A new beginning
Voldemort's victory at Hogwarts signaled the grim consolidation of his reign of terror. The castle, once a symbol of resistance, fell, and with it, the last remnants of organized defiance. From that day, his authority stretched over the land, his control becoming absolute.
Magical Britain became his dominion, reshaped into a dark mirror of his ideals and worldview. The Ministry of Magic was dismantled and transformed into a puppet government. Its halls were filled with loyalists, either coerced or fanatically devoted, while those who opposed him were imprisoned or driven into hiding. Resistance was no longer futile—it was unthinkable.
Society itself was completely restructured under Voldemort's rule. At the top stood the Dark Lord, his will absolute and unquestioned, enforced by Death Eaters who served as leaders, judges, and executioners. Pure-blood wizards were elevated to positions of privilege and authority, their status cemented as the ruling class. Half-bloods, while allowed to exist within the system, were viewed with disdain and subjected to constant suspicion. Muggle-borns, branded as thieves of magic, were relegated to the most menial and degrading tasks, their magic barely tolerated and their rights nonexistent.
Though all blood status types of magical children were permitted access to Hogwarts, the rigid hierarchy of Voldemort's regime was unmistakable. Every individual was assigned a station, a purpose, and a role to serve in his vision of a "perfect" society. The structure was designed to ensure absolute control, with clear boundaries drawn between those who ruled and those who merely existed under their heel.
Hogwarts, once a sanctuary of learning, became a fortress of indoctrination. Its banners now bore the black serpent of Voldemort's regime. Loyal enforcers roamed the corridors, and classrooms drilled students in the supremacy of pure-bloods and the glory of the Dark Lord. The Dark Arts became central to the curriculum, with failure met by severe punishment. Lessons were propaganda; magic was might. All were taught that witches and wizards were inherently superior to Muggles and entitled to rule.
This was the new world under Voldemort's iron grip, a dictatorship where his name was either whispered in terror or proclaimed in hollow, forced reverence. He had twisted every facet of society into a monument to his power, a testament to his boundless cruelty and insatiable hunger for absolute control.
Yet, one irritation persisted: Harry Potter.
It should have ended nine years ago. Harry had faced Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest, offering himself to die. Voldemort's Killing Curse struck, and for a moment, it seemed the prophecy was fulfilled. The Boy Who Lived was dead, and complete victory was within Voldemort's grasp.
But then Harry did the impossible again.
He survived.
And he had escaped.
For nine years, Voldemort relentlessly pursued the boy who had eluded him. His spies scoured the globe, hunting down allies and extinguishing rebellions, but Harry persisted. His name became a symbol of defiance that Voldemort's forces could not crush.
Harry had not remained idle. He rallied insurgencies, forged alliances, and built a rebellion that spanned continents. The broken remnants of the Order of the Phoenix, once scattered, were reforged under his leadership. While Voldemort ruled through fear and control, Harry's resistance proved that hope, though fragile, was not yet extinguished.
Each failure to destroy him fueled Voldemort's fury. Harry's resilience became maddening, a shadow that slipped through his grasp again and again. Whenever Voldemort thought the rebellion was crushed, Potter reappeared, leading forces to disrupt the Dark Lord's reign.
Despite his mastery of the Elder Wand, Voldemort couldn't silence Harry's defiance. It was a wound that refused to heal, a constant reminder that his victory remained incomplete. The thought of Harry Potter haunted him, gnawing at the edges of his triumph.
More galling still was that, over those nine years, Harry had transformed. No longer the naïve, hopeful student who had blindly followed Dumbledore, he had become a hardened soldier. Voldemort had been intrigued to learn that the once-clear lines between right and wrong appeared blurred for the Light's meddlesome savior. Survival, it seemed, demanded pragmatism over principle. Rumor had it that Harry now wielded both dark and light magic, employing the full force of his abilities when necessary to ensure victory.
Where once Harry had refused to fight fire with fire, he had now embraced the shadows when they served his cause. He wielded magic with ruthlessness. His methods had become brutally efficient, and though he still fought for the oppressed, there were whispers his allies began to question what he was being forced to become to combat Voldemort. While rumors persisted of his reluctance to torture or kill unless absolutely necessary, it was clear that Potter had come to accept a brutal truth—there were no rules in war.
In some ways, Voldemort couldn't help but savor the change. Harry had become something of a twisted reflection of what Voldemort had been fighting to create—a world where power and magic were what mattered most. The boy's cunning and ruthlessness, though distasteful due to the problems they were causing the Dark Lord, reminded Voldemort of himself. It was clear that Dumbledore's ideals had been weak, mere illusions that had crumbled in the face of reality. Even his prized prodigy, Harry Potter, had abandoned them.
Though Harry was still a thorn in Voldemort's side, the Dark Lord couldn't deny a begrudging respect that had formed. Not that he would ever admit that to anyone. The boy had become formidable, but that very evolution was a double-edged sword. Voldemort knew he had to ensure Harry's eventual downfall would be spectacular—one that would not only crush the boy, but also serve as a warning to anyone who might dare to follow in his footsteps.
The world would know that none should dare defy the Dark Lord. Only destruction remained for those foolish enough to try.
And it was only a matter of time. There were days when sitting on his throne, Voldemort's mind relished the anticipation of their inevitable final confrontation. Harry was the last obstacle, the symbol of resistance that would be eradicated. The boy couldn't hide forever. His fleeting victories, fragile as they were, would eventually crumble beneath the weight of Voldemort's growing power.
Yes. Voldemort's patience was nearly spent, but he could sense it—the rebellion's end was near. The boy could run, he could fight, but the Dark Lord would always find him. And when he did, there would be no escape. No more hope.
Soon, Harry Potter would be gone, and Voldemort's dominion would be complete.
HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP
Voldemort sat behind his obsidian desk in the Ministry of Magic as he sifted through stacks of documents. The weight of the paperwork didn't faze him; it was just another layer in his ever-expanding empire. This particular agreement, an international exchange with the German Ministry of Magic, had been difficult to secure, but Voldemort was making delightful progress.
The recent capture of key political prisoners had provided him with an unexpected yet decisive bargaining chip. Among those detained were the brother and sister of the German Minister's wife, caught during a covert meeting meant to forge alliances with the French Ministry and British rebellion faction.
The intelligence of when and where the meeting would be held, unexpectedly, had come from Lucius Malfoy's son, Draco.
Typically, Voldemort regarded Draco as inconsequential and inept—a perception well-known to Lucius, who persistently tried to shield his son from Voldemort's brutal scrutiny. The manifestation of Lucius's rare paternal instincts, however, served only to amuse Voldemort. The Dark Lord had taken to summoning Draco to the Ministry or his Manor, not out of any necessity, but simply to unsettle Lucius and savor the spectacle of Draco's discomfort as he fumbled through his inadequacy. This subtle torment served as nothing more than a trivial diversion from the mundane routine that accompanied his recent days, one that Voldemort indulged in with cold, calculating glee.
However, in this instance, Draco had proven some use and earned a sliver of pleasure from his Master.
Now, as he prepared to finalize an agreement with the German Ministry of Magic, he found himself reviewing the final terms, ensuring they were clear and binding. The document stipulated that the release of the prisoners was contingent upon the Germans not only accepting his expansive terms but also committing to exclusive dealings with his regime, effectively preventing them from entering into any formal agreements with the French or other nations who would seek to countermine his power.
Of course, the German Ministry had initially resisted, but the fear of what Voldemort might do if they persisted had eventually broken their resolve. Flipping through the accord, Voldemort allowed himself a moment of indulgent pleasure. If there was one thing he had mastered above all else, it was the art of bending even the most defiant to his will.
As Voldemort reached for his quill to make a final adjustment to the documents, a knock at the door shattered his concentration. His reaction was minimal, but a slight curl of his lip betrayed his irritation. Interruptions were intolerable, a fact well known to those who served him closely enough to have access to him during this hour.
"Enter," he commanded, his voice low yet carrying a sharp edge that hinted at the displeasure waiting for the intruder.
The door creaked open, and Barty Crouch Jr. stepped in. Voldemort's gaze swept over him—tall and strong, with straw-like hair and a sharp, shrewd look in his eyes. His once-dilapidated appearance had given way to a tough, healthy demeanor, a clear sign of his recovery since Azkaban. His loyalty, unwavering from the start, had only deepened over the years. After his release, Crouch had thrived, and Voldemort had rewarded him with a position of power in his ranks. His cunning and fierce devotion having made him an invaluable asset.
"My Lord," Barty murmured, his voice echoing slightly in the stillness of the room. He stood in the doorway, his gaze fixed intently on his master, his eyes shining fervently as they usually did when in the presence of so much raw magical power.
Voldemort's crimson eyes, the only remnants of his former monstrous visage, slowly lifted from the papers to meet Barty's gaze. Instead of the reptilian visage he'd once donned, his features had returned to those of Tom Riddle—aged yet refined, with a sharp jaw, pointed nose, and an aristocratic bearing that exuded an aura of undeniable authority. His appearance was meticulously curated to align with the expectations of a pureblood poised to rule the wizarding world.
Despite his physical transformation, his eyes, still glowing with crimson, serving as a haunting reminder of the dark magic he had mastered over the years. He had retained this unsettling feature by choice; they were unmistakable and served as a potent symbol of the immense power Lord Voldemort had relentlessly pursued and mastered. He wanted those who met his gaze to feel the weight of his magic, to sense the immortal force beneath the polished aristocratic facade, to fear his capabilities, and, above all, to never dare defy him.
The physical transformation had been a deliberate choice that occurred shortly after he took Hogwarts. Following Voldemort's resurrection in the graveyard, not only was his physical form restored, but also his mind and magical prowess. Before his resurrection, he had not fully appreciated the profound impact that creating Horcruxes had on him—each division of his soul had progressively stripped him of more than he anticipated, fracturing his magic, his humanity, and reducing his flesh to something more primal and creature-like than wizard. That fateful process of ensuring his immortality had culminated in that disastrous night when he attacked a toddler and nearly met his demise.
Yet, deliciously upon his return, he sensed a wholeness within himself that had been absent for ages. Reluctantly, he attributed this renewal to the use of Potter's blood in the ritual—a bloodline undeniably pure and potent, now intimately entwined with his own. Wrapped in this cruel twist of fate was the irony that Potter, the very agent of his near destruction, had unwittingly fortified Voldemort, rendering him more formidable and cunning than ever before.
This return to a more coherent state of mind brought with it a keen awareness of his objectives—to take full control of magical Britain and then extend his dominion beyond. He realized that to achieve his ends, it would not suit his purposes to appear in the distorted, distasteful form of his past. The natural weakness of the human mind, while amusingly terrified of the physical manifestations of his previous self, proved at times to be a hindrance. Such fear was counterproductive now that he wielded control, that he walked among them and sought not just obedience, but their loyalty and devotion.
Now, he needed submission, and his current form—the restored features of Tom Riddle—made the feeble and weak more inclined to submit.
Barty's gaze flickered nervously, yet he stood firm as Voldemort's magic expanded, enveloping him with a palpable pressure. It seeped into the Dark Mark, which eagerly responded to its master's presence. The pulse of Voldemort's displeasure reverberated through the mark, serving as a silent but stern warning. Barty was well aware of the folly in interrupting the Dark Lord during his deliberations.
"I trust you have a good reason for disturbing me, Barty?" Voldemort's voice dripped with malice.
Voldemort watched his follower closely, detecting a flicker of unease in Barty's eyes, though his expression remained impassive. Yet, there was an incongruent glint of excitement—ill-suited for someone who was knowingly drawing the Dark Lord's ire. Clearly, Barty had something pressing to say, something urgent, yet he knew better than to speak without Voldemort's explicit permission.
Voldemort's eyes narrowed, and with a mere flick of his will, the magic in the room intensified. It wasn't a physical assault, but an oppressive wave that thickened the air, suffocating everything it touched. The magic in the room was palpable, a stark reminder of who wielded absolute control.
Barty froze, his pupils dilating, his breath catching in his throat as the room seemed to constrict around him. Voldemort felt the man's body tense, sensing the deep-seated unease that lay hidden beneath his composed surface.
With a cautious step forward, Barty lowered his head in submission. "I'm sorry to interrupt, my Lord... but Harry Potter has been captured."
The words struck Voldemort like a thunderclap, shattering the oppressive silence that had enveloped the room. He stilled, his gaze fixed on Barty with chilling intensity. The weight of the moment hung heavy in the air as the Dark Lord silently processed the news. His mind raced, yet his expression remained unreadable—his thoughts, as sharp and calculating as ever, absorbed every detail, every nuance of Barty's announcement. There was no need for further confirmation; Barty would not have dared to present such news unless it were unequivocally true.
Voldemort's unyielding gaze held Barty, but in the stillness, he felt the stirring of something far darker than mere victory—an unsettling sense of anticipation, the power he had sought for so long now tantalizingly within his grasp. Harry Potter—the very name that had become synonymous with defiance, rebellion, and resistance—was finally his to claim. Yet, even as a surge of triumph pulsed through him, Voldemort remained cautious, aware that it was too soon to revel in victory. There were still questions unanswered, risks lurking, potential complications that could arise. But for a fleeting moment, he allowed himself a flicker of satisfaction.
Harry Potter, the boy who had thwarted him time and again, was finally within his grasp. The reality of it—captured—was almost too profound to believe.
Voldemort's crimson eyes locked onto Barty's, icy and penetrating. Beneath his outward stillness, his mind was a whirlwind.
As the oppressive aura of his magic receded, Voldemort leaned forward, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the desk as he digested the implications. "Take me to him," Voldemort demanded, his voice low and dangerous.
HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP
Voldemort followed Barty through the desolate corridors of Azkaban, his footsteps echoing against the cold, stone walls. The air was thick with despair, saturated by the invisible weight of the Dementors' presence. Shadows danced uneasily around them, cast by the faint, flickering torches mounted on the damp walls.
The fortress of Azkaban had always been a place of fear, a monument to isolation and suffering. Now, under Voldemort's rule, it had become something far worse. The walls seemed to pulse with the anguish of the prisoners trapped within, a soundless scream woven into the very stone. It was no longer a prison—it was a place where hope came to die.
As they ascended the steep, spiraling staircase leading to the maximum-security wing, the steps narrow and slippery with condensation, the darkness above seemed endless. Guards stationed along the path instinctively stepped back, some bowing out of fear, others discreetly finding reasons to vacate their posts as they realized the Dark Lord was among them. Voldemort moved with a deliberate grace, his crimson eyes glowing faintly in the dim light, an embodiment of the dread that filled the air. Barty trailed a step behind, careful not to overstep his master.
As they progressed, Voldemort could feel the Dementors nearby, their crushing energy licking at the edges of his awareness. They too avoided him, as they always did, slinking back into the shadows like desperate, obedient creatures. Though they feared him, Voldemort could feel their hunger. They longed to feed on magic as powerful as his, the power he exuded would feel like a beacon compared to the wretched souls trapped within the cells. But they would not dare bite the hand that fed them—the bringer of souls.
The weight of their presence, however, did not go unnoticed. He felt the chill of their aura pressing against the air, a faint hum of sorrow and despair that buzzed beneath his skin. It was almost intoxicating.
They stopped before a dark, narrow hallway. The air here was colder, heavier, laced with magic meant to suppress even the strongest wills.
"He's through there, my Lord," Barty said, his voice a low murmur tinged with nervous excitement. He gestured toward a thick iron door concealed in the shadows, its surface covered in intricate runes glowing faintly with defensive enchantments.
Voldemort let his gaze linger on the door, his expression settling into the faintest trace of a sneer. Maximum security. Constant Dementor presence. Every measure of precaution had been taken to keep the prisoner contained. As he stood there, Voldemort felt a flicker of anticipation, an almost childish glee.
The one he had sought for so long was just beyond this door.
With a flick of his wand—the Elder Wand—the locks and charms on the door began to unravel. The runes dimmed and faded, their magic crumbling in the face of his power. The iron door creaked open, revealing a dark interior.
The room was barren. A single cell stood at its center, its bars thick and enchanted with layers of magic. There were no windows, only a single torch mounted high on the far wall. Its flame burned weakly, casting a pale, sickly light that offered no warmth. The air was damp, heavy with the smell of mildew and decay.
Voldemort stepped inside, his gaze sharpening as it settled on the figure in the corner of the cell. A wizard sat slumped against the wall, arms crossed over his knees, his head tilted back to rest against the cold bars. He wore the traditional gray and black striped uniform of Azkaban prisoners, the fabric worn and frayed. Though his frame was lean, hardened by years of struggle, it was clear he had matured from the teenage boy Voldemort had last confronted. This was no longer the adolescent Harry Potter he remembered—this was a young man, scarred and tempered by a lifetime of conflict.
His messy black hair was longer now, brushing the nape of his neck, and a faint stubble shadowed his jawline. The gauntness of his face only emphasized the sharpness of his features, and even in his tattered state, there was an undeniable quiet strength about him. Harry Potter had been forged in devastation, and the results of that transformation were evident.
Voldemort, ever an admirer of power, found this sight delightfully intriguing.
The room itself seemed to hum faintly with magic, though Voldemort sensed that this was not emanating from the torches or the enchanted cell. It radiated from Potter. His magic was palpable, a steady presence that pressed against Voldemort's senses like a low, thrumming current. It had grown—richer, deeper, honed to an edge that Voldemort could almost taste in the air.
For a moment, Voldemort allowed himself to savor it. This, too, was a testament to Harry's transformation induced from years of trying to stay one ahead of the Dark Lord—his magic had matured, shaped by years of hardship. It was a power worthy of attention. Despite his disdain for Harry's defiance and the irritation of the boy's continued survival, he couldn't deny the intoxicating thrill of standing in the presence of such raw potential. Power that was now utterly at his mercy.
Harry shifted slightly, the movement subtle. His head tilted forward, and his tired emerald eyes opened, locking instantly with Voldemort's crimson gaze. Despite the weariness in his posture, there was no fear in his expression. Instead, a strange, unsettling calm seemed to settle over him, as though he had been waiting for this moment.
Voldemort's lips curled into a slow, cold smile. He stepped closer, his robes whispering against the stone floor, the Elder Wand held loosely in his hand. The torchlight flickered, casting sharp shadows across his face.
"Hello, Harry," he said, his voice a low, silken drawl that seemed to fill the cell. "It's been a while."
AN: Whelp…. Here we go. This is an entirely new story. If you've read my other, there is no relation (and that will be my priority to complete). This was just a plot bunny I decided to entertain. Reviews and reactions are always welcomed and very much enjoyed!