relief, but his injuries were far from healed. One of them was a blood-replenishing potion, and the other seemed to dull the torment of the torture curse, yet his exhaustion lingered, and the cuts stubbornly refused to stop bleeding. He'd have to fix it before going to bed if he didn't want to bleed out during the night.

"How am I supposed to learn healing?" He whispered to the empty room. He had always assumed that healing was a complex form of magic; otherwise, it would be part of the student curriculum. Especially since they were on the cusp of another war starting, it seemed laughable that no steps had been taken to try and protect the students from the real world and give them skills that might save their lives. Hermione possessed some rudimentary knowledge, but nothing substantial.

The Gryffindor felt drained, but with his arm still oozing blood, he couldn't afford to delay his search any further and risk dizziness from blood loss. Harry made his way to the bookshelves, his fingers grazing the spines of various titles as he searched for anything related to healing magic. He pulled out several books that seemed promising and dropped them onto his sturdy cherrywood desk. Skimming through the pages of the first one, he searched for any mention of spells to heal cuts.

After half an hour of searching, he discovered several spells that looked promising. Harry flexed his injured arm and glanced down at it, the bandage completely saturated with blood, the pain persistent. Bellatrix's attack had left a deep gash on his forearm, possibly reaching down to the bone. It was a painful wound, one that he desperately hoped he could mend. At the very least, he could employ a charm to bind it more effectively than he had managed one- handed. Additionally, there was a stamina spell that piqued his interest; it might prove useful in his unpredictable circumstances, assuming he survived his current ordeal.

With a determined expression, he studied the wand movement and muttered, "Episkey." His wrist twisted and dipped in a swift, precise motion, mirroring the illustration in the book. It appeared deceptively simple, described as a minor healing charm with versatile applications. Harry practiced the motion a few more times, then gazed down at his injured arm,

contemplating his lack of knowledge in healing magic. It felt strange to be learning a new spell without his friends by his side; usually, Hermione would be there, offering her guidance. Her voice echoed in his mind, "You have to mean it, Harry, and calm your mind. Healing is a mental state; that's what the book said."

A faint smile tugged at his lips as he imagined her words. He took a deep breath and exhaled, attempting to push aside the pain in his arm and find his inner focus. "Episkey," he muttered again, this time with more determination. Nothing happened. Frustration welled up within him as a droplet of blood escaped from the soaked bandage, falling to the floor.

Closing his eyes, he tried to clear his mind once more. He visualized his wounded arm and the deep gash within it, imagining the skin stitching itself back together, the pain subsiding. "Episkey!" he uttered, a bit louder this time. Yet, the result remained the same—no change. He sighed softly and reopened the book, scanning the instructions for guidance.

The text explained, "Episkey (pronounced eh-PIS-kee) is a simple healing incantation for minor injuries. The caster should focus on the desired healing spot, clearing their mind. Like all healing spells, fortifying your mind and concentrating on the desire to make well is critical, as intent matters. A moderate magical level is required for initial use. Greater magical prowess is necessary for repeated uses or more extensive injuries. This healing charm should not be used for severed limbs, bone breaks, or internal bleeding. See a medical practitioner immediately if you have a life-threatening injury."

With renewed determination, Harry gazed at his wound. What did it mean to focus on healing intent? He knew that feelings of joy and love fueled the Patronus charm; perhaps healing magic operated similarly. He assumed it was a form of light magic, and if Voldemort's claims were true, that he possessed a grey core capable of wielding both light and dark magic, then healing shouldn't be beyond his capabilities. He practiced the wand motion silently, flicking and dipping his wrist. Once more, a drop of blood fell to the floor.

Closing his eyes, he concentrated on his injured arm, visualizing the wound closing and the skin knitting together. "Episkey!" he exclaimed, his voice carrying his intent. Something tingled on his arm, and his excitement grew. He quickly unwrapped the bandage, revealing that roughly half of the wound had already begun to heal. His eyebrows lifted in surprise, and a smile crept onto his face. He had made progress. Holding onto the sensation of his previous attempt, he boldly cast the spell again, "Episkey!" This time, the remainder of the wound stitched together, leaving a thin white scar—a small but significant victory.

Harry marveled at his own accomplishment. The spell he had desperately needed, he had discovered and mastered entirely on his own. A rare sense of satisfaction and pride washed over him, emotions he seldom experienced. With a contented smile, he crumpled the bloodstained bandage and tossed it into the bin beside his desk. Despite the persistent ache in his body and the collection of minor scars dotting his skin, he had achieved something remarkable—he had healed a genuine injury. His gaze fell upon his palm, bearing a shallower cut from his fall into the vase shards. With a flick of his wand and a soft incantation, the wound seamlessly knitted together, leaving behind nothing but the faintest white line.

"I love magic," Harry whispered to himself, his eyes returning to the book spread before him. He wondered what other invaluable healing charms he might discover within its pages.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The following day Voldemort arrived early, the door swinging open without a hint of ceremony. Weary, Harry looked up from his desk to find the Dark Lord standing in his room. The crimson eyes swept over him, fixing on his left arm where the injury from the previous night had been.

"You succeeded," Voldemort stated, his tone devoid of surprise.

Harry nodded, closing the healing book that had consumed his attention since he woke at dawn. He had been reading about a spell resembling the Muggle Heimlich maneuver called the Anapneo spell—a complex charm meant to clear a choking victim's airway. Its wand movement seemed far more intricate than the healing spell he had mastered the night before. How he could practice it without an actual choking victim was a daunting puzzle he wasn't eager to discuss with the sadistic Dark Lord.

"Which spell did you use?" Voldemort inquired. "Episkey."

A nod of approval came from Voldemort as he approached Harry. His finger hooked under Harry's sleeve, revealing the thin white scar on his left arm. "With better control over your power, there will be minimal scarring," the Dark Lord commented. "Acceptable for a first attempt."

A confusing blend of pride and discomfort surged within Harry at the praise. He was gratified by his success, yet he couldn't ignore the fact that he was receiving compliments from the very man who had murdered his parents and waged war against his way of life. Pushing aside his conflicting emotions for later examination, Harry acknowledged the compliment with a nod.

"Today, I want to see your spell repertoire. We'll use a training room, and you will cast on dummies. I need to assess the extent of your training deficiencies to determine how to bring you to an adequate level."

Reluctantly agreeing to be scrutinized, Harry nodded. He pushed himself to his feet, his fingers wrapping around the wand resting next to the stack of healing books he had studied late into the night and early that morning. He was grateful that Tipsy had taken the initiative to magic in toast and bacon, ensuring he wouldn't have to worry about fainting from hunger.

Following the Dark Lord, Harry moved slowly through the immense mansion, their footsteps echoing in the silence. After several turns and two flights of stairs, they entered an even grander atrium than the one where they had dined. Grudgingly, Harry had to admit his awe for the ancient mansion. Similar to the practical rooms at Hogwarts, this chamber was designed for dueling and spellcasting, with high walls and a domed ceiling stretching above him. At the far end of the room, a row of dummies akin to those conjured by the Room of Requirement for Dumbledore's Army stood motionless and silent.

They entered the room and halted about twenty paces away from the line of dummies. Shifting his weight, Harry glanced back at the Dark Lord. Their walk had been silent, not

necessarily uncomfortable but still laden with an awkward tension. Harry was far from comfortable with his current situation and felt that every conversation was just a moment away from him being tortured for angering the man.

"Cast your strongest attack," Voldemort ordered.

Taking a steadying breath, Harry flicked his wrist and shouted, "Diffindo!" The dummy's right arm dropped to the floor with a thud.

Voldemort nodded, prompting Harry to cast another spell. "Incendio!" Flames shot forward, hissing and licking at the defenseless dummy until Voldemort silently dispelled the fire with a wave of his wand.

"Another one," the Dark Lord commanded, his eyes fixed on Harry.

Frowning, Harry ran through what felt like a meager list of offensive spells. Straightening his back, he readied himself and shouted, "Impedimenta!" The jinx wouldn't cause much damage but would slow down an opponent.

Voldemort nodded again. "Another."

And so it continued. Harry cast ropes with Incarcerous, followed by the Leg-Locker Curse, and then the Tongue-Tying Curse. After several more hexes, jinxes, and curses, Harry paused, sweat trickling down the back of his neck. "Petrificus Totalus!" The dummy stood frozen, toppled over.

"Another," Voldemort demanded, using the exact phrase he had uttered at least twenty times.

Harry glanced up at the taller wizard. "I don't know any more attacks," he confessed after a short pause, feeling self-conscious under the scrutiny bearing down on him. He was certain the Dark Lord would mock him—how pitiful he must look to a man who had created his own spells in his early years at Hogwarts.

"Do you believe your spellcasting is adequate to save you in a life-threatening situation?" Voldemort asked, his eyes fixed on Harry.

Harry immediately wanted to offer a witty retort, to claim that he had escaped Voldemort on numerous occasions. But he held his tongue, realizing that luck had played a significant part in his survival. Unlike many others, like Cedric, it wasn't his skill that had kept him alive. "No," he admitted, forcing his voice to be firm. Raising his head, he met the gaze of the wizard who had murdered his parents. "I understand my knowledge is lacking, that I wouldn't truly stand a chance against you."

A slight twitch at the corner of Voldemort's lips irritated Harry irrationally. "Agreed," Voldemort nodded. "However, while your knowledge is lacking, you compensate with ingenuity. You are quick, your casting is powerful, and you demonstrate innovative responses, as I've witnessed a few times when you were cornered. Many would have frozen

when faced with Bella last night. Many more would never have dared to raise their wands against me. You possess talent, but you lack proper instruction and dedicated training. I can address both issues."

Once again, Harry felt uneasy receiving any form of compliment from the Dark Lord. It was a sensation he hoped never to grow accustomed to, understanding that every hint of praise was laced with the Dark Lord's manipulative intentions.

"I have given you several Dark Arts and defense books," Voldemort continued, seemingly unaware of Harry's internal turmoil. "I want you to study them and compile a list of spells you wish to learn. With each spell you choose, I want your justification. Clarify why you want to learn it, specifically focusing on how it will fill a gap in either your offensive or defensive casting." He paused, giving Harry a knowing look. "I expect Dark Arts spells to be included in your list. If you omit them, I will assume that you are leaving the choice to me. I believe you would prefer to have a say, but it matters little to me. I assure you, I can devise inventive ways for you to expand your knowledge base." His last words were accompanied by a wicked smirk, his red eyes practically glowing with anticipation.

Tension coiled within Harry as he nodded in reluctant acceptance. He felt a secret sense of relief at having some say in his own fate. He had feared that the Dark Lord would impose the worst upon him now that he was under the wizard's control. "Very well," Voldemort commended, detecting no opposition in Harry's demeanor. "The elf can escort you back to your room. We will meet for dinner this evening, and I expect to see the beginning of your spell list. It will be just the two of us dining tonight, so I hope that won't lead to another duel for your sake."

Harry's eyes widened slightly at the almost teasing tone the Slytherin used. Nodding again, Harry followed the Dark Lord back to the door where Tipsy appeared.

"Until this evening, my apprentice," Voldemort bid him farewell, sweeping past the subdued teen. Harry watched him go silently, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. The demonstration had not unfolded as he had expected. Voldemort had not hinted at his thoughts on Harry's casting, except for the comment that Harry needed to learn more spells, a sentiment Harry agreed with. It was nothing like the confrontations Harry had anticipated.

Bewildered, Harry turned to the elf, who was shuffling nervously on her tiny feet. "Is Master ready to return to his room?" she asked, glancing up at him with large, round eyes.

With a nod, Harry followed her through the winding halls and grand staircases back to what had been dubbed "his room." Entering, he closed the door behind him, feeling restless.

Fatigue clung to him after his casting, but a persistent tension remained from the confusing interaction with the Dark Lord. Sighing, he walked over to the shelves, once again glancing through the different titles. Hermione would be in heaven, he thought sadly, pulling out a defensive tome.

Time passed and Tipsy reappeared seemingly in the blink of an eye, gesturing for him to follow her to dinner. This time, Harry recognized half of the hallways and turns as they retraced their steps to the same dining entrance he had entered the night before. Taking a steadying breath, he pushed the door open. Unlike the previous night, the table was only set

for two, with the head and the seat directly to the head's left. And unlike the previous night, no one else was present.

Harry shot the elf a questioning look. "Where is he?"

"The Master will join us shortly; you should stand at your place until he arrives," Tipsy advised in a soft squeak. Nodding, Harry walked hesitantly to what he assumed to be his chair.

Fidgeting back and forth, Harry awkwardly glanced around the room until movement from the side caught his eye. Voldemort entered from an obscure passage, momentarily halting the frantic beat of the teen's heart. Harry silently watched him approach, his long, tailored black cloak trailing behind him. The Dark Lord appeared elegant and lordly, his sharp dragon leather boots contrasting with his high-collared acid green high fashion wizard shirt and tailored black pants, all beneath exquisitely stitched black robes with silver accents on the sleeves.

Harry wondered where he had been, requiring such dress and appearance. Did the Dark Lord roam freely under his new identity, blending in among the unsuspecting wizarding population? Apart from the unmistakable red eyes, not much would give him away, unless someone was intimately acquainted with the young Tom Riddle and knew the Dark Lord's true origin.

"Sit," Voldemort ordered without ceremony as his own chair glided back noiselessly. Harry obeyed, feeling a sense of irritation mingled with cautious submission. Complacency was his rational choice, a means of staying alive and avoiding torture. He couldn't see any way to escape the monster before him or avoid his presence. He had agreed to learn and become his apprentice. Acting out over such trivial matters seemed futile. He resolved to bide his time and uncover Voldemort's true intentions, keeping an eye out for an opportunity to escape.

"Have you researched the spells you want to learn?" Voldemort inquired, breaking the silence.

Harry nodded once, his anticipation mixed with genuine excitement. He was intrigued by the prospect of learning numerous spells, including a few in the Dark Arts. One particular dark spell he had found was healing in nature, although it required a drop of the caster's blood and was considered dark magic. Despite the sacrifice, it could be amplified into a potent healing charm, invaluable if one of his friends were ever seriously injured.

"Good. Tomorrow morning, you will meet me in my library to study. Bring your list of spells. Tipsy will escort you."

Seeing no reason to resist the command, Harry nodded again. The food materialized before them, hot steaming roast, potatoes, and carrots displayed on exquisite silver serving trays. Red wine filled his cup in an instant, much like the previous night. He stared at it warily, contemplating the risk of drinking again. He didn't believe his few sips from the night before had led to the confrontation with Bellatrix, but he needed to remain vigilant around Voldemort. Moody would have his head if he knew Harry was even considering it, or had engaged in the drink the night before.

Dinner proceeded without any preamble, with both of them eating in silence. Like the previous night, they made it through most of the meal before the first word was spoken. Harry couldn't fathom why Voldemort forced others to endure these awkward meals with him. He could understand it if they were discussing something, but sitting in silence seemed strange, especially for someone as cunning as the Slytherin heir.

"Your Occlumency skills are abysmal," the Dark Lord observed, breaking the silence. "What training have you received in it?"

Harry set his fork down, glancing at the wizard before dropping his gaze. He knew that maintaining eye contact was crucial for Legilimency. After the disastrous training with Snape and the death of his godfather, he had all but blocked the magical practice from his thoughts.

"I was forced to undergo several lessons with Snape," he admitted begrudgingly, wondering once again where the slippery Potions Master's allegiance truly lay. He was surprised he hadn't seen him yet. Was it because Voldemort didn't trust him to know Harry's location?

Harry needed to be cautious about what he said in case Snape was genuinely on Dumbledore's side and could help him escape this nightmare. As he considered the brilliant Dark Lord before him, he found it unlikely that someone like Snape, who openly served Dumbledore, could deceive Voldemort in any way.

"Clearly, you did not succeed at learning it. Why didn't Dumbledore himself teach you?" Voldemort's voice sliced through the air, pulling Harry out of his dark musings.

Harry shrugged, a wave of confusion washing over him. He still couldn't grasp Dumbledore's reasoning. Given his connection with Voldemort, it seemed all the more vital for the headmaster to invest in his Occlumency training. How Dumbledore believed Harry and Snape could ever get along well enough for effective teaching was beyond the teen's comprehension. "He thought my connection with you made Snape a better teacher. If you believed Dumbledore and I were close, you would target me more to get at him."

A derisive scoff escaped Voldemort's lips, mocking Dumbledore's decision. "Foolish of him," Voldemort sneered. "I spent years seeking you, and you lived in the man's school most of your time. His presence would have changed nothing regarding my desire to have you." The Dark Lord regarded Harry thoughtfully. "And you and Severus despise each other, as I understand it. The mind arts are incredibly invasive; your instructor has unfiltered access to your innermost thoughts unless you are self-taught. He is an odd choice to select as your instructor in such arts, even if his skills are adequate."

If Voldemort, a self-proclaimed sociopath, could recognize the conflict in having Snape instruct Harry, how had Dumbledore missed it? "It didn't last long," Harry muttered, suddenly feeling sheepish as he remembered invading Snape's privacy during their lessons. But the guilt was tempered by the knowledge that the potion master did the same to him every time he attacked him with Legilimency. It felt somewhat justified, even though he still felt terrible about seeing his father in such a light. "He despised me, and I never succeeded in blocking him. He eventually kicked me out of his lessons. Besides, when you possessed me in the Ministry, I assumed I'd never be able to master it against you anyway." He trailed off, feeling vulnerable as he discussed his inability to block Voldemort from his thoughts.

"Perhaps with years of training, you might be strong enough to block me, but there are none as competent in the mind arts as I am," Voldemort stated matter-of-factly. "But there is no reason you should not have been taught the skill and be able to block others. As my apprentice, I expect you to be competent in both closing your mind and reaching out to others. I won't have you vulnerable in the mind arts."

Harry wished he knew at least how to protect himself, especially against Voldemort. But the way the conversation was heading, Voldemort himself would likely be the one to teach him. The thought of his parents' murderer regularly accessing his thoughts was horrifying, even more so than Snape. "I don't like the idea of you snooping around my thoughts any more than I wanted Snape to."

Voldemort released a sinister chuckle. "First, you act like you have a choice, Harry. I hope you're under no delusions that you do. Plus, I can access your thoughts anytime; I am a master of Legilimency. I have done so multiple times since your arrival, and you've been none the wiser. At least this way, you will be able to sense me and even begin to block me. And I won't have you vulnerable to others. It is a weakness I won't allow."

Swallowing hard, Harry wasn't sure what to say. How could he even begin to argue with Voldemort on this? It was true; the Dark Lord could invade his thoughts at any point, and he had no way to protect himself. If he at least had the benefit of learning to defend himself, he could gain something from it.

"I will have a book on it delivered to your room. You will clear your mind every night and practice the meditations the book prescribes. How painful this is for you will depend on how much effort you put into it. For your sake, I hope you give it the time these arts deserve."

"Alright," Harry agreed reluctantly, seeing no other options. At least this approach made it sound like Voldemort wasn't going to immediately invade his thoughts; he would have some time to prepare. He felt more motivated to self-study this than he ever had before. It was the only way to routinely keep the Dark Lord from invading his thoughts.

Dropping his napkin onto his plate, Voldemort suddenly stood. Harry mirrored the action, rising to his feet under the Dark Lord's pointed gaze. "I have meetings to attend. You're dismissed for the evening. I will see you tomorrow with your spell list."

Nodding, Harry felt slightly bemused but mostly relieved at the swift conclusion of their meal. Watching the older wizard depart from where he'd come, Harry took a small, shaky breath. He had made it through two encounters without being tortured. It was sadly a new record. Soon, Tipsy appeared, escorting him back to his room. He felt he could almost make the journey on his own.

Entering his room, he noticed two books resting on his nightstand: Occlumency for Beginners and Learning the Most Ancient Art of Legilimency. Both books appeared ancient, and he suspected they would have been incredibly helpful when he had tried to learn Occlumency the previous year. Glancing out the window longingly, Harry dropped onto his bed and grabbed the Occlumency for Beginners book. The knowledge that Voldemort had unknowingly read his thoughts left him worried and paranoid. For his sanity's sake, he needed to learn this. With that thought, he opened the first page and began to read.

The evening passed swiftly for Harry, who alternated between expanding his spell list and studying the Occlumency instructions. Several meditative techniques proved challenging to grasp, but the concept of clearing his mind and finding inner peace held a compelling allure, especially given his current circumstances as a panic-induced prisoner. Long after the sun had dipped below the horizon, Harry extinguished the candles in his room and attempted to enter a meditative state as he lay in bed. However, upon waking the following morning, he found his memory of the experience hazy, suspecting exhaustion had simply overtaken him.

Breakfast materialized moments after he awoke, and Harry consumed it slowly, his eyes thoughtfully fixed on the outside world. He longed for a balcony or any means of interaction with the world beyond his room. His windows lacked latches, a clear measure to prevent escape, although he doubted his ability to flee. He wondered what would transpire if he dared to venture outside and attempted to leave through one of the manor's exits. Would he be stopped? Would Voldemort sense it and immediately retaliate? Although he hadn't been expressly forbidden from leaving, Harry suspected that Voldemort had implemented measures to confine him within the manor. It seemed like something the cunning Slytherin would have anticipated.

Shortly after dressing in simple shorts and a light cotton blue wizarding top, Harry had settled at his desk again when Tipsy appeared, motioning for him to follow her. "The Master is expecting you, young master!" she squeaked, her tiny feet dancing eagerly. "Yous shall follow me to the Master's library!"

Gripping his wand and clutching the list of spells, Harry followed silently after the diminutive elf. Apprehension gnawed at him, anticipating what it would be like to study in the Dark Lord's presence. Surprisingly, his training the previous day and even the dinner had not been unbearable. However, he knew he would be deluding himself if he thought the trend would continue. Perhaps Voldemort was attempting to lull him into a false sense of security before the next shoe dropped.

Before he could fully prepare himself, Harry found himself standing before the entrance to the manor's library. A massive ancient oak door loomed in front of him, torches held by intricately carved silver serpents adorning both sides. With a nod from Tipsy, Harry knocked once against the wood, the sound echoing in the stone corridor.

"Enter."

Summoning his courage, Harry pushed open the door and took in the vast shelves lined with books and tomes. Hermione would have been in heaven at the prospect of owning so many books. A chandelier with floating candles hung from the center of the ceiling, casting a soft, warm glow throughout the room. Large windows between the shelves bathed the space in gentle morning light. The room seemed oddly reminiscent of the peculiar dream he had before being captured—the one where a voice had reached out to him to determine his location. In the center of the room were two plush leather couches, flanked by armchairs, all in a deep rustic brown. A substantial beige carpet lay beneath the furniture, with a sizable coffee table at its center. Voldemort sat behind a cherry oak desk that bore a striking resemblance to Harry's own but was far more elaborate, featuring numerous drawers and shelves.

"Welcome, Harry," the older wizard greeted him, rising from his seat. Voldemort was dressed casually in grey wizarding slacks and a simple fitted black top with sleeves pushed back to his forearms. He almost looked like a regular wizard engaged in office work. Almost. As Harry approached, Voldemort met him near the library's center, next to one of the large sofas.

"Good morning," Harry greeted quietly, his caution palpable. It was disorienting to see the man who had repeatedly attempted to kill him in such ordinary surroundings, without a wand drawn, without being bound and attacked.

"How did you find the Occlumency instructions?"

"It was fairly straightforward," Harry recalled. He had managed to read through the first two chapters with ease. The challenge lay in understanding how he would know if he was meditating correctly, and clearing his mind seemed incredibly difficult in practice. Snape had always scolded him to do it, but Harry wasn't sure how he could tell if he had succeeded. The book had suggested focusing on a calming place and envisioning himself there, so he had settled on imagining a tranquil forest. Nature had always given him peace, especially when he sought refuge among the nearby trees to escape his whale of a cousin and his bullying friends. Before falling asleep, he'd visualize himself strolling through a forest akin to the Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts, devoid of the creatures that usually posed threats. Prodded by Voldemort's expectant stare, Harry voiced his uncertainty about meditating correctly.

"That is normal for a beginner," Voldemort reassured him, gesturing to the couch opposite his own chair. "Would it be accurate to say you've never attempted meditation before?" Harry nodded.

"Then continue trying. Struggle to prevent stray thoughts from intruding on your envisioned space. Immerse yourself in your meditative landscape until you feel truly present. You must have a firm grip on your thoughts. You must dictate their flow and direction. This is the only way to redirect a Legilimency attack to a part of your mind that you control. Did you read about the two types of defenses?"

The young wizard nodded. "You can either block them from entering, like creating a wall around your mind or direct them to a part of your mind where they can't access any of your thoughts or feelings, only the ones you allow them," he reiterated.

"Correct," Voldemort acknowledged, his tone laced with approval. "For a beginner, directing them is much easier than blocking them. You need to be stronger than the attacker to keep them out, but if you direct them correctly, they may not even know you are misleading them. Why do you think a meditative landscape is so important?"

Biting his lip, Harry glanced around the room thoughtfully. He hadn't progressed that far into the book. "So you can envision an environment to move them to?" he ventured.

"In part," the Dark Lord agreed. "It is also the foundation for controlling your thoughts. You need to be intimately familiar with your mind, understanding how you think, what triggers changes in your thoughts, and how you express emotions. Being thoroughly acquainted with your mind will be your first line of defense in detecting intrusion. Once you detect it, you must have the control to prevent them from pulling thoughts or emotions to the forefront."

Voldemort's explanation resonated with Harry, aligning with what he had read the previous night.

"I will give you a few nights to practice on your own before we have our first lesson, where I will attempt to breach your defenses. Focus on creating your landscape and becoming intimately familiar with it. At a moment's notice, you should be able to immerse yourself in it and remain there for any length of time. You should have control over every detail, to the extent that even the slightest change should immediately draw your attention. Do you understand?"

"I think so," Harry confirmed, relieved he wouldn't have to defend his mind immediately. "Good. Now, show me your list of spells."

The teen reached into his pocket, retrieved the folded parchment, and handed it over. Crimson orbs silently scanned the contents. Harry had rewritten it three separate times, concerned about what the Dark Lord would think of his selections and what he might be committing himself to learn. He had meticulously recorded the spells, their purpose, and provided one or two sentences about why he deemed it worthwhile. Some spells appealed to him merely for their sheer potency, while others he saw as practical tools that could aid him in a duel.

"You found Bother's book, I see," Voldemort noted, glancing up. Harry nodded, uncertain why the Slytherin took note of that specific author. Although he had included spells from at least seven different books, the elemental spells outlined by Bother had particularly intrigued him, constituting at least half of what he had listed.

"I've never delved into elemental spell crafting," Harry offered, sensing that Voldemort desired a more in-depth explanation than what was written on the parchment. "The ability to augment a spell's power and make it stronger by connecting with the elements interests me. It seemed like a way to bolster my abilities while catching my opponent off guard."

Voldemort nodded in understanding. "Yes, elemental spells can be quite potent. However, their reliance on the presence of specific elements can potentially put you at a disadvantage. In an outdoor setting near a river or a well-lit area with torches, they can undoubtedly enhance your strengths. But within a location like a manor, such as when you faced Bella, many of these spells would be impractical."

Harry frowned, not having considered this aspect. He begrudgingly admitted the Dark Lord's point. "These three," Voldemort said, pointing to a section from one of the last books Harry had perused, "Nebula Murum, Nigrum Larva, and Lux Caeca, all sensory deprivation spells. A wall of fog, utter darkness, and blinding light. You mentioned they could distract your enemy. I want you to contemplate them further. Why might they pose challenges to you as the caster?"

Shifting uncomfortably, Harry shrugged. He had chosen these spells because Bellatrix had employed a fog spell on him, leaving him feeling profoundly vulnerable. Finding the three deception spells, he had thought it prudent to learn something similar. "Well, they require complex wand movements, and I suppose they might not be fast to cast," he pondered aloud, uncertain of what Voldemort was getting at.

Voldemort nodded once, clearly expecting more from him.

"They would also obscure my vision equally," Harry continued, racking his brain for insights. "So, theoretically, my opponent could find a way to see me and cast spells, while I wouldn't be prepared to defend against them."

"Precisely," Voldemort praised, again unsettling Harry with his approval. "If your spell repertoire were broader, you could have handled several situations differently during your duel with Bella, potentially ending it in your favor. It was her arrogance that led her to cast those spells. She assumed you would panic and not know how to respond. You could have cast a spell to enhance your hearing, allowing you to sense her movements and direction. Alternatively, you could have cast a spell on yourself to see heat signatures and locate her. I would recommend the latter of the two. Hearing enhancement could be turned against you if your opponent discovers what you've done. You may keep one of these spells for now. The other two are redundant. These spells are primarily useful for distracting an opponent or creating a momentary diversion in a large group, giving you time to flee. They are impractical if you intend to stay and keep fighting. I suggest using the fog spell, as light and darkness can both be swiftly countered. Additionally, we will include the spell that allows you to sense heat signatures in your selection."

Feeling slightly in awe, Harry nodded in agreement. The strategy laid out by Voldemort made sense, and surprisingly, the Dark Lord had taken the time to explain it to him and guide him to his conclusions. Voldemort spent a few more moments working through the page, crossing out several spells he found impractical and adding two more, neither of which Harry thought were very dark but were useful conjurations to distract an enemy and give him an opportunity to attack.

"Pluviis pugionibus," Voldemort mused, smirking as he glanced from the sheet to Harry. "An interesting inclusion of a dark spell; the Latin translates to 'rain down daggers.' This one can be exceedingly lethal. I'm pleased to see you're not shying away from powerful spells."

Harry had debated including it but ultimately decided he needed more spells that caused harm, even if he didn't want to use them unless his life depended on it. In a desperate situation, a spell like that could deter a group of Death Eaters attacking him at once. He turned away, feeling a mix of embarrassment, disappointment, and an odd sense of determination to master it and other spells that would make him stronger. If he wanted to survive, he had to grow in power. If Death Eaters knew he could fight back, then maybe they'd never attack him to begin with.

"This is adequate to start with," Voldemort said, handing the parchment back to him. "You will spend the rest of the day researching the spells, writing out the motions and execution, and detailing their uses in several paragraphs. I also want a section on how to counter them. If you can't find specific spells for counteraction, devise a principle for what type of spell or action might work, and I will assist you in finding a suitable solution. If you get stuck, you may ask me questions, but I expect you to try to find the answer on your own. Do you understand?"

Resisting a groan, Harry nodded. This was worse than school, but at least the spells interested him, and there were worse things Voldemort could be forcing him to do. Voldemort rose,

returning to his desk and resuming his work. Harry stood up and wandered toward the bookcase, selecting a few books to start his research. Noticing another large desk on the other side of the library near a window, he chose it and sat down. The desk was positioned so that his back wasn't to Voldemort, but they weren't staring directly at each other either. Feeling as surreal as when Voldemort was instructing him in his designated room, Harry settled down and began his work.

Silence enveloped them for several hours. A few times, Harry stumbled upon concepts he didn't understand, but he refrained from interrupting Voldemort with questions. He would wait and see how the Dark Lord assessed his work. Voldemort, for his part, worked through a pile of papers, occasionally summoning a book or journal. Harry was curious about what had captivated Voldemort's attention all day but resisted the urge to ask. For now, there was an uneasy peace that Harry didn't want to disrupt.

When his hand began to cramp, Harry dropped the quill onto his desk, leaning back and stretching. He studied his work thoughtfully. His research felt thorough, and he believed he had answered the questions creatively and comprehensively. Staring out the window, he found himself captivated by the spells and their potential uses. Why hadn't he invested more time in learning this material on his own? Granted, in the Triwizard Tournament, he had been terrified of dying during each task and was certain someone was out to get him. But in other years, he had barely done the minimum required. Someone had tried to kill him almost every year, which didn't excuse him from finding ways to defend himself and grow stronger.

As he stared out the window, he wondered about Hermione and Ron. What did they think had happened to him? Were they still trying to rescue him, or had they given up since he had voluntarily returned with Voldemort after the attack on the Burrow?

"You look thoughtful," came an interruption, jolting Harry slightly. Voldemort had stood and was making his way over to him. Not wanting to be caught beneath the tall wizard, Harry stood as well.

"I was just taking a short break," Harry defended, uncertain if he should be concerned that he'd been caught daydreaming. He had been working diligently the entire afternoon, but he was surprised to find himself feeling oddly anxious about how his work ethic would be perceived. The entire day had felt strange. Why was Voldemort spending time teaching and assisting him at all? He wanted to ask but suddenly felt unsure. Summoning his Gryffindor bravery, he squared his shoulders. "What are your plans for me?"

"You are to be my apprentice."

"I mean… what about my life? Am I your prisoner?"

Voldemort's unnerving gaze swept up and down Harry's slender form. "Do you feel like a prisoner?" It felt like a trick question. He didn't want to be here, but to say he felt like a prisoner may subject him to an even harsher reality—one in which he might not have a room and limited freedom. Voldemort seemed to want him to act as though this was a choice, that he had willingly decided to be here. Would acting that way afford him more freedom?

"If I'm truly your apprentice, then I would think that means I'm not a prisoner," Harry said, his voice firm, trying to assert his rights.

Voldemort nodded his head in acknowledgment, as if conceding the point, agreeing. "Give me no reason to treat you like a prisoner, and I won't. I told you when you first arrived that your life by my side could be better than the hampered life you have been living under Dumbledore's inept tutelage."

"Am I allowed to leave?" Harry inquired, searching for any semblance of freedom.

Voldemort tilted his head to the side, considering him with those piercing red eyes. "Your room has not been locked since you accepted my mark. But if you're foolish enough to get into another duel, then I hope you have the competence to win next time, for your sake."

Grimacing, Harry wasn't sure what to make of that. Could the Death Eaters challenge him anytime? He definitely did not feel confident that he could take on many of them at this point. And Harry had no clue who else roamed the manor. He'd yet to see anyone else in the halls unless in the direct presence of the dark wizard.

"Am I allowed to leave the manor?" Harry probed further, seeking clarification.

The red eyes bore into him, giving him an assessing stare. "No," Voldemort stated, his voice cold and unyielding.

Harry stared back, his eyes wide with uncertainty. The Dark Lord had only provided a single word, nothing else. "No?" he questioned, his heart falling at the simple, stark answer.

"You have not earned that trust from me yet," Voldemort replied, his tone unwavering, making it clear that freedom was not on the table unless he proved himself worthy.

Harry swallowed, his entire body tensing with disappointment and frustration. "And how would I earn that?" he asked cautiously, aware that he was stepping into dangerous territory. Negotiations like these could lead him into positions he did not want to be in.

Voldemort smiled thinly, his lips curving into a cruel arc. "I'm afraid that will take many instances of demonstrated obedience and compliance. How do I know you will not try to run the first chance you get?"

The raven-haired teen ducked his head, not liking the sound of that at all. "Isn't that what the mark is for? So you can always find me?" he asked bitterly, a spark of defiance in his eyes.

The dark lord's smile stretched mirthlessly. "You're telling me you would not attempt to run? If Dumbledore assured you that he could hide you from me, you would not take him up on that offer?"

Harry shrugged, a sense of actual helplessness consuming him. "You've made it pretty clear that none of my friends are safe," the teen murmured, his voice laced with resignation. "You've captured my two best friends, attacked the Order's safe house, managed to get me from my relatives. Whatever you may think about my IQ, I'm not foolish enough to think you wouldn't have a plan in place if I ran."

The Slytherin dipped his head, his eyes sparkling with something Harry didn't care to discern. "In time, you will earn my trust. For now, unless you are with me, you will not attempt to leave this mansion. Do you understand?" Voldemort's voice was firm, leaving no room for argument.

Miserably, Harry nodded, his heart heavy with the weight of his situation. He needed to prioritize researching the mark at the top of his list. Until he knew the full scope of what powers it granted Voldemort over him, he would be foolish to attempt anything. "May I write to my friends?" he ventured, seeking a sliver of connection with his past life.

Voldemort gave him an assessing look before nodding. "That may be a privilege I allow you," he conceded, shocking Harry. "Anger me, and it will be lost. I will monitor any correspondence; it would be ill-advised to use it for anything nefarious."

Harry had assumed as much but was surprised to hear the Dark Lord voice it. It was a tiny gesture of honesty he hadn't anticipated. He would have to warn his friends to be careful with what they wrote, to avoid putting them in danger or jeopardizing his ability to communicate with them. "You won't use it as a trap to target them?" he asked, suddenly wondering if this was a terrible idea.

Voldemort released a breath of amusement. "You overvalue them, Harry. I have many more important things to focus on than cursing your little friends. The only benefit they provide me is keeping you from acting out. Do not anger me, and you don't need to fear for them."

"I thought agreeing to learn from you and taking your mark was the price for their protection," Harry said, his voice filled with frustration. The idea that his friends might still be at risk, despite everything he had already sacrificed, was infuriating.

"Then you have nothing to fear," the Dark Lord countered, a glint of challenge in his eyes.

Frowning, Harry was confident he was missing something crucial. "Promise you won't use it to attack the Order," he pressed, concern for his surrogate family overpowering his fear. His friends might be protected, but the people they stayed with were not. He would be devastated if somehow Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were harmed by him reaching out to Ron.

The older wizard chuckled, his amusement laced with a touch of condescension. "Finally starting to use your brain," Voldemort said, his tone mocking. "Alright, agreed, I won't use any of your correspondence to target the Order. But if I catch even a hint that you are scheming, all promises are off, and they will feel the full weight of my retaliation."

Harry nodded slowly, taken aback by what seemed like a rare concession from the Slytherin heir. It confused him, but he didn't want to risk the man retracting it, so he chose not to press further.

Voldemort turned, his crimson gaze shifting towards an ancient-looking standing clock that read half past four. "I have an engagement tonight. You may have the rest of the night to yourself. Continue to study, Harry. You are woefully behind where you could be, and I won't tolerate mediocrity. Be ready."

Harry shifted awkwardly, feeling a mix of relief and apprehension. This hadn't been an awful afternoon. He'd received permission to write to his friends and had made progress in discovering spells that could protect him. Seeing the dismissal for what it was, Harry turned towards the door.

"Etiquette, Harry," Voldemort's voice cut through the air, demanding his attention.

Dropping his shoulders in resignation, Harry turned back to the wizard, trying to keep his irritation in check. There went Harry's hope he could have one interaction with the Dark Lord without getting a wand turned on him. He was mistaken if he expected him to start dropping 'My Lords' after every other sentence like the Malfoys.

"What do you mean?" he asked, his tone guarded. He knew the Dark Lord enjoyed seeing his followers grovel on their knees, but, for the most part, Voldemort seemed to have accepted Harry's lack of decorum, except when he was being particularly rebellious, which Harry hadn't been today.

"I expect you to observe apprentice and master protocol, Harry. I've already been generously allowing you not to have to call me lord yet, an honorific I have earned as reigning Dark Lord, but the rest is not beneath you."

Harry was genuinely confused. He had no clue what apprentice protocol entailed. His uncertainty must have shown because Voldemort frowned.

"Did Hogwarts not provide you with etiquette lessons?" the Dark Lord inquired, his tone incredulous.

Harry shook his head, bewildered. Why would they? He wasn't some pampered prince like Malfoy, strutting his nose up like he was better than everyone else. He knew how to be polite, not that Voldemort deserved such courtesy. Attending fancy dinners and acting like a pureblood was the last thing he wanted. He couldn't imagine his Gryffindor mates sitting through something like that next to the Slytherins, who would make fun of them and act superior.

Flicking his wrist, Voldemort summoned a book from one of the looming bookshelves. It glided gracefully into the outstretched hands of the Dark Lord. The book was slender but tall, bound in deep blue leather. Voldemort held it out, giving Harry a pointed look.

Stepping forward, the young Gryffindor took it, looking down bemusedly. Madame Myytlebunce's Modern Manners Made Magical! was scripted into the rich deep blue leather.

"I find myself surprised at you. You're one year from your majority and the heir of a noble line," he paused, giving Harry a sharp look, "to have received no formal lessons at all?" Voldemort shook his head, genuinely confused and somewhat disappointed. "Do you not intend to claim the Potter's seat on the Wizengamot? Have you no pride in the lineage that you bear?"

Harry shrugged, feeling rather foolish. He knew next to nothing about wizarding governance and the parliament that ran their world, except that they'd called a full session in his second year, and Ron seemed to hold them in disdain. But that did not mean much, given Ron's impoverished background and his disdain for anything highlighting a lack of standing or wealth. Hermione likely could have filled him in on all sorts of reasons why he needed to study the high court's history.

"I've been sort of busy trying to stay alive," he responded flatly, exasperation seeping into his voice. Why did Voldemort care about what he did with his family's line? The dark wizard had only sought to kill him up until recently.

"Foolish child," the Slytherin scolded, though without any real bite. "Before my resurrection, you had no excuse. For someone who claims to champion the light and has such high ideals, I would have thought you'd jump at the chance to influence your Ministry. You could have the Ministry on a silver platter with your famed background."

"The ministry despises me," Harry argued, his frustration evident. "They called me an attention-seeking liar, made half the school think I was insane last year."

The Dark Lord's lips twitched in amusement. "Yes, I did take pleasure in seeing Dumbledore's name dragged through the mud. But you're a minor. Once again, your guardians failed you. That was slander and personal defamation of a child. Coming from the Potter line, a wealthy pureblood household, you could have pressed legal charges."

Feeling uncomfortable, Harry shook his head. He'd never known, never even thought to try and stop them. And none of the adults in his life had done anything except tell him to be a good little boy, keep his head down, and take it. Hermione was the only one to help by finding out Skeeter's secret.

"Regardless," Voldemort continued, nodding towards the book. "You should have received proper training fitting of a lord's heir. You may look at our traditions with disdain, but even under Dumbledore's foolish views, it would be impossible to navigate the Ministry completely ignorant of the customs expected of your station. You'd be a laughingstock. If you can't demonstrate even the most basic values and traditions, you're as good as a mudblood child in the Ministry's eyes."

Biting his tongue at the slanderous word, Harry forced himself to remain calm. He glanced down at the book, thumbing through a few pages. Chapters on how to eat and the proper ways to properly pursue one's betrothed danced across elegantly scripted pages. "Well, it's not like I'm about to be married," he observed, unsure why Voldemort was making such a fuss about this.

"There is a section on master and apprenticeship. You will read that before I see you next. I expect you to work through the entire book, and I suspect you will have questions about what's expected of a lord. We will discuss those finer points once you've finished the book."

"You plan to teach me how to be a lord?" he asked quietly, suddenly feeling hollow. His mouth had gone dry. This was something his father should have done. Or perhaps Dumbledore or Mr. Weasley. Swallowing painfully, he realized Sirius would have been a

good candidate as well, being pureblooded and one of the sacred twenty-eight. But his now- deceased godfather had never brought it up, never once broached the topic of what it meant to be the Potter Lord. Never once had any of them thought to mention what would be expected of him once he completed his schooling. Did they not care that he would be a fool in their world? Or perhaps they all never honestly expected him to live that long.

Something about his shift must have been obvious, judging by the Dark Lord's knowing look. "No apprentice of mine will be ignorant of wizarding customs; I won't let you be embarrassed for not knowing things first-year wizards know upon entering Hogwarts."

"I have no desire to become an arrogant prat like Malfoy," Harry argued, fighting to control his erratic emotions. The man who killed his parents would be taking on the role any of the other adults in his life should have filled but never did. It made him want to cringe.

"Your friend Longbottom would have received this training. And Madam Bone's niece. It's standard for all families of stature," Voldemort explained. He tilted his head, his intelligent stare taking in all of Harry, every twitch of his hands and shift of his feet. The Gryffindor felt pathetic that this conversation was causing his emotions so much chaos. He didn't want to be some pureblood aristocrat, but he suspected this ran deeper. This was the wizarding culture he should have been aware of. Once again, he was struck by just how ignorant he was. How had he been so content to walk blindly into this world, knowing nothing? And then, upon learning of his ridiculous fame and all the absurd expectations the world had upon him, why had he still been so content to walk around blind and ignorant? He didn't even know about his own heritage, what the Potters had stood for. What mantle he could take up in their honor? It cut him straight to the core.

"It's not like it matters," he muttered mulishly. "I'm here with you now. It's not like I'm going to continue the Potter line and take up my lordship."

Standing, Voldemort gazed down at him. "Harry, I told you. As my apprentice, the entire world will be open to you. And unlike Dumbledore, I won't let you walk blindly into it."

Blinking once, then twice, Harry dropped his gaze, having no clue how to respond. Everything about this was surreal. It felt very wrong. The man responsible for him being an orphan was now offering to provide what everyone else had never thought to do. He dared not even begin to hope that there was some sort of future ahead of him. He couldn't see how, not with a murdering psychopath like Voldemort wanting to rule the world. And yet, somehow, this same madman was giving him books on how to carry the lordship that ran through his blood. He didn't know what to believe, what to even hope for.

"As an apprentice," Voldemort continued, as if Harry wasn't having a deep internal breakdown about his shattered worldviews, "whenever you leave formal education with your master, it is appropriate to ask to depart. You should nod your head respectfully when I grant it, then turn and leave. If there are other lords and ladies present, you should nod to each in order of rank, stating their title. It is the barest form of respect expected to be shown.

Anything less is to project that you think you are better."

He held up a hand as Harry opened his mouth to argue precisely how he felt about Voldemort claiming to be his better. "This isn't some childish spat between the hero of the wizarding

world and Lord Voldemort, Harry. This is basic etiquette for one who has agreed to enter an apprenticeship. I haven't asked you to kneel or call me lord in public. I don't even require that you call me master, which is my right. But I demand basic respect, and you will do so. You will continue to learn proper etiquette and practice it. And when we are among others, I expect you to show me the respect I deserve as your instructor. Do you understand?"

With a clipped nod, his eyes burning with a mix of anger and confusion, Harry took a step back. "May I leave?" he asked bitterly. There seemed no reason to argue the demand, not when he had agreed to this to save his friends.

"Yes, you may go. I will see you tomorrow morning."

Ducking his head in what could almost be a respectful nod, Harry spun around and fled from the room, the etiquette book clutched tightly in his fists.

Chapter 12: Change

Harry stared at the blank parchment, his mind racing with the daunting task before him. How could he put into words the nightmare he had willingly walked into? Writing a letter seemed utterly insufficient. The thought of starting with a casual greeting, as if nothing had changed, felt absurd. 'Hi Ron, I'm sorry you were kidnapped, and they destroyed your house because of me...' He shook his head, dismissing the inadequate sentence from his mind.

He couldn't help but think about the state of his best friends and his closest thing to a family. Were they all alive and well, or had they suffered just as much as he had, imprisoned and tortured because of their association with him? The idea that Ron and Hermione might harbor resentment toward him gnawed at his conscience, they'd been through so much and always stood by his side, but he couldn't deny the possibility. Ron had hated him after the Triwizard fiasco, thinking he'd wanted fame and glory. Would he think Harry an even greater traitor now, wanting this supposed power?

Sighing heavily, he swept a hand through his already disheveled mop of black hair, his frustration evident. With a deep breath, he picked up his quill, forcing himself to start the letter.

"DearRonandHermione,

I am so sorry for what you've gone through because of me. Please tell me you're both alright. How is your family? Is everyone safe? Don't go into any details you don't want others toread; my post is monitored. But I'm allowed to write to you, at least for now."

His hand shook slightly as he contemplated the next words. He needed to dissuade them from attempting any rescue missions, to prevent more lives from being risked in his name. Should he lie to them? That didn't sit well, but the truth seemed even worse.

"You don't need to worry about me. I'm... I'm trying to stay strong. Please, don't try to rescue me. I need to figure things out here first. I can't bear the thought of more people dying because of me."

Harry paused, his eyes closing momentarily as he grappled with his emotions. He couldn't bring himself to admit that he had willingly accepted Voldemort's mark, that he had voluntarily joined the ranks of his parents' killer. How could he explain such a betrayal to his friends? The weight of his decision hung heavily on his shoulders.

A soft moan escaped him as he slumped over the parchment, his forehead pressed against his sweaty palms. The mark on his arm seemed to throb with a malevolent sentience, reminding him of his lack of options. His attempts at removing or neutralizing the mark had failed, leaving him feeling utterly powerless. Not that he'd expected anything different from his abysmal knowledge of dark rituals or any way to counter them. The realization hit him like a crushing wave: Voldemort had won, and he was now bound to the Dark Lord, unable to escape even if he wanted to. Did it actually matter if Harry escaped if he had nowhere to go?

Should he just tell his friends to forget him and move on with their lives? That any relationship with them would only serve to put them at greater risk?

He grabbed the letter and incinerated it with a flick of his wand. Grabbing a new sheet, he stared at it, his thoughts whirling.

~~s~~S~~s~~S~~s~~S~~s~~S~~s~~S~~s~~S~~s~~S~~s~~S~~s~~S~~s~~S~~s~~ "You're not telling your friends the truth?"

Harry flinched, his head hanging in shame. He had tried and failed multiple times to express his situation in the letter, feeling like a coward each time he tore it up and started anew. He avoided meeting Voldemort's eyes, his shame overwhelming him.

"I don't know how..." he murmured, his voice barely audible. He didn't want to discuss his mental state with Voldemort, didn't want the Dark Lord to see how truly broken he felt inside.

"It's not that difficult; I know you're not illiterate," Voldemort said coldly.

Fighting back his anger, Harry turned away, his gaze fixated on the world outside the library window. The landscape beyond blurred as his mind wandered to a place far from his captivity, a place where he was free from the clutches of the Dark Lord. Somewhere life was simple. "I've betrayed them, all of them," he uttered, his voice cracking with the weight of his guilt and despair. A heavy silence hung in the air, suffocating him as he grappled with the magnitude of his actions.

A cloak sweeping over the carpet was his only indicator that the Dark Lord had stood from his desk, a whispered warning that the dark wizard was moving towards him. Harry remained rigidly turned away, his heart pounding in his chest as waves of hatred and misery consumed him. The hand on his shoulder drew a jerked flinch, his muscles tensing involuntarily under the touch.

"I won't dictate what you tell them," the Slytherin murmured, his fingers pressing into Harry's neck, leaving a subtle pressure that sent shivers down his spine. "But for your sake, I hope you've accepted your place here. You should not give them foolish hope; your lack of explanation for remaining here will only falsely inspire them to try and intervene on your behalf. They will try to rescue you, and I promise they won't survive entering this mansion.

Do you think you can be rescued, Harry?"

His throat incredibly dry, Harry tried desperately to swallow as he fought against the lump that had formed, his tongue heavy and useless. Did he think he could escape? He didn't know. He doubted it. The Dark Lord certainly seemed sure enough of Harry's place by his side.

He twisted, his hand reaching out silently, asking for the letter back. The Dark Lord wordlessly obliged; a perfectly sculpted brow raised as red eyes washed over him with unmasked interest, dissecting his every reaction.

Harry stepped toward the corner desk he'd claimed as his own, lifting his quill with shaking hands. His emerald eyes roamed over the messy print before him, the ink blots and scratched-

out words mirroring his inner turmoil. Dipping the quill in the jet-black ink, he quickly lined through his last few sentences, his hand trembling with the weight of his confession.

Not even bothering to get a new sheet of paper, he dipped the quill again, starting directly under the scratched-out section. His hand shook more than ever, his writing an even greater mess than it usually was, the ink blotting and smudging under the intensity of his emotions. His words, raw and unfiltered, flowed onto the parchment, spelling out his desperation and resignation.

Trembling, Harry handed the paper back before he could rethink his actions. He owed it to his friends to tell them what had happened, what he had agreed to. This was his way to protect them, the only way he still had the power to.

Voldemort's eyes quickly roamed over it, absorbing the words with a calculated interest. The Dark Lord nodded, a slight twitch of his lips indicating his satisfaction and amusement. "Well done, Harry." The praise did nothing to ease the raven-haired teen's turmoil. For once, he did not have any conflicting emotions over the Dark Lord's motives. He only felt small and defeated, wanting nothing more than to flee the gloating wizard's presence.

"You may finish your research for the rest of the morning. This afternoon we will be casting."

Nodding, Harry turned dully away, returning to his desk and plopping down onto the worn- out chair. The Gryffindor felt even more empty than usual. Admitting his situation on parchment almost made it more real, though he could not discern why. Would they read it and listen, choosing not to put themselves at risk for a hopeless rescue?

Deep down, Harry knew he still secretly clung to hope that he could escape, that they would come. Was writing that the Dark Lord's way of forcing him to reject them before any help could given, making it all the more difficult for him to flee? Had he played directly into Voldemort's hands by admitting on paper to the Order that he'd been weak and taken the man's mark? He was certain they would all despise him now. The permanent mark on his arm assured the young teen of that. They would always wonder if he was dark, if he had wanted to give himself over to Voldemort and betray them. And he knew the following days, weeks, and months even would be filled with him practicing dark magic. His wand and core would be tainted with it.

Hanging his head, Harry stared unseeing at the books before him. Suddenly, it seemed to make a lot more sense why Voldemort had allowed him this reward, to correspond with his friends. With minimal prodding, the Dark Lord had masterfully gotten Harry to tell the Order he'd swapped sides, that he was the apprentice of the Dark Lord, and that he was willing to practice magic under Voldemort's tutelage. His gut turning, the young Gryffindor glared balefully at the mound of books next to him.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur. Harry was barely able to shake himself out of his gloom. He'd somehow managed to fill out the rest of his notes on the remaining spells but barely knew what he was reading and writing. He retained none of it like he had the day before, found none of the joy and intrigue he'd allowed himself to feel during the previous day's research. Such were his thoughts consumed with how the Order would respond to his

letter. In some ways, he felt relief that it was in the open. In others, he felt even more caged, this time by his own words and actions.

Lunch came and passed quickly; Tipsy had brought him pumpkin juice and a sandwich he managed to nibble on. The dryness in the back of his throat never left, constricting his breaths, making each swallow feel constrained.

Before he was ready, the morning melted into the afternoon, and Harry was summoned to follow the Slytherin heir back to the dueling room. They walked silently, Voldemort's long black robes gliding over the stone passage as they moved. If the Dark Lord noted Harry's melancholy, he did not show it. He'd simply stood halfway through the afternoon and bid Harry to come, that their practical session would begin.

Reaching the dueling room, Harry stood stiffly across from the dummies. What would Voldemort select first from the list? Many of the spells were not dark. They were ones Harry would never have questioned learning. But several were very dark, extremely lethal, and would be difficult for Harry to ever justify to his friends.

"Which one do you want to try first?" Voldemort asked, shocking the teen.

"The fog spell," Harry muttered, his voice too soft, feeling too weak. He could feel the assessing gaze washing over him, the scarlet orbs probing, wondering if this meant Harry had given up or if it was a disguise for rebellion from the unruly teen who had defied him so many times. Harry only wished he could summon the strength to be defiant.

"Nebula Murum," Voldemort nodded, seemingly satisfied with whatever he saw. "Show me the wand movement."

Taking a steadying breath, Harry raised his eyes, lifting his wand. He could do this, he told himself, trying to snap out of his funk. Learning these spells would make him stronger. He would be able to defend himself and others. He just needed to keep his eyes on his ultimate goal. Remaining weak and defeated would not get him there. It would not help him escape or defend his friends.

"It's a twirl followed by a sharp jab down, then a flick to the right," Harry cited, grateful he'd spent some extra time on this one because he'd found it so interesting. If done right, the fog was dense, impenetrable, and besides knowing the counter, there were few ways to dispel it.

"Demonstrate it," Voldemort commanded.

Harry did, lifting his right hand and clumsily making the motion.

"Your first movement, the circle, is more of an oval. It needs to be proportionate, equal circumference the entire way," Voldemort instructed.

Harry nodded and repeated the motion again.

"Better, but you still pull out of the circle early, too eager to start the next motion. You must commit to the full circle. Again."

Nodding slightly, Harry did the motion again, prolonging the finish, exaggerating the circle, then dropping it down and cutting it to the right.

"Good."

Ears burning, Harry nodded his head in acceptance. "Now the incantation."

"Nebula Murum." The emerald-eyed teen wished his voice had come out stronger, that he wasn't coming across as meek and afraid to the man who'd killed his parents. Rolling his shoulders back, Harry straightened his spine, mentally scolding himself for still being down. Now was not the time to be pathetic. He'd deal with his decisions and what his friends thought; for now, he needed to survive and learn.

"Mer-um, not mu-rum," Voldemort corrected. Surprisingly, there wasn't any bite to the words. The book had made the distinction as well, Harry should have known that.

"Mer-um," Harry repeated. "Correct, now try the spell."

Gazing out of the dueling hall, Harry lifted his wand, envisioning the thick gray fog emitting from the tip of his wand, filling every nook and cranny of the room. "Nebula Murum!" he incanted, twirling and cutting his wand as he'd just practiced. To his shock and delight, a thick, dense fog quickly filled the room, making it impossible to see. The mist felt cool against his skin, breathing it in refreshed his lungs.

"Now cancel it," Voldemort instructed.

Harry froze; he'd written down the counter as part of his research, but he hadn't spent any time learning the movement. It wasn't a part of the list he'd created. Eyes darting around the fog, Harry searched for the Dark Lord but could not sense or see him. He suddenly felt very small, vulnerable, and foolish for putting himself in this position.

"Harry," Voldemort prodded, more bite to his name than was previously present.

"I don't know how," Harry admitted, glad the fog blocked the blush burning through his cheeks.

Suddenly, a stinging hex hit him in the thigh. Harry let out an undignified squawk of pain. Spinning, he tried to see where the attack had come from. Emerald eyes darted around anxiously; he'd lost his sense of surroundings, no longer having any clue where the Dark Lord stood.

"You mean to say you cast a spell you can't cancel?" While there was amusement in the Dark Lord's tone, it wasn't joyous but dark, raising the hairs on the back of Harry's neck. "I thought we discussed this yesterday; was my instruction to you in vain?"

Harry tensed, crouching down, slowly taking a step back so that he was no longer in the same position should Voldemort continue to be hex-happy. Learning to see heat signatures was on the list, a spell Voldemort had added, but he was near the bottom, and he didn't feel confident he could cast it, and definitely not silently. Quickly seeing his own folly in reasoning, Harry realized he should have learned the counter or a spell that could cancel the fog first. Or any other spell which would have helped in this situation. Of course, the Dark Lord would not be so kind as just to teach him the spell and then cast the counter. Begrudgingly, Harry realized it was an important lesson. Instructed in the ways a man used to battle would teach it, not how his safe and sheltered school usually taught.

Another stinging hex shot forward, this time painfully striking his right forearm. Grunting, Harry only barely managed to keep hold of his wand. If he dropped it in this fog, he knew he'd be screwed. Cursing inwardly, Harry frantically tried to think of what to do next. He didn't know how to cancel the fog and could think of no way to identify the Dark Lord's position. Not that he thought that would do him much good. He took another step, then two to his right, to where he thought the entrance was. Voldemort had said this was a good spell to use for escape. While he was certain the Dark Lord knew exactly where Harry was within the fog, maybe if he tried to use it to conceal his movements, Harry could try and get to the door and back to a place where he could see. It was his only hope.

Another stinging hex took him, this time in his collarbone. He could smell the burnt fibers of his shirt as the hex seared his skin. Aggravated, Harry spun and took three quick steps. And ran straight into a pillar.

"Shit!" he cursed, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

"Language, apprentice of mine," he was mockingly scolded. Harry spun; the voice sounded directly behind him.

"Incendio!" he shouted, fire shooting out of his wand and quickly fading into the thick mist.

"You'll have to do better than that." Another hex struck him in the back of the leg. This one was more powerful than the others. Harry dropped to a knee, cringing in pain. He glanced around again, desperately trying to sense anything. Even where the pillar stood was lost again in the thick fog. He had no clue where the entrance was, even where the Dark Lord was. If he wasn't getting his butt kicked, Harry might have felt proud of how well his first casting of it was holding up. It would have begun to fade if he'd done a weak casting, but it was as strong as ever, to his chagrin.

Think, Harry scolded himself, his grip on his wand tightening. He doubted he'd succeed at hitting the Dark Lord; he could think of no way to banish the fog. So, he needed to get out of the room.

"Point me," he whispered, recalling the spell that had come so handy in the maze his fourth year. His wand at once pivoted to the left, the exact opposite direction he would have guessed the door was. Harry pushed himself up and made quick, cautious steps in that direction.

Pausing after four, Harry whispered the spell again. The wand held firm, pointing directly ahead of him. Another hex struck him, this time in the back. It was the most painful yet, slamming into Harry and making him stumble. Letting out a shuddered breath, Harry jerkily

moved forward, ducking down low, hoping to make himself a smaller target. Harry stretched his left hand out with his wand tucked against his side. After two steps, he blissfully touched wood. A door! Feeling over it quickly, Harry found the handle and pulled. It was locked.

Panic now coursed through him as Harry spun, his back against the door. He was locked in!

Another hex hit him, this time in the gut, dropping Harry to his hands and knees. "Merlin's Balls!" he exclaimed, his eyes darting around. The pain was sharp, eye-watering, and Harry wasn't sure what to do. He could cast another attack but doubted he'd be able to hit the Slytherin. He knew nothing strong enough to end the impromptu duel.

"Alright, I get it. You've made your point," Harry snapped, staring frantically into the deep fog.

Fabric ghosted across the stone. Harry's head jerked to the side, trying to see the shadow formed by the Dark Lord, who he knew was circling him, a vulture over his dead prey. "And what is my point?" Voldemort's voice, though calm, carried a menacing undertone.

Harry released a breath of frustration. There were actually many lessons the teen was sadly learning. "To know the counter before casting," he admitted.

"What else," another hex hit his crouched form. Harry jerked but otherwise remained on his knees. Pain coursed through him from all the welts he knew were forming on his body. Since he doubted the Dark Lord would suddenly kill him in one of their first sessions, Harry felt resigned to take his punishment, to accept that this was entirely his fault. He saw no alternative.

"To have a plan, an escape," he added. Though truthfully, he'd found the door. It was just locked. Suddenly, feeling extremely foolish, Harry turned, grabbing the knob again. "Alohomora," he cast. The door clicked open.

Pulling it open, Harry stepped into the blissfully fog-free hallway. Taking in a deep breath, Harry leaned against the wall, moving out of view from the doorframe in case Voldemort was still in an instructing mood. He glanced down at his body; deep gashes lined his slender frame where the powerful hexes had struck him. He gingerly lifted his shirt, taking stock of the deep gash under his ribs.

"That was an abysmal display." Harry's eyes jerked up, staring warily as the Dark Lord strode through the open door. With a silent flick of his wand, all the fog in the room disappeared. "You cast a spell you could not cancel with no plan in place once cast. And you remained frozen, vulnerable for far too long. You would have been dead with my first hit, or any of them, had I desired."

Feeling berated, Harry ducked his head. It wasn't like Voldemort had said this was a duel, that he would begin attacking the teen immediately. "I thought we were just practicing spells," Harry muttered defensively.

"And had I not been there? Or what if it had been a more deadly spell? Do you normally just jump into spell casting with no appreciation of the finer arts for how to use them, how to cancel them, and how to protect yourself if you're successful?" The Dark Lord's stare

hardened, clear displeasure radiating off the Slytherin. It was equally as intimidating as the times Harry had found himself fighting the wizard, frantically trying to stay alive. "You do not appreciate the damage you may cause to yourself or others. For being the light's little golden boy, I'm surprised at you, Harry. You're reckless and lack discipline. And if this is how you usually train, you are lazier than I would have thought."

Swallowing, Harry wasn't sure how to respond. Outside the classrooms, Hermione was the only one he'd tried to learn spells with. Harry realized how naive he'd always been by trusting her to keep them safe. He wondered if the brilliant witch had approached new spells as Voldemort suggested. Learning the counters or ways to protect herself and them first? He could feel his cheeks reddening as his captor berated him.

"I haven't practiced with many fighting spells," Harry realized aloud. He glanced back up, meeting the assessing red eyes. It wasn't meant to be a defense; he was shocked at the revelation. "I do understand your point, where I failed." He would need to be better prepared before future casting, especially with how Voldemort instructed.

The Slytherin heir's gaze washed over him, assessing him. "Good," he said, at last, lowering his wand. "That is all for today. Take care of your wounds and be ready for our next lesson. I expect you to have a better plan for what you want to learn and the order of the spells. This isn't your coddling school. You will learn the hard way if you are foolish enough to make yourself vulnerable." With that, Voldemort turned and disappeared down the hallway, leaving the subdued teen in his wake.

~~s~~S~~s~~S~~s~~S~~s~~S~~s~~S~~s~~S~~s~~S~~s~~S~~s~~S~~s~~S~~s~~

They continued that pattern for several days. Harry would study in the library all morning with the Dark Lord, and then in the afternoon, they would practice spells. Harry was careful always to learn the counters first and then not to pick any spells which left him vulnerable to attacks. To his surprise, their interactions mainly went smoothly. Voldemort had not diverted much from the spells Harry chose to learn, not forcing his own Dark supremacy views on the teen as it had felt like the first day Harry had arrived.

Occasionally, Voldemort would tell Harry he had meetings or errands to run and leave the raven-haired youth to his own studying devices. On those days that the Slytherin was gone, Harry did not go to the library, instead remaining in his room, hidden behind the closed door with nothing but his studies and the window to stare yearningly out of. He hadn't received a response from his friends and was fearful to ask. He did not know what he would do if they had just not responded versus the Dark Lord holding the letter from him until he earned it.

It was early one morning when their routine suddenly changed. Harry glanced up from his reading at the desk in his room when Voldemort arrived wearing a long, thick black traveling cloak. It was very similar to the evening cloaks Harry had been given, a silver snake prominently clicked at the collarbone. Green jaded eyes glistened from the snake's delicate features; it was a mesmerizing contrast beneath the Dark Lord's own scarlet stare. "I have a surprise for you today."

Harry stood up from his chair, meeting the assessing stare with one of curiosity. "Where are we going?" His voice came out more guarded than he intended. The last time they'd left the manor was to attack the Order, an experience Harry did not want to relive, even if that meant he spent the rest of his days a prisoner in this mansion.

The Slytherin heir's lips twitched. "I thought you wanted to leave the manor?"

Fidgeting, Harry rubbed his thumb nervously over the tip of his wand. He didn't want to be a captive, but that did not mean he wanted to accompany Voldemort on attacks or Merlin knew what type of evil Dark Lord outings.

"Relax," the older wizard evoked, "I need to collect some ingredients. You should enjoy this." That sounded harmless enough, although surprising that the Dark Lord ran his own errands.

Wasn't that what all his little dark minions were for?

"Bring a cloak. It may be cold where we are going."

Having no choice and not eager to be tortured this early in the morning, Harry walked over to his wardrobe, grabbing the lone traveling cloak. He quickly donned it, snapping his snake pendant to keep the folds in place.

Nodding in approval, Voldemort stepped forward, reaching for the raven-haired teen's shoulder. Stoically, Harry remained still, the familiar sensation of being sucked in and then back out in the blink of an eye consuming him as he side-along Apparated with the Dark Lord.

"Where are we?" Harry gasped, stepping away from the Dark Lord, dropping his hands on his knees as he took in a gasping breath. That had felt worse than previous Apparations.

"Andorra," Voldemort responded, giving him an amused look. "Is that in Scotland?"

Rolling his eyes, Voldemort turned and began walking across the dry, barren forest floor they'd Apparated to. "Do they teach you nothing in that façade of a school? Andorra is its own nation. We are outside of Spain."

Impressed despite himself, Harry pushed himself up and followed the Slytherin Heir. Apparating into an entire other nation took a lot of power. Glancing around, Harry stared in awe at the towering trees staggering overhead. The forest they had entered felt ancient and untouched, almost hallowed. There was a magic in the air, magic that seemed to speak to his soul more so than even the magic around Hogwarts did.

"This is a magical forest," it was more of an observation than a question. "Astute as always."

Blushing, Harry dipped his head. He wasn't sure why he was even trying to engage freely in conversation with the man. Snape would be pleased to see how well he had adapted to his

new life, a sarcastic voice whispered within. Silently he berated himself, vowing to do better, not to feel comfortable with the wizard who would just as quickly torture him as walk past him on the street.

They walked for several minutes in silence, Harry refusing to initiate any further conversation. It almost felt peaceful. Voldemort looked more human than usual, stepping over fallen logs and navigating around sharply barbed branches that looked painful to the touch.

Harry kept pace a few steps behind him, allowing himself to enjoy the feeling of being outside.

The cool air felt good against his cheek and palms. He hadn't left the manor in over a week. It seemed surreal that so much time had already gone by with him under the Dark Lord's thumb, and he was still alive. He was beginning to believe that Voldemort truly did not intend to kill him, at least not for a while. And he wasn't sure what to think about that. The training had been interesting enough, and he was definitely learning. But with each new lesson, he explored the dark arts more. He hadn't cast anything too sinister yet, but he knew it was only a matter of time.

Coming to a fork in the dirt path, Voldemort pulled out his wand and twirled it, speaking what sounded like complicated Latin. Gold sparks burst to life, swirling out of the wand's tip, then sped off to the Slytherin Heir's right, leaving a fine trail of golden dust in its wake, disappearing behind a heavy cluster of trees.

The dark wizard turned, walking after the golden trail without even a backward glance to see if Harry was following. Bemused despite himself, Harry continued to trail after the Slytherin, wondering why he'd been included in this expedition at all.

As they moved, the forest became denser and darker, the sun now hidden behind the thick foliage of the looming trees. The magic in the air seemed to change too. It felt colder. Harry shivered slightly, grateful the thick folds of his cloak fought against most of the chill. He wanted to ask where they were going, but with each step, he found himself increasingly unwilling to speak, to break the silence. The raven-haired teen was surprised that the gap between himself and his captor had decreased. He was only half a step behind the man, subconsciously unwilling to be caught further away.

"We're here," the Slytherin Heir stated, his voice calm but quiet. They'd stopped next to a steep, rising cliff face, one that rose well past the trees, disappearing behind the thick branches that brushed up against the stone. Boulders and rock mounds littered the area, stacked upon themselves and scattered next to large tree roots which had broken the earth's surface.

"Come to me, my beautiful creature." Harry only just caught that it was hissed, not in English.

A steel-gray, strikingly long-nosed snake hissed, rearing up from the stones. Harry took a step back, staring at the large serpent that had appeared. Deep royal blue, round rings interlaced in an intricate pattern were painted down its slender frame.

"Aspics," Voldemort murmured, dropping down to a knee and sticking out his hand. "A magical viper, very rare. Their venom is extremely potent." The snake flickered out its tongue, tasting the air, and sensing the intruders. Harry wasn't sure how he knew, but he was certain the viper was a she, cautiously slithered forward, pausing on a boulder only a few steps from them, fangs bared.

"My beautiful queen of the forest," Voldemort hissed, "I ask for your offering. As a speaker and lord, I come asking for your assistance."

"It has been a long time since a speaker came," the viper hissed, head tilted to the side in consideration. Her glistening black eyes shifted to Harry. "This one smells of fear. I do not like it. Tell me, why should I grant you my gift?"

Harry felt the irritated red gaze directed at him. Harry only felt mildly affronted by the snake's observation. Any sane wizard would be afraid of a magical viper, especially in a forest like this.

"He is young and still learning to control his emotions," Voldemort responded, his tone not lacking any small amount of ire and bite. "I am teaching him not to act like a timid snakelet. He will learn. He is like me, a speaker, and you would do well to obey him, just like you should obey me."

Harry forced himself not to shift. Telling the threatening snake to obey the boy she had just said smelled like fear did not seem wise. The snake hissed, raising herself higher. She was long and thin, stretching at least five feet in length. Harry had no doubt her bite would be excruciating.

"Youdaretryandcontrolme?" Her hiss came out aggravated, angry.

"IamtheheiroftheTrueSnakeLord,theprotectorofsnakes.Yourlawdemandsit."

The viper paused, tongue tasting the air again. She lowered herself, slithering from the boulder and approached the two wizards. Harry wanted to step back, but Voldemort's fingers suddenly grasped his arm and held the teen rooted in place. "Don't move," Voldemort commanded, his gaze promising worse pain than the snake's bite if he disobeyed. Nodding, Harry was released as the snake stopped directly before them. The teen suspected she would be able to strike faster than either of them could respond.

Dropping elegantly down to one knee, Voldemort held out his hand, palm facing the snake. She licked his skin, tasting him. Pulling back, she dipped her head. "Master."

Clearly pleased, Voldemort reached into the folds of his cloak, pulling out a vial. "You are beautiful and fierce, queen viper. It would please me greatly if you shared your gift."

Glancing from the vial back to the Slytherin heir, the magical viper dipped her head again, moving forward. Opening her powerful jaw, she sank her fangs into the white cloth covering the tip of the jar. Silver liquid dripped into the vial, slowly filling the small glass halfway.

Finishing, the viper detached herself from the cloth and slithered back, climbing up the stones so that she was at eye level again.

"Ithasbeensometimesinceaspeakercametomyforest," she hissed.

Voldemort nodded. "You have done well remaining hidden. Few know this is where the queen vipers nest."

"I can trust you to protect my kin and I, to not share this location with other two-legged who would harm us for our gifts?"

"My beautiful queen," Voldemort murmured, desire lacing his tone. "I not only will protect your secrets, but I will ward this place so that none but me and my own can ever enter."

The viper considered his words, then nodded. "Then I am glad you came, that I gave you my gift, master speaker. Until next time." Within seconds she was gone, completely hidden in the stones as if she'd never appeared.

Voldemort turned, his piercing gaze assessing Harry as he stepped past him, heading back in the direction they had come. "Another reason to improve your Occlumency. So that others don't see you as a frightened little boy."

Harry scowled, a mixture of fear and frustration bubbling within him. "She is a magical viper. I would think it foolish not to fear her."

Voldemort sneered, shaking his head in annoyance. "You are a speaker. You bear Slytherin's gift. You should fear no serpent. It is beneath you."

Not sure how to argue such a point, Harry fought to change the subject, eyeing the vial warily. "What do you need it for?"

"Poison, of course."

Of course, Harry thought, turning away. It should not have surprised him that he'd just accompanied the Dark Lord to acquire ingredients for some deadly poison.

"And you'll assist me in making the potion."

Harry's eyes jerked back up. "What? No…" He refused, aghast.

He sensed more than saw the Dark Lord draw near. "Did you just tell me no?"

Gazing at the still grass, Harry felt his heart escalate as panic surged through him. His terms were that he would not torture. Would creating a potion used for torture or killing fall outside that? He didn't know and doubted Voldemort would let his interpretation slide.

"Please," he said quietly, glancing up. "I don't want to be responsible for murder."

"I haven't said I plan to kill anyone," Voldemort countered, his intense gaze washing over the teen.

"What else could this be for?" Harry pushed back stonily, his fist clenched.

Voldemort took another intimidating step forward, reaching out and gripping Harry's chin. The Gryffindor felt a warning flash of pain in his scar. He had not dropped Harry to his knees, which the youth knew was well within the malicious wizard's repertoire.

"To improve your subpar potion skills, teach you about rare ingredients, and aid you with sensing poisons since many originate from serpents. There is much you would learn, ignorant child," he chastised, his voice soft but with a steel-like quality to it. "And to teach you not to question me. Do you understand?"

Harry swallowed, jerking his chin free. He knew he was moments away from being tortured. "Knowledge at the expense of immersing myself in dark arts," he spat, glaring.

Suddenly, the yew wand appeared in long, thin fingers. Harry stilled, leaning back warily as the wand rose, hovering against the nape of his neck, pushing up against his chin. Releasing a shuttered breath, Harry stared back silently, meeting the dark red glare. He forced his shoulders to lower, trying to release the tense feeling radiating throughout his body. This was his life now. Every time he disagreed, there would be a wand in his face promising the threat of torture. This wasn't freedom; this wasn't the alleged independence Voldemort had pretended to promise his first night captured.

"You can't have it both ways," Harry said softly, meeting the red glare unflinchingly. "I can be your prisoner, or I can be your apprentice. But if I am to be your apprentice, then you know there are things I will be unwilling to do. I know you will torture me, and you can threaten my friend to make me comply, but I didn't think that's how you wanted to gain my obedience every time."

Voldemort sneered. "You think I care how I win?" His cold tone sent a shiver down Harry's spine. "I've already won. Foolish, silly child. You can't resist me." He pushed the wand in, pressing right against one of Harry's arteries in his neck. The sharp probe drew a wince. "You are marked, and you are mine. Continue to fight me, and I'll have a different lesson for you. One that I promise you won't enjoy. Agree to this potion lesson and come willing to learn, or your next will be a lesson on something much worse. We'll dive into the fine arts of breaking a mind. There are many ways I can get around our little agreement. You will witness firsthand what it takes to break a prisoner's will and drive someone to beg for death. And I won't stop until you cease resisting me. You tell me which lesson you would prefer."

Shivering, Harry stared back, terror washing through him. That wasn't a choice, and he could see no way to resist. "I despise you," he whispered, a renewed broken feeling washing over him.

Voldemort smiled, thin lips twitching in infinite satisfaction. "I do not care."

AN: Thanks for reading – reviews and thoughts are always welcomed! 😊