Chapter Twenty Four
Terror such as I have never known before seizes me. I scramble for my wand, tucked away in the pocket of my overcoat, and almost fumble it. My hand, as I take aim, is unsteady.
"Get out of my house."
The threat has no effect. Lord Voldemort continues to scrutinise me, his scarlet eyes slitted and pitiless. Then he glides forward.
He closes the distance between us, even as I start to back away, my wand pointed at his heart. When he is within arm's reach, he stops.
"Do it," he says softly. "I am defenseless. You can cut me down. You can end the war to come before it even begins. Do it."
He tilts his head, as if gesturing over his shoulder.
"The girl dies."
And again, that petrified paroxysm of terror. Behind him, in the flickering firelight, Astoria's face swims with tears. The snake's fangs dip closer to her exposed nape. It raises its head and weighs me.
With a shuddering heave I tear my gaze away from the scene.
Lord Voldemort regards me with curiosity. His demeanour makes it clear that he is awaiting my response.
"Please . . ." I mumble, lowering my wand. "Whatever your problem is, it's with me. Leave them out of it."
His lip curls. There is no reassurance in that smile. Only cruelty.
Lord Voldemort turns away. Offers me a free shot at his back. My eyes flash to the snake; I consider it for a second . . . but no. No, too many variables.
"Drop your wand, Harry Potter," Lord Voldemort says. He examines Daph, who remains frozen in front of the piano. "You will not be needing it tonight."
He meets my gaze.
"Or do you wish to duel me? Do you think you or your friends would survive if I were to draw my wand?"
"I could make you bleed," I snap instinctively.
"Threats must have substance behind them," is the sibilant response. "You are in no position to make one. You have shown me what frightens you. That was a mistake. Now let go of your wand, lest your defiance angers me."
I close my eyes. Experience a visceral sense of shame and humiliation.
Uncurl my fingers.
My wand clatters to the floor.
He extends a palm. My wand wobbles, then floats to him.
Lord Voldemort holds it close to the hearth and studies it.
"Ash, if my eyes do not deceive me?"
"Yes," I mutter.
"And the core?"
"Dragon heartstring."
"Unyielding." He spins the wand between his fingers.
Whips it towards Daph.
My heart skips a beat.
Nothing happens.
"Your wand goes cold at my touch." His voice is equal parts amusement and wonder. "It refuses the gift of my magic."
He curls the other palm around the wand's tip. Tightens his hold.
"If it will not yield, then it must be broken."
Don't, I think to myself, as he increases the pressure. Please don't.
"Or perhaps," Lord Voldemort says, pausing, "a gentler approach."
He sets my wand on the table. Extends spindly fingers and plucks out Daph's wand from her clenched fist. He coaxes it, as if conducting an orchestra. Daph is lifted from her seat, still statue-esque. He guides her through the air.
Sets her down next to Astoria.
"I will not harm you tonight," he says to me. "I have only come to take what is rightfully mine."
"I don't understand," I whisper.
He hisses at the snake. It unspools itself and slithers to him.
He lifts it. Sets it around his neck.
Tori sags. Begins to wail and hyperventilate. Lord Voldemort clicks his fingers— she too is frozen like Daph.
"You do not understand?" He echoes, affecting surprise. "Surely, you must know everything there is to know about your father? James Potter. My lieutenant. My loyal servant."
Anger twists his visage.
"Dumbledore's spy," he says quietly.
The last remaining shred of hope I have is extinguished. Lord Voldemort laughs. It is a high, cold, mirthless laugh.
"I see that Dumbledore has told you. No, do not deny it, your father was ten times the Occlumens you are, yet even he could not keep it hidden from me forever. But I wonder . . . did Dumbledore tell you that James had a change of heart?"
"He . . . he speculated . . ."
"For two entire years James spied on me," Lord Voldemort says, knotting his fingers behind his back and staring into the fire. "For two years, he was all that stood between me and triumph. Not Dumbledore, not the Ministry, not the Order of the Phoenix, but your father and the invaluable information he gave to the other side. Each time I was thwarted, I would go through the minds of all my servants; but I never discovered his treason, for he was the most gifted of them all, as talented at the mind arts as any wizard I have ever laid eyes on. He misled me; he walked the thin ledge between life and death, because he thought it was the right thing to do."
Lord Voldemort pauses. He considers me.
"Do you know how they rewarded him for it?"
I shake my head, riveted despite myself.
"They cast him away. They tossed him aside after they had used him, because they no longer trusted him. He never forgave them for that. He came and confessed everything to me. He begged me to overlook his treasons; he begged for sanctuary, for him and his family. And in return, he pledged to serve me forever."
Lord Voldemort spreads his arms.
"If he had been anyone else, I would have killed him on the spot. But he was, alas! the most gifted amongst my servants; and though he spied on me, he also sullied his hands in my service. So I decided to be merciful . . . and would have continued being so, if not for my fall. His debt to me, however, was never repaid— he promised me that he would undo the damage he did to my cause. I have been denied that. So it falls on you, now, to bear his burden . . ."
Try as I might, I cannot sense any duplicity in his words; nor does he give, through even the remotest of twitches, any appearance of deceit.
"What about my mother?"
"That I cannot answer," Lord Voldemort replies, "but I can guess. Your father's condition at the end was near derangement— he had been let down by everyone he trusted.
"I suspect Lily Evans discovered that her husband was a Death Eater. If so, she would have threatened to inform the Ministry. With my fall, James would have had no protection, Dumbledore all too eager to wash his hands clean from the entire matter . . .
"Your father was trapped. He was about to be sent to Azkaban, regardless of his sacrifices." Voldemort spits the word out with derision. "He was about to lose his son forever. You. His flesh and blood. The child he loved above all else— more than his wife, more than even the righteousness he once held dear.
"I am certain he wished to take you and flee. I am equally certain your mother would have tried stopping him. The rest you know."
There it is, I think numbly. The truth. The thing I've always suspected, but never wanted to admit, even to myself. I was responsible for the deaths of both my parents.
Not now though, I convince myself, shaking off the stupor. Now is not the time for this, not the time to fall apart. Daph and Tori need me.
There's something glassy and puppet-like about their condition. I can tell from how their eyes move that they can see and hear us, but beyond that . . .
"Release them," I demand.
"They are unhurt." He waves away my concern. "I have, of course, given you my word . . . you and your friends will survive the night. . . but what is it, Harry? I give you permission to speak freely, you do not have to fear me at the moment . . ."
"I am not my father," I say. "I am neither a spy, nor do I have any interest in your cause."
"Causes," Lord Voldemort replies. "Masks. To be worn and discarded. It is me you will serve, not my cause."
"You're a monster."
His lip curls.
"Revolutionary, is what I would prefer."
"You come into my house. You hold my friends hostage. How could you even think—"
"Let me make something clear." He strokes the snake around his neck; it has raised its head to hiss at me. "Thirteen years I lay broken, thirteen long years, during which I have had the time to recollect each of your father's treasons. If I do not extinguish your line tonight, it is only out of a reluctance to spill the blood which flows in your veins. Defy me, however, and that will change.
"So here, then, is what you will do. You will join me— you will start at the bottom and work your way up, as your father never had to. If you prove yourself worthy, I will teach you myself, and reward you with riches beyond your wildest imaginings . . ."
He cocks his head.
"But perhaps, you need more incentive?"
I stiffen as he reaches into his robes, expecting to see a wand, expecting to be tortured till I break down and pledge myself into his service. But what he brings out is a slender, iridescent vial. The frothing liquid inside changes colour every second— now green, now gold, now indigo, now yellow, now red . . .
"Do you know what this is?"
I shake my head warily.
"I did not expect you to. But there is someone here who knows . . . someone well trained as a Potioneer . . ."
He waves his hand. The paralysis Daph is under gives way, and she comes alive with a gasp. Her face is contorted. There is, however, an inhuman gleam in her eye as she stares at the vial.
"You may speak," Lord Voldemort commands. "You know what this is, do you not?"
"Flamel's panacea," she whispers.
"Yes. Before the late Nicholas Flamel successfully created the Philosopher's Stone, he made a prototype. It was a failure, so he broke it into pieces, mixed it with a dash of phoenix tears, powdered asphodel, and water from the now dry Fountain of Youth. The result was . . .this."
He holds the vial high above his head and shakes it. The colours cascade.
"He only had enough ingredients to make five vials. Three have been used already. One is lost to time. This . . . this is all that remains."
He smiles at Daph, who moans in despair as she rocks back and forth.
"From the Malfoy vaults," Lord Voldemort murmurs. "They intended to give it to your sister as a wedding present. I believe you know what this does?"
"It . . . it can cure . . . any curse . . ."
"Including," Lord Voldemort finishes for her, "the Greengrass Blood Curse."
He turns to me and slips it back into his pocket.
"Take the Dark Mark," he says, "and this is what I offer you as reward. Refuse me . . ."
He steps into my space.
"Refuse me, and there will be nowhere to hide. Spit on my generosity, and you will discover why the Wizarding world trembles at the mere mention of my name. I will not make your death quick or easy, Harry— your father spited me, and I do not forgive easily. I will disembowel the Greengrasses first; I will feed that mudblood of yours to Grayback while making you watch. Then, and only then, will I grant you the reprieve of death.
"The choice is yours. You can save the people you cherish, or you can doom them. You have until June to decide— after which it will be too late."
He steps away.
"Farewell, Harry Potter," Lord Voldemort says. "When we next meet, it will either be as master and servant, or predator and prey."
He pivots on the spot— there is a cracking sound; the windows explode and rain glass, and the anti-apparition wards around the cottage shatter.
The howling wind outside is the only companion to the silence in the room.
Endnotes
Voldemort's version of the James Potter storyline. Truth, half-truth or lie? You probably won't know for sure until somewhere near the end.
Now, that aside, this is the work's halfway point, or thereabouts. I expect this story to be 300-350,000 words.
A few other things:
There were other, equally promising alternatives I rejected here. For instance, there was Voldemort forcing Harry to take a Dark Mark on the spot. Ultimately, the approach I picked speaks to how I wish to characterize Lord Voldemort, and how I wish to develop this work going forward.
The second half of this work is darker than the first. There's very little humour to be found. This is a conscious choice, because humour cripples narrative tension. I don't think it'll be grim dark, and this work never turns into ASOIAF or Beserk, but it is a rough ride at points, and if you absolutely cannot stand decent people going through adversity, or stuff going wrong for the protagonists, then this is where I'd recommend calling it quits.
Best wishes for the new year, everyone. Hope life gives you peace and joy!