The serpent's lair
The Dark Lord took a slow, deliberate step back, his eyes sweeping the room with a contemplative expression, as if weighing something only he was privy to.
After a long moment, Voldemort flicked his wand. Instantly, the chains that bound Harry shifted. His wrists were drawn tight behind his back, and the chains at his feet connected, leaving just enough slack for staggered steps. Harry's body tensed at the new restraints, his attempts to adjust leaving him feeling more vulnerable.
"Barty," Voldemort's voice was soft, commanding.
From the doorway, Bartemius Crouch Jr. emerged. Harry's eyes narrowed in fury. This was the same man who had once posed as Moody during the Triwizard Tournament—his presence now more notorious than ever. Crouch had only grown in power, loyalty, and menace since those days. He was vicious, conniving, and utterly devoted to the Dark Lord. Worst of all, he was brilliant, which made him even more terrifying as an opponent.
"Yes, my Lord?" Crouch responded, stepping forward with controlled poise, his features were laced with a palpable undercurrent of anticipation.
"Prepare the prisoner for transfer," Voldemort ordered, his tone cold and impassive.
Harry's eyes widened at the command, a sense of unease creeping up his spine. Crouch's expression shifted momentarily, the faintest flicker of concern crossing his features.
"This is our most secure cell," Crouch said softly, as if fearing his words might contradict the Dark Lord's command. "Are you sure this is your desire, my Lord?"
Voldemort's crimson gaze snapped to Crouch, his magic pulsing with a deadly intensity. The room seemed to hold its breath, the air thick with the oppressive weight of his power.
"You think anywhere is more secure than my personal manor?" Voldemort's voice was a low hiss, sharp and cutting. The words were not a question, but a cold warning.
Harry's stomach dropped as the Dark Lord's meaning became clear—he was to be taken to Voldemort's private cells. The manor was unplottable, impregnable, a place where the few who were brought there for "special interrogation" were never seen again. The thought made Harry's blood run cold.
Crouch nodded quickly, his compliance lined with barely concealed fear. "Of course, my Lord," he said, as if eager to avoid further scrutiny. He glanced at Harry, his eyes briefly meeting Harry's with a look of disdain, but also something else—something that did not bode well for Harry. "We'll have the prisoner transferred immediately."
Voldemort's gaze shifted back to Harry for a moment longer, his eyes cold and calculating, before he turned and exited the cell without another word.
HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP
Harry's new cell was a cold, oppressive space that starkly contrasted the world he had once known. The darkness inside was absolute, suffocating, as if it stretched on endlessly, pressing in on him from all sides. The floor beneath him was cold, smooth stone, worn and aged by time, with a single slab at one end that appeared to serve as a bed. It was hard, unyielding, and Harry often found himself lying on it, staring up at the dark ceiling, unable to find rest or solace.
The stone beneath Harry felt uncomfortably cold, its chill creeping up his legs and sinking deep into his bones. In the far corner of the cell, a rough-hewn hole, crude and unkempt, served as a makeshift toilet. That was all. No windows, no light from the outside world. The door itself was magically concealed, blending seamlessly into the stone, its presence almost imperceptible. Harry had used his wandless magic, searching for any crack or weakness in the cell's enchantment, but there were none. He was trapped.
The silence was the worst. It felt crushing, pressing in on him from all directions, like the walls were slowly closing in. It was agonizing, a constant reminder of his isolation. Of his defeat.
Twice a day, food materialized. During these brief moments, a magical torch high up near the ceiling would flicker to life, casting a feeble light for around thirty minutes—a brief, jarring interruption in the perpetual darkness. His morning meal was always the same: thin, tasteless porridge. It was warm and enough to fill his stomach, but beyond that, it provided no comfort. The evening meal was slightly more substantial: a dry roll, a chunk of roasted chicken, some vegetables, and a baked potato. Simple, plain, and yet just as hollow as the porridge. No utensils, only the food laid on a slab that seemed permanently embedded in the room. A cup of cool water would appear alongside both meals, which Harry would drink quickly, the liquid filling him in a way that the food never could.
At first, he had wondered whether the food or water had been tampered with—whether it was poisoned or drugged. But after Voldemort's discovery that Harry housed a fragment of his soul, he realized the Dark Lord could do far worse than use food to get to him. If the Dark Lord truly wanted him to suffer, Harry knew the Dark Lord would accomplish it through something much more spectacular.
So, Harry ate. He had to. He needed to stay strong, even though he had no idea when or how an escape might come. The uncertainty gnawed at him, but he held onto the hope that, someday, something would change—he had to believe it. The alternative was far too devastating.
For two long days, Harry lay in his cold, barren cell. The occasional creaks of the stone or the distant sounds of the castle's other inhabitants did little to break the monotony. Time seemed to stretch on forever, each moment blending into the next.
Then, on the third day, the silence was broken. The door opened.
Four cloaked figures entered the cell, their dark silhouettes slicing through the dimness, casting long, menacing shadows across the stone floor. The tips of their wands flickered to life, sharp points of light focusing immediately on Harry, who remained motionless, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. He had been lying there for hours, lost in thought, when they arrived. He didn't flinch as they entered. He suspected the isolation was starting to get to him.
The closest figure
spoke, his voice rough, gravelly. "Get up, Potter."
Harry didn't move. His body felt worn and exhausted, the days of inactivity draining him more than any physical exertion ever could.
A chuckle broke the silence. "I was hoping you'd make this fun," the voice dripped with sadistic amusement.
Without warning, a sharp flick of a wand sent a wave of searing pain through Harry's body. It exploded like fire through his veins, lancing through him with excruciating force. His muscles seized, his body jerking uncontrollably as the spasms wracked him. Harry clenched his teeth, fighting back the scream that clawed at his throat. The pain seemed endless, twisting through him like a relentless force. Every second dragged on, each one more unbearable than the last.
He tried to remain still, to endure, but his body betrayed him, twitching uncontrollably. Finally, unable to hold himself up any longer, Harry collapsed off the slab, landing heavily on his side. The impact sent a flare of pain through his ribs and arms, but it was nothing compared to the fire coursing through him. It felt like it lasted forever, though it was probably only a few seconds.
The pain slowly receded, but the aftershocks lingered—electric and sharp. His body felt numb, yet every nerve seemed to still burn with searing agony. Muscles screamed in protest, and his breath came in ragged gasps as he struggled to regain control.
One of the figures, his wand still pointed directly at Harry's face, leaned in close. His voice mocking. "Ready to cooperate?"
Despite the pain, Harry gathered every ounce of defiance he could muster. He glared at the four wands trained on him, his body trembling from the lingering effects of the Cruciatus. His refusal to break was all he had left. He knew it would lead to more pain, more torment, but he couldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing him submit. He had endured worse before, and he would endure again.
The first Death Eater, the one who had spoken earlier, seemed impatient, his presence darkening with frustration. He took a step forward. "We don't have time for this," he growled, his wand flickering towards Harry.
In an instant, ropes shot from the tip of his wand, snaking around Harry's arms and wrists, binding him tightly. The ropes bit into his skin, suffocating him as they constricted. Harry gasped, struggling to breathe as the pressure on his chest intensified.
Before Harry could react, two sets of hands grabbed him, lifting him to his feet. His legs buckled under him, weak from the lingering effects of the Cruciatus curse. He could barely stand on his own, his body unsteady and trembling, and the anger at his own helplessness burned almost as fiercely as the pain still coursing through him.
"Move," one of the cloaked figures growled, shoving Harry forward. He stumbled, barely keeping his balance as they forced him to comply, each step unsteady and strained as he was forced out of the cell.
He was led through a series of winding stairwells, the stone steps unforgiving beneath his bare feet. The silence of the manor was oppressive, broken only by the hollow echo of his footsteps and the quiet shuffle of the Death Eaters behind him. The air felt thick, as though the very walls were steeped in darkness. And yet, he couldn't help but notice—there was no blindfold. They weren't worried about him escaping, that part was clear.
They turned a final corner, and Harry was stopped in front of massive double doors. With a sharp creak, the iron-bound doors slowly swung open. Harry's eyes widened slightly as he took in the sight beyond. The room was enormous, the walls lined with stone columns etched with runes long faded by time. It was a dueling hall, but there was something about the space that made his skin crawl. Dark magic lingered in the air like an unseen presence, woven into the stones themselves, a palpable weight.
At the far end of the hall stood Voldemort, unmoving, like a statue carved from darkness. His aristocratic features were bathed in the flickering light of the torches that lined the walls, casting long shadows across the room. The moment Harry stepped inside, the Dark Lord's crimson eyes fixed on him, cold and calculating, as if he could see straight through him. The weight of that gaze was suffocating.
"You are dismissed," Voldemort's voice echoed, slicing through the vast space. The four Death Eaters bowed, their murmurs of "My Lord" barely audible before they swiftly retreated, disappearing through the door. The heavy thud of the door closing marked Harry's isolation.
Alone now, Harry's senses heightened, every nerve on edge. He glanced warily around, taking in the vast, imposing hall. His eyes swept over the long, polished floors and towering columns that lined the walls. The space was magnificent—undeniably so—but it was tainted by an ominous, sinister energy that seemed to seep from every corner. The air itself felt heavy, thick with magic, as though it were pressing down on him. It was a reflection of the Dark Lord's presence: stifling, unyielding, and deeply unsettling.
Before Harry could process more, Voldemort's cold voice interrupted the silence once again. "How do you like my dueling hall?" The Dark Lord's tone dripped with mockery, as though he could sense Harry's reluctant admiration. Without a word or flick of his wand, Harry felt a wave of magic wash over him, and the ropes binding him dissolved, leaving him free.
Harry didn't answer right away. Instead, he let his gaze wander across the room, his mind racing to piece together why he'd been summoned from his cell. What was Voldemort planning now?
"Why am I here?" Harry finally asked, his voice edged with confusion as he turned to face the Dark Lord.
Voldemort's lips twisted into a thin, taunting smile. "That should be obvious," he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "To duel."
Harry froze, the words settling heavily in his chest. "To duel?" he repeated, his voice softer, disbelief coating his words. "You mean... me and you?" The very idea seemed absurd.
Voldemort glanced around the room. "Do you see anyone else present?"
"Why?" Harry asked again, the question slipping out before he could stop it.
"Because I desire it," Voldemort answered. There was a satisfaction present in his voice, as though that alone should suffice as an explanation. As if Harry should be honored by the very idea.
Harry's eyes narrowed. "I have no intention of doing anything that would please you," he spat, his anger flaring despite the unease creeping inside him.
Voldemort stepped closer. "You would give up a chance to kill me?" The question hung in the air, taunting Harry.
Harry knew it was a trap. Voldemort would never allow himself to be vulnerable, especially not to the one prophesied to bring about his downfall. This was all just a game—sick, twisted, and meticulously orchestrated, with every move Harry made being carefully monitored by Voldemort's watchful gaze.
Harry stood tall, his eyes narrowing as he met Voldemort's calculating gaze. "What do you gain from this?" he demanded, his voice tinged with suspicion.
Voldemort tilted his head, his expression shifting into something unreadable. "Does it matter?" he replied, his voice cool and disinterested.
A cold surge of unease passed through Harry, but he quickly masked it, clenching his fists at his sides. His heart pounded, but he fought to keep his composure. "I want to know," Harry stated, his voice steady, determined not to let the Dark Lord's cryptic tone throw him off.
Voldemort raised an eyebrow, a glint of curiosity flickering in his eyes. "Oh? And what do you think I gain from this?" His voice was smooth, almost teasing, as if he already knew the answer.
Harry scoffed, unwilling to get pulled into another round of mind games. He turned his back to Voldemort, refusing to give him the satisfaction. Instead, he began scanning the dueling hall, his senses extending outward, searching for any traps or hidden threats. If he could find some way to regain control—even if only over his own body—he'd take it. He couldn't afford to let Voldemort see how unsettling the situation really was.
Voldemort's voice broke the silence again, closer now, unsettling in its calm. "I can just torture you instead," he offered, the threat barely veiled. Harry could feel the Dark Lord's presence closing in on him, like a predator slowly moving in for the kill.
"Then why don't you?" Harry retorted, attempting to sound defiant, though the slight tremor in his voice gave him away. He turned to face Voldemort, only to find the Dark Lord almost upon him. The closeness made his stomach tighten, but he forced himself not to react, to not show fear.
Voldemort's smile widened, but it was devoid of any warmth—cold and calculating. "There are many things I desire," he said, his voice dripping with an unsettling hunger. "Your misery, for example. If you refuse to cooperate, I'll find other ways to entertain myself. But I am a gracious lord, after all. I would think you'd jump at the chance to duel me. If not, then one of my greatest pleasures would be seeing you on your knees, begging for mercy. And I can arrange that quickly enough."
Harry stiffened, a ripple of fear coursing through him. He turned away, unwilling to let Voldemort see his unease, but he could still feel the weight of the Dark Lord's gaze on him—as if already anticipating how long it would take before Harry broke.
Without warning, a sharp pressure dug into his back—the tip of Voldemort's wand. "Do not turn your back on your lord,"Voldemort hissed, the words slithering through the air like a serpent's warning.
Harry exhaled, the breath barely audible, but turned as he lifted his chin, meeting the glowing crimson eyes with a mix of defiance and resignation. He didn't want to be tortured, didn't want to give Voldemort that satisfaction, but more than that, he refused to give in. He wouldn't surrender—not now, not ever.
"You're not my Lord," Harry said softly.
A sharp throb pulsed through his scar, the pain intensifying, a warning—Voldemort's frustration leaking through their connection. Harry clenched his jaw, trying to ignore the ache that clouded his mind. He couldn't afford to be distracted by pain.
Voldemort gave him an expectant look, as though silently demanding a decision. Between the two options, Harry knew there was only one choice he could make—the one that would give him any chance to fight back.
Suppressing a sigh, Harry forced himself to ask, "What would be the rules for this duel?" He hated the satisfaction that flickered across Voldemort's face.
"There will be no rules," Voldemort declared ominously, a cruel smile twisting his lips. He reached into his robes, and Harry's heart skipped a beat as the Dark Lord pulled out a wand.
Harry's own wand.
Swallowing hard, Harry's gaze shifted from the wand in Voldemort's hand to the Dark Lord's crimson eyes. Those predatory orbs were locked onto him with chilling focus, as if savoring every second, devouring Harry's every reaction.
Steeling himself, Harry reached out, his fingers brushing against the familiar wood. He gripped it tightly, the weight of the wand anchoring him. He tugged, expecting Voldemort to release it, but the Dark Lord's grip remained unyielding. Unsure, Harry couldn't keep the question from his eyes, and the Dark Lord seemed to relish it, his smile widening in amusement.
"Do not hold back," Voldemort commanded, the words laced with challenge.
Harry scowled. He hadn't planned on holding back, but Voldemort's demand only made him want to wipe that smirk from his features.
Seemingly satisfied, the Dark Lord released the wand, and without a word, turned his back, walking casually toward the far end of the hall. His robes rustled softly with each step, and Harry was left standing there, his wand heavy in his hand.
For a moment, Harry considered casting the first spell while Voldemort's back was turned, seizing the opportunity. But something inside him stopped him. This felt wrong—like a nightmare he couldn't escape. He wasn't sure what Voldemort was playing at, what the Dark Lord hoped to gain from this duel. But one thing was clear: it was a trick, a trap of some kind, and he couldn't figure it out.
Voldemort stopped and turned, satisfaction curing his features as he turned to face Harry. It was as though he had known exactly how Harry would respond, as if his hesitation had been part of the twisted test he had set in motion. Harry's lips pressed into a tight line, his irritation boiling over.Bastard.
Without a second thought, Harry raised his wand. He was done playing games.
"Avada Kedavra!" Harry shouted, the hatred inside him fueling the spell. The green light shot from his wand, streaking through the air with blinding intensity.
Voldemort didn't recoil. Instead, his featured stretched into a chilling, almost feral grin.
With effortless grace, Voldemort dodged, his movements fluid and precise, as if he had anticipated Harry's spell before it had even left his wand.
Harry didn't hesitate, unwilling to give the Dark Lord any room to counter. "Crucio!" he shouted, the words searing through his magic as the curse shot towards Voldemort. The hatred fueling the curse burned inside him, but Harry quickly shoved it beneath his Occlumency shields, refusing to let it overtake him.
Voldemort's response was immediate. With a casual flick of his wand, he conjured a flock of ravenous, black birds that swarmed toward Harry. One bird shrieked as it took the full force of the curse, falling to the ground, twitching in agony. The other nine continued their flight, their beaks like daggers and their eyes burning with malevolent intent.
Without hesitating, Harry twisted his wrist. "Elentrancius!" he bellowed, and in an instant, a crackling bolt of lightning erupted from his wand, slashing through the air like a jagged spear. It struck the flock of birds head-on, tearing them apart with an explosive burst of raw energy. The birds disintegrated into wisps of smoke, leaving nothing but the echo of their destruction.
Before the smoke could even settle, a beam of pure, unrelenting energy surged toward Voldemort, its force crackling with the intensity of Harry's attack. The beam cut through the air like a comet, glowing with the raw power of Harry's magic.
Voldemort's response was immediate. He raised his wand with a languid flick of his wrist, and a shimmering white dome appeared around him. The beam slammed into it with a thunderous impact, but it was absorbed, fizzling out before it could touch the Dark Lord. His crimson eyes gleamed with dark satisfaction as he watched the attack dissipate into nothing, a cruel smile curling on his lips.
Harry's jaw clenched, frustration bubbling beneath the surface but he kept it caged. This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
His desperation growing, Harry didn't hesitate. "Sectumsempra!" he shouted, unleashing another surge of dark magic, the words slicing through the air like a blade. Again that Dark Lord dodged it, stepping to the side, not even bothering with a spell to counter it.
"You're certainly no longer the Light's golden boy," Voldemort's voice purred, smooth and mocking. His eyes sparkled with cruel enjoyment as he regarded Harry. "How delightful..." Another flick of his wrist, and the air around Harry seemed to thicken with oppressive power. Voldemort's amusement was evident—this was no longer just a duel. It was a game, and Harry was being toyed with.
The words stung, but Harry refused to qui. No, he wasn't that naive child anymore. The world had ripped away his innocence, forcing him to shed the naive hope he'd once held. He had learned the hard way that if he didn't fight with everything he had then he wouldn't make it out alive. There was no room for hesitation now.
Anger surged through him, thick and boiling, but underneath it, something darker pulsed—cold, determined. He wasn't afraid. Not anymore. He wasn't just fighting to survive; he was fighting for victory. He needed to stop this monster, end the reign of terror, and erase the madness that Voldemort had spread.
With a raw, guttural yell, Harry thrust his wand forward, summoning a storm of jagged ice shards that shot from the tip of his wand like vicious, crystalline spears. The edges of the shards gleamed dangerously, catching the light with a deadly brilliance as they whistled through the air, crackling with freezing energy. The air around them chilled instantly, and Harry could feel the intense bite of the cold as the shards hurtled toward their target.
Voldemort, however, barely flinched. His face remained an emotionless mask as he flicked his wand in a smooth, almost casual motion.
In the blink of an eye, a massive tornado of fire exploded from the Dark Lord's wand. The flames roared to life in an inferno of pure fury, spiraling upward with such force that it felt like the very air around them was being sucked into the blaze. The heat was immediate, scorching, and unbearable. The fire swirled higher and higher, a massive wall of molten rage intent on devouring Harry whole.
The flames rushed toward him, their blistering heat pressing against him with a suffocating force. Harry could feel the temperature rising, the sweat on his brow evaporating before it even had a chance to bead. The fire howled, its roar deafening, as the fiery whirlwind closed in around him, its deadly embrace drawing nearer with each passing second.
For a brief, horrifying moment, Harry was struck by the staggering realization of just how outmatched he was. The weight of Voldemort's power hit him like a physical blow—each tendril of magic swirling in the air, each flick of the Dark Lord's wrath, felt like a storm beyond his control. The flames that blazed before him towered like an unstoppable force, and in the face of it, Harry's heart seized in his chest. Despite the fury that still burned within him, the cold truth settled like ice: this was a battle he doubted he couldn't win.
But giving up had never been an option for Harry.
With a sharp breath, he forced himself to move. Raising his wand high, Harry focused every shred of his strength, drawing on the magic that pulsed through his veins. The power surged within him, a wild, untamed force, as he conjured a massive tidal wave of water. The wave crashed forward with a deafening roar, smashing against the firestorm. The two elements collided in a blinding flash.
Steam exploded into the air in a hot, suffocating cloud. It hissed around him, thick and boiling, as the temperature plummeted. The air seemed to constrict, heavy with the clash of elemental forces. For a fleeting moment, Harry felt a glimmer of hope—he had staved off the inferno. But Voldemort was already moving again.
A malicious smile twisted across the Dark Lord's face. He flicked his wand once more, and Harry's stomach dropped. In the blink of an eye, the sky darkened with thick, green clouds, and acid rain began to fall. The drops sizzled and hissed as they hit the stone floor, eating away at the very air, as if the world itself recoiled from Voldemort's command. The acrid stench of it burned Harry's nostrils, but he reacted instinctively.
Summoning all his remaining power, Harry raised his wand and called up a protective dome of magic just in time. The acid splashed against the shimmering barrier with a sickening hiss, the force of it so powerful that it made the air shudder with energy. The dome held, but just barely, as the acid pounded against it, threatening to break through. The very air around them seemed to burn with the intensity of Voldemort's magic. Harry's heart pounded in his chest, but he gritted his teeth, refusing to let the Dark Lord see any weakness.
His chest burned as he strained to maintain the dome, every muscle in his body trembling from the sheer effort. The acid rain hammered down harder, each drop like molten fire against his shield, and yet the pressure kept building. The weight of it, the relentless assault, was becoming unbearable. The more he held his ground, the more it became painfully clear: Voldemort wasn't just attacking him—he was testing him.
It continued like that for several more magical exchanges.
Every time Harry summoned a surge of magic, Voldemort's response was swift, cruel, and infinitely more dangerous. It was as if the very air around them thickened with dark magic, and with each spell Harry cast, Voldemort eagerly countered, twisting the magic into something Harry could only barely counter. The Dark Lord's power wasn't just overwhelming—it was a force of nature, sweeping through the dueling hall with the ferocity of something untamable. Harry couldn't outpower it, no matter how fiercely he fought.
Each spell Harry cast was countered with a force so overwhelming that his body ached with the effort. His limbs trembled with exhaustion, his breath ragged and uneven as dizziness from overexertion clouded his vision. The strain of casting shields to absorb the Dark Lord's relentless attacks drained him further, and with each passing second, he felt his magic slipping away. The weight in his chest grew, the crushing realization sinking in: Voldemort's mastery of battle magic was far superior. Harry couldn't win this duel.
Fatigue gnawed at him, his muscles screaming for rest, but the Dark Lord showed no mercy. Every strike, every barrage of magic, made it clear how outmatched he truly was. Despite his best efforts, Harry couldn't break through Voldemort's defense. The Dark Lord's power was relentless, and Harry, no matter how hard he fought, couldn't keep up.
The end came in a brutal, dizzying rush. Voldemort's movements were a blur of fury, and before Harry could even react, three spells struck in quick succession. The first slammed into the floor with a crack, shattering the stone beneath him. He was thrown sideways, his body tumbling with the force of the impact. Barely managing to catch himself, he didn't even see the brown curse coming towards him at first. It tore through the air, so close it scorched his robes, the searing heat grazing his chest with blinding intensity. Harry staggered, gasping as his instincts took over and he dropped bodily to the floor to avoid taking a direct hit.
Before he could regain his footing, Voldemort's next strike came in a flash of crimson. It was faster than his reflexes could react. The curse collided with his leg, the pain instant, sharp, and agonizing. A burning explosion of fire shot through him, causing his vision to blacken. His leg buckled twisted him, and Harry twisted against the cold stone floor, the impact of the severing curse stealing his breath. Blood pooled beneath him, but it didn't matter—his body was numb, wracked with agony. Through the haze, one thought pierced his mind: this was the end, he'd lost and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
The pain hit like a shockwave. Harry felt the curse tear through his leg with a sickening force, the wound gaping wide, blood pulsing out in thick, hot waves. His leg was sliced clean through, the raw edges of flesh exposed, and he cried out, the sound ripping from his chest as blood pooled beneath him, slick and red. The agony was unbearable, the pain blinding as it radiated from the hole in his though. He could feel the warmth of his own blood soaking the stone beneath him, every heartbeat a reminder of have fragile this life truly was.
With what little strength he had left, Harry managed to roll onto his side, his hands trembling as they clutched at the gaping wound. But before he could try and staunch it, something worse came. Chains erupted from the ground, twisting and writhing like serpents, their cold metal biting into his skin as they coiled around his arms, his legs, and his neck. They pulled him back with brutal force, slamming him onto the stone floor with a crash that knocked the breath from him. His body screamed in protest, muscles straining, but the chains held him tight, immovable, forcing him to lie there—helpless, bloodied, and unable to escape. The cold stone beneath him felt unforgiving, pressing down as the weight of the situation settled in.
Voldemort's cold, triumphant gaze never left him. With a flick of the Elder Wand, Harry's wand was plucked from his chained hand, spinning through the air in a devastating arc before landing neatly in the Dark Lord's grasp.
A sickening silence settled over the room. Harry could feel his blood pooling beneath him as each breath became more labored than the last. His mind screamed—he had to stay conscious. Had to fight this. He couldn't let it end here.
Footsteps echoed in the cavernous room, soft and deliberate. Harry's heart skipped in his chest as he strained to lift his gaze, eyes swimming with pain and fury. Voldemort stopped before him, the two wands in his hands apparent in the torch light, their pointed tips aimed down at him like cruel reminders of everything Harry had failed to do. The Dark Lord's shadow fell over him, callous and imposing, as he looked down with an almost detached curiosity at Harry's weakened form.
Harry's blood boiled with every passing second—being here, broken and bleeding, in front of the monster who had torn apart his life. The man who had murdered his parents and countless others he loved. The bitter taste of bile rose in his throat, cold and vile, threatening to choke him. He hated the helplessness creeping into his bones, the way he could feel his life draining away, yet still, he refused to give in. His eyes burned as they locked with Voldemort's, glaring with every ounce of defiance he could summon, though his body screamed for release.
Voldemort's voice cut through the silence, soft and almost curious, as if he were simply assessing an object, not a person. "You've improved," he said, his gaze drifting over Harry's battered form like a predator savoring the last moments before a kill. His eyes gleamed with a mixture of interest and disdain, the words lingering in the air, heavy and cold.
Harry would have hoped so. He wasn't the same teenage boy who had barely survived his first encounter with Voldemort all those years ago. Yet this duel had proven that the Dark Lord still held the advantage in skill and experience. A painful truth, one Harry had been reluctant to face, yet had suspected all along. He glanced sideways at the spreading pool of blood beneath his leg, the cold reality of his situation sinking in. His head felt in a haze; his thoughts becoming lethargic. Harry wasn't sure how much longer he could stay conscious. Every breath he took felt like a battle.
"You got your duel," Harry ground out bitterly. "What now?"
The chains binding Harry released with a sudden, jarring shift. For a moment, he remained sprawled on the cold stone floor, disoriented and gasping for breath. His body, still trembling from the pain, fought against the wave of weakness crashing over him. With what little strength he could muster, he pushed himself up, wincing as his blood-soaked leg dragged beneath him. He couldn't stand—his body just wouldn't cooperate—but he could at least lean forward, pressing his palm hard against the gash to slow the bleeding. His breath was ragged, his heart hammering in his chest as he fought to stay conscious, the pain threatening to swallow him whole.
Voldemort's lips curled into a small, amused smile as he watched Harry's futile attempts to hold himself together. He took a casual step forward, his eyes gleaming with cruel amusement.
Harry exhaled, raising his eyes from the wound, swapping one crimson for another.
Voldemort studied him for a moment, then raised his wand. Harry's breath caught in his throat, his body stiffening instinctively as the air around him seemed to freeze, suffused with the palpable weight of the Dark Lord's magic.
With a subtle flick of his wrist, Voldemort's spell slithered through the air, and Harry felt an eerie, unsettling stillness wash over his injured leg. The pain briefly dulled to an almost unnatural quiet, the very sensation of his injury turning strange and distant, as if Voldemort had taken control of it entirely.
Then slowly, the searing pain ebbed away, and to Harry's disbelief, the skin around the wound began to knit together. Slowly at first, then more rapidly, until the bleeding slowed, then stopped entirely. The wound was gone, leaving only a pale white scar and a dull ache—a ghost of the pain that had once been there.
Harry exhaled shakily, staring down at his leg, feeling some of his tension release. He could hardly believe it. It was like the injury had never existed at all. But beneath the miraculous healing, a deep, suffocating sense of helplessness gnawed at him. The Dark Lord had fixed him, but only to prolong the inevitable—only to keep him alive for whatever game he was playing next.
He looked up at Voldemort, his mind swirling with disbelief and confusion.
"Sprig," Voldemort called quietly.
Harry turned his head, still reeling from the shock of the healing spell, to see a house-elf appear with a suddenpop. The elf was small and dour-looking, wearing a threadbare cloak embroidered with the Slytherin crest. It bowed low before Voldemort, its beady eyes wide with apprehension.
"Retrieve a blood replenishing potion," Voldemort ordered, his voice cold and emotionless.
"Yes, Master Slytherin," the elf whispered, before disappearing with another softpop.
Moments later, the elf reappeared, holding a small vial in its hands. Voldemort took the potion and dropped it unceremoniously onto Harry's lap, the glass clinking lightly as it landed. Harry's eyes narrowed, still reeling from the strange, unexpected turn of events. He stared at the vial, its contents a familiar amber color, but his instincts screamed that there was a catch. Nothing Voldemort did was without a price.
Harry didn't trust it. He couldn't trust it. But his strength was waning, his head swimming from the blood loss, and his fear of what might happen next outweighed his distrust.
Voldemort's voice was almost bored. "Drink it or I'll spell it into your gut."
Harry's gaze snapped up to meet Voldemort's, the anger and contempt in his eyes clear. "Don't want your precious Horcrux to bleed out?" he spat, words thick with bitterness and pain.
Voldemort's lips thinned, his pale face twisted into an amused sneer. "Something like that," he said, his tone dripping with disdain.
Harry scowled, disgusted by the situation, but equally seeing no other choice. The potion was something he needed. He couldn't afford to remain weak, not when he had so much more to do. And he would prefer to act on his own accord. With a reluctant, trembling hand, he reached for the vial, the glass cool against his fingers. The sight of it reminded him too much of his past encounters with healing potions—too many close calls, too much suffering. But there was no time for memories and regrets.
He uncorked the vial and raised it to his lips. The liquid was smooth, but bitter, a taste he was all too familiar with. As he drank it down, the potion worked quickly, a warmth spreading through his body, easing the dizziness, and restoring some of his strength. He could feel the blood replenishing, but it did little to remove the overwhelming fog in his mind. His senses were still muddled, and his body was weak from magical exertion. He didn't want to face Voldemort in this vulnerable state, but again, had no choice.
His chest heaved as he finished the potion, swallowing the last bitter drop. He hated the fact that it was Voldemort who had kept him alive—hated the bitter irony that the Dark Lord held his fate in his hands, that Harry had no choice but to play along, for now.
Voldemort loomed over Harry, his cold, crimson eyes fixed on him with calculating intensity. A dark satisfaction gleamed in those eyes as he took in Harry's weakened, bloodied form, as if savoring the moment, relishing the sight of his once-formidable enemy reduced to this—bruised, exhausted, and struggling to remain upright. It was clear that Voldemort reveled in this, in the vulnerability he had forced upon Harry. He found twisted pleasure in watching his enemy fight not only for his life but for the sheer will to survive.
"Now what?" Harry asked, his voice rough, the question heavy under the weight of Voldemort's gaze. He hated feeling of being utterly exposed under the Dark Lord's cold scrutiny.
Voldemort's lips curled into a thin, almost smug smile, one that sent a chill through Harry. "Now you return to your cell."
Harry glared at him, the bitterness in his chest rising. "What was the point of this?" His voice cracked with frustration, the words slipping out before he could stop them. Was this just to prove that Voldemort was magically superior? Harry had suspected it, but to face it so directly—it stung deeper than he'd expected.
Voldemort's reply was simple, cold, and matter-of-fact. "Because I desired it."
The words struck Harry like a slap. He stared at the Dark Lord, his brows furrowing in confusion, but no further explanation followed. Just that chilling statement, leaving him with nothing but the gnawing certainty that he was still seen as nothing more than a pawn in Voldemort's twisted game.
Without another word, Voldemort summoned his Death Eaters. Four cloaked figures appeared at the door, moving forward like shadows in the torch light. Voldemort's gaze never left Harry's as the Death Eaters advanced and restrain him. Harry's wrists were bound once more, the ropes biting into his skin. Their grip was unyielding, a cold reminder of his helplessness.
Despite the blood loss, the deep fatigue, and the crushing weight of everything he had endured, Harry refused to let himself stumble. His legs ached, his body screamed in protest, but he forced himself to stand tall. The last thing he would give Voldemort was the satisfaction of seeing him broken. He was led from the dueling hall, every step weighed down by Voldemort's calculating gaze, knowing full well that the Dark Lord was watching, savoring every second of his defeat.
The journey back to the cell was a blur of stone walls and distant echoes, each step dragging him further into despair. The door to the cell creaked open, and Harry was shoved roughly inside. Mercifully, he's binding's vanished as soon as he entered the cell. As soon as the door slammed shut behind him, he collapsed onto the cold stone slab—his unwilling bed for the past few days. The chill seeped into his bones, but it was nothing compared to the numbness in his soul.
Sitting there, drenched in sweat and blood, Harry found his mind drifting back to the duel—the strange intensity of it, the way Voldemort hadn't sought to kill him. It wasn't like the last time they had faced each other. That time, Voldemort had been relentless, casting curses designed to end Harry's life. But this time, he had held back. He had toyed with him, yes, but he hadn't tried to kill him outright.
A thought struck Harry, freezing his heart. Could this duel have been about the Elder Wand? His grip tightened around the stone slab as the realization dawned on him. The wand had always been his, loyal from the moment he took it from Draco Malfoy, surviving that first confrontation with Voldemort. The wand's loyalty was tied to its master, and since Harry had never been defeated in death, it had never truly turned on him. That was why it had backfired in their seventh year and why Harry had escaped.
Breathing faster, Harry fought to connect the dots. Voldemort must have known this. Was the duel a test of control over the wand? A way to gauge its loyalty to Harry? The fact that Voldemort had slowly increased his spell casting made sense. He had been testing the wand, seeing how far its allegiance to Harry would stretch.
A deep sigh escaped Harry as the weight of his thoughts settled in. Voldemort hadn't tried to kill him, he doubted he would while he housed a piece of his soul. But what did the Dark Lord want now?
AN: Thanks for reading! Reactions, theories, and responses are always welcomed and certainly make posting here more fun!