Chapter 4: Offers
With a shuddering gasp, Harry awoke, his entire body tensing as he blinked slowly, attempting to alleviate the pain coursing through his shoulders and neck. As he glanced around, the teenager silently cursed his inherited blurred vision. He immediately noticed the distinct absence of frames perched upon his nose. Whether they had been carelessly set aside or shattered, he did not know. A real fear began gripping him as reality caught up. It was one thing to be in your enemy's clutches; it was quite another to be utterly helpless and unable to see that enemy.
Frantically feeling around, Harry hoped that his glasses had simply fallen off and that he could quickly locate them. To his surprise, he discovered himself nestled in a comfortable bed. It was adorned with plush, silk-lined pillows and equally luxurious sheets draped down to his waist as he struggled to push himself up on his elbow. Squinting through his blurred vision, he strained to make out his surroundings, but all he encountered was a frustrating blur.
"Your glasses are on the bedside table, Potter," a familiar voice drawled in an arrogant tone.
Harry whirled around at the sound of the intruder, barely able to discern the blurred outline of a boy around his own age. This boy had slicked-back blond hair and appeared swathed in a tailored, long black cloak resembling little more than a shapeless black blob. "I should have known you would be here, Malfoy," Harry spat bitterly. The last thing he needed was for Draco Malfoy to start hurling insults and distractions at him when he was so vulnerable and imprisoned by Voldemort.
Shifting his gaze, Harry located the table and, as Malfoy had claimed, his glasses rested exactly where they had been described. Adjusting the wire-framed spectacles over his nose, Harry turned and glared back at the Slytherin who was scrutinizing him with equal intensity.
"What, Malfoy, have you come to gloat? Or have you finally sunk so low that watching me sleep is the only purpose your daddy could find for you?"
The blond boy merely smirked. "You really are something, Potter." "Why's that?" Harry asked cynically.
"You get captured by the Dark Lord and infuriate him to no end, yet you throw insults at me as if we're still at school."
Harry raised a quizzical eyebrow, taken aback by the observation. "Well, a lot of people have told me I tend to be either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. You can take your pick," Harry grumbled.
Malfoy actually let out a snort of laughter before concealing his amusement behind his usual sneer. "I would choose neither; both of those traits will get you killed here," he said, his tone
devoid of mockery, as if he genuinely meant it.
Harry winced. He didn't feel very brave at the moment and highly doubted that recklessness would do him any favors in his current predicament. Voldemort had taken Harry's wand and had already demonstrated his willingness to torture him unconscious. Harry couldn't think of any surprise advantages to aid an escape or prevent another session under the Dark Lord's wand.
The magnitude of pain he had endured was unlike anything he had ever felt. Shivering, he was amazed that he was even awake; he had no idea how long he had been unconscious. The memory of the searing pain ripping through him filled him with dread at the possibility of enduring it again. He wondered if his body would be able to withstand it or if he was destined to lose his sanity like Neville's parents had, constantly exposed to such terrible torment. He suppressed a shudder; that fate would be worse than death. And there was nothing to stop the monster from returning to torture him again. He was beyond shocked that he wasn't imprisoned in a cell with shackles on his ankles or something equally abhorrent. From his vision, he knew that's where Voldemort had kept Ron and Hermione.
"Where is 'here' anyways?" He asked, glancing towards the window. No clues were apparent in the blue sky and distant forest backdrop that met his gaze.
"That's for the Dark Lord to reveal," Draco replied cryptically. "The Dark Lord sent me to bring you to him. He said you would be waking up soon." His eyes shifted toward the wardrobe. "You should change into something more appropriate. I know you like to dress like a Muggle, but surely even you have more pride than to walk around the Dark Lord's manor in those rags?" Harry glanced down at his baggy, worn Muggle clothes that his aunt had begrudgingly given him. While he was shocked that he wasn't in a cell, the demand did not entirely surprise him. Voldemort despised anything Muggle. All the more reason to defy him.
"And what if I choose not to obey your master's command?" Harry asked quietly, staring intently at his childhood nemesis.
"Well, judging by the fact that he made you scream louder than I've ever heard anyone scream and that you've been unconscious for the last three days, I'd imagine you wouldn't want to anger him again," Malfoy remarked casually, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "But that's your problem, not mine."
"I've been out for three days?" Harry repeated thoughtfully, more to himself than to Malfoy. How could Voldemort have that much power over him? Even the Cruciatus Curse should not have rendered someone unconscious for so long, at least not without causing permanent damage. He shivered slightly, remembering the pain. He doubted he had escaped that torture unscathed. He knew the agony would linger in his mind for a long time to come, and he was certain he would feel it again whenever Voldemort saw fit. Swallowing hard, he forced himself to take a calming breath. This was literally the worst situation he could imagine.
"You awoke this quickly only because Snape managed to brew a potion to help your recovery. You nearly died the first night," the mirth had vanished from Malfoy's tone, and he no longer appeared as antagonistic. If anything, he looked even paler than usual. As Harry
took a moment to observe the boy, he realized Malfoy did not look well at all. His face was flushed, his complexion off, and he appeared much skinnier than Harry remembered.
"The Dark Lord was not pleased," the Malfoy heir continued. "He was cursing people left and right, waiting for Snape to find a way to revive you."
Harry couldn't help but smirk lightly. "Good," he declared, "they brought it upon themselves by following that maniac. They deserve every curse they receive."
Malfoy scowled, his expression darkening. "I would watch my back if I were you, Potter; some of the Death Eaters are not happy that they had to suffer because of you."
"Oh yeah? Because you Death Eaters are the ones who truly terrify me," Harry snorted, shaking his head. The notion that he would be concerned about these wannabe dark wizards when Voldemort could kill him at any moment was laughable. "I have my hands full with the psychotic Dark Lord constantly trying to kill me every year. Voldemort has taken me as his prisoner." He laughed, the sound hollow in his own ears. He gestured widely, indicating his lack of a wand or any means of protection. "The Death Eaters are at the bottom of my list of concerns."
Malfoy frowned, his gray eyes assessing Harry as he sneered in disgust. "Suit yourself, Potter. I warned you and delivered the Dark Lord's message. He may allow his other followers to persuade you. They won't be as lenient as I am."
Harry glared at the boy who had been a thorn in his side since the day they met. Moreover, his hatred of Voldemort for capturing him and placing him in this position was increasing by the second. He wasn't even sure he'd survive the next few hours, let alone days. Clenching his hands, he could feel his anger simmering. His magic responded to the emotions coursing through him, making him aware of a palpable tension in the room. He loathed Malfoy for attempting to boss him around, and he detested Voldemort even more for imprisoning him.
A mirror on the opposite wall shattered, causing Malfoy to startle with fright. The blond nearly tripped over his long black robe as he hastily retreated from the room, raising his wand as he looked for the unseen threat. Harry barely noticed it; he felt a surge of power wash over him, reminiscent of the night his friends had been taken, and Dumbledore had urged him not to act. This time, he was less inclined to suppress his wild magic.
"You can tell your master that he can go to hell, as far as I'm concerned," Harry growled angrily as his window cracked, a long fissure running from top to bottom. Malfoy let out a yelp as he backed fully into the hallway, staring at Harry with wide, fearful eyes, his wand pointed at the irate Gryffindor.
"How are you doing this?" The blonde stuttered, glancing from the growing crack in the wall to the angry emerald-eyed teen.
"Maybe I'm not as helpless as you thought," Harry growled, trying to hold on to the wild magic. It felt like water slipping through his hands, he could feel it, but it was impossible to direct with any certainty.
Harry watched as Draco turned to flee, but suddenly, Malfoy froze and dropped to his hands and knees at the exact moment that pain shot violently through Harry's scar. Harry hissed, one of his hands instinctively pressing against the lightning bolt scar, which was now radiating agony.
"I warned you, Harry, that I would be working on your manners. It is rude when a guest refuses their master's summons," Voldemort said lazily, entering the room. He strode past the submissive Malfoy, who was bowing low on the floor, his red eyes locked onto Harry.
"I would hardly consider myself your guest," Harry argued, shifting in the bed as the Dark Lord approached him. He wished he were in a less vulnerable position, at the very least standing, but Voldemort had appeared so suddenly that there was no opportunity for him to slip out of the sheets without bumping into the wizard.
"You chose to come to me, didn't you?" Voldemort asked with a falsely thoughtful expression. It was still profoundly strange to see him in a human form. His presence exuded power, albeit in a strangely captivating way. Now that he no longer resembled a creature from one's darkest nightmares, Harry could understand how it might be tempting to be drawn to the aura of power that emanated from him. It was clear why he had amassed a cult-like following.
"You could have stayed at your aunt and uncle's home, but you left, you came to me," Voldemort continued.
"I had no choice," Harry countered, his hand involuntarily reaching for his forehead. He refused to show any weakness in front of this man. "You captured my friends and put a spell on my uncle. None of this was voluntary." He paused, his green eyes searching Voldemort's eerie red ones. Fearful but needing to know, he ventured, "Did you let them go as you promised?"
Voldemort nodded. "I let them leave unharmed the moment you arrived," he replied. He cocked his head, taking in Harry's pained expression. "You know I can stop the pain if I desire. You only need to ask."
Harry glared back. "Stop the pain then."
"Oh, you silly child, you'll have to ask more nicely than that if you want anything from me," Voldemort replied with an amused tone. Harry continued to glare, fuming inwardly at Voldemort's manipulative games. He wouldn't stoop to begging for anything, especially not from Voldemort.
In the tense silence that followed, Harry maintained his defiant gaze. It was a futile battle of wills, considering Voldemort's immense power, but he couldn't bring himself to yield.
Voldemort's chilling leer morphed into a frown.
"I do hope you overcome your stubbornness soon, Harry, or else this will be a very painful experience for you," Voldemort warned.
"Merely being in your presence is painful, Voldemort," Harry retorted. "Is this why you wanted me here? Are you so bored with being a dark lord that you need to bring a teenage boy here and torture him to feel powerful?"
Voldemort's countenance visibly darkened, and the pain in Harry's scar intensified to an almost blinding degree. "No, Harry, I have other reasons, actually quite a few for bringing you here," he said, stepping closer. Harry shifted back against the bed, keenly aware of his vulnerability and powerlessness in front of the dark lord.
"You may recall an offer I made to you some years ago," Voldemort continued, his red eyes locking onto Harry's pained emerald gaze. "And I want you to seriously reconsider before you answer. I offered it to you in your first year, and you hastily refused. I believe it would greatly benefit you and your friends if you reconsidered."
Harry couldn't believe it. Dumbledore had alluded to this, but he hadn't truly believed that Voldemort would ever want him for anything other than killing him. "I won't become one of your Death Eaters," Harry declared fiercely.
Scarlet red eyes twinkled dangerously, a stark contrast to Dumbledore's sparkling blue ones. "You will serve me, Potter," Voldemort declared softly, with an air of finality.
Harry let out a nervous laugh, barely comprehending the situation. It seemed he was wrong; Voldemort had other plans for him. "You find your situation amusing? You think my offer is something to laugh at?"
Swallowing hard, Harry did everything in his power not to rub his scar. The vicarious mood had shifted, and he was in serious danger of being subjected to the same agony he had felt upon his arrival. "I don't see how you can expect anything different. How could you expect me to join you?" he asked bitterly, stalling for time and not eager to be knocked unconscious again. He needed to draw upon his Slytherin side, the part he'd always tried to deny since the Sorting Hat tried to place him in the den of snakes.
"You killed my parents; you've tried multiple times to kill me. You've killed my friends, my guardians. You've kidnapped and threatened my best friends. Your entire blood purity war is against people who share the same status as my own mother. I have no reason to expect anything other than you trying to kill me as soon as you've gotten whatever sick pleasure you're gaining from my presence here. How could I see your offer as anything other than rubbish?"
Voldemort gave him a scrutinizing look. "Oh, I won't kill you," Voldemort promised softly. "I made a promise in my letter to Dumbledore, remember? But apparently, you didn't read what I wrote; you wouldn't have hesitated to come to me if you had," Voldemort added quietly, the pain in his scar subsiding as he locked eyes with Harry. "And I would not call my offer rubbish; I feel it is an extremely generous one given our past."
Harry was shocked. He had never honestly believed that Voldemort would want anything other than his death. "A past which is entirely your fault," Harry refuted angrily. The teen seethed with frustration, emerald eyes ablaze with fiery anger at the thought that Voldemort would offer him a place at his side after all the horrific things the dark lord had done.
"What did the letter say?" He asked as an afterthought. His mind raced, trying to fathom how Voldemort had planned to convince him to leave the safety of his home and come to a man who had spent his entire life trying to kill him.
Voldemort shrugged an action that would have been unthinkable for the proud Dark Lord. His demeanor was unsettlingly casual, his words dripping with evasion, "You should ask Dumbledore next time you see him." Voldemort's gaze remained steady, never wavering, as he returned to the first statement. In a rare moment of accord, he nodded his head in acknowledgment. "Yes, I originally thought it would be easier to simply kill you, but that has proven far more difficult than even I had anticipated. You have the potential to be immensely powerful, and you haven't even scratched the surface of your true capabilities. Which brings me to the second matter I wish to discuss with you."
With a sweeping gesture, Voldemort extended his long, pale hand, encompassing the room's destruction. He took in the shattered mirror and the broken window, the overturned chairs, and the splintered table. It was as if he reveled in the chaos, finding a strange beauty in the aftermath of Harry's uncontrolled magic. Harry, in his turmoil, had not realized the extent of the destruction he had wrought. The room lay in ruins, a testament to the untamed power that surged within him.
"You did all this without a wand, without even intending to," Voldemort mused, his voice a silky whisper that sent shivers down Harry's spine. "Imagine what you could achieve if you were trained in the art of wandless magic. There are only two living wizards who could teach you. And judging by your lack of control, Dumbledore never extended such an offer. I, on the other hand, am not afraid of the potential power you could wield with proper instruction. I will not confine you to the feeble light spells that Dumbledore has restrained you with. I won't hinder you from realizing your true potential."
"What makes you think Dumbledore is trying to limit my power?" Harry inquired a hint of curiosity slipping into his voice—a curiosity that Voldemort couldn't help but notice.
"Because there is already one wizard stronger than him in the world," Voldemort replied in a soft tone, his words laden with a dark, ominous suggestion. Harry stared at him in disbelief, unable to fathom that Voldemort believed he could surpass Dumbledore in power.
"Stop it!" Harry suddenly cried out, frustrated and angry as he met Voldemort's dark red eyes, unwilling to let the enigmatic wizard manipulate his thoughts any further. Harry turned away, breaking their eye contact. Fuming with annoyance, he directed his glare at the shattered glass littering the floor. Dumbledore had warned him that Voldemort would attempt to manipulate him, to turn him against his allies, but he hadn't comprehended just how easily Voldemort could plant seeds of doubt in his already troubled mind. Voldemort's casual words were like insidious whispers, breeding doubt that threatened to consume Harry.
"What am I trying to do?" Voldemort inquired softly, drawing nearer, looming over Harry.
Harry remained silent, his focus fixed on the fragments of glass strewn across the floor. His heart hammered painfully in his chest as he grappled with the predicament he had unwittingly thrust himself into. How had he ever believed he could match wits with Voldemort in a battle of minds? The Dark Lord was a master of manipulation, and Harry was a mere novice.
All rational thought vanished as searing pain erupted in his skull. Voldemort's hand snaked out, gripping Harry's chin and twisting his head so that their eyes locked in a merciless stare. Harry gasped in agony, recoiling instinctively, but Voldemort's iron grip held firm. The pain intensified, relentless and excruciating. Harry fought to maintain consciousness, his feeble attempts to raise his hand to break the connection only worsening the pain. Unlike when Voldemort had touched his scar and sent him unconscious, this pain was slow and unyielding, a relentless agony that left Harry helpless and gasping.
Slowly, Harry felt himself slide from the bed, landing on his hands and knees, all the while Voldemort maintained eye level with him. "Will you answer me now?" Voldemort demanded, his voice an ominous, bone-chilling whisper. Harry emitted another gasp of pain before nodding his head slightly, praying for the torment to abate.
The experience brought to mind something his Muggle teacher had once told him—a grim analogy that now mirrored his ordeal - if you put a frog in boiling water, it will leap out in instant pain. But if you place the frog in cool water and gradually heat it, the frog will cook to death before realizing the danger. Harry felt like that frog, slowly simmering in agony, utterly helpless.
Voldemort took his nod as a satisfactory response and released Harry, who slumped onto his hands and knees, gasping for breath, his skull throbbing. If Voldemort continued to subject him to this torment every time Harry provoked him, then he might not survive the week.
"Malfoy, help him back onto the bed; I don't wish to stoop to speak with him," Voldemort ordered, his voice dripping with a chilling detachment.
Hesitant steps approached, and Harry felt an arm slide around his waist. "Come on, Potter," Malfoy murmured in a soft, almost sympathetic tone. "You'll need to cooperate."
With a resigned sigh and too drained to protest, Harry summoned the last vestiges of his strength to assist Malfoy in returning him to the bed. He detested being on his hands and knees, especially before Voldemort.
"Good, Malfoy. You may wait by the door; I may have further need of you," Voldemort said with a nod of approval. Malfoy respectfully complied, taking up his position by the door.
Harry's gaze remained fixed on the floor, yearning for this nightmare to be a horrific dream that he would soon awaken from. The persistent pain in his skull served as a cruel reminder that this was anything but a peaceful night's slumber.
"Look at me, Harry," Voldemort commanded softly but with an underlying edge of authority. With a barely perceptible sigh, Harry reluctantly raised his head, meeting Voldemort's scarlet eyes—the same eyes that had haunted his dreams and waking hours alike.
"Good. Perhaps you are starting to learn," Voldemort remarked in a drawling tone. "Now tell me, why did you react that way when I suggested Dumbledore was intentionally suppressing your powers?"
Harry shook his head, struggling to find the right words. He glanced down at the floor, but quickly lifted his gaze when he saw Voldemort's hand inching toward his chin. Taking a deep
breath, Harry bit his lip, torn between telling the truth and fabricating a response. His inner turmoil was evident on his face, and Voldemort, the master of the mind arts, detected it with ease.
"Do not attempt to deceive me, Harry. I am highly skilled in Legilimency, and your Occlumency will not deceive me. I will know if you are lying, and if you do, I will punish you again," Voldemort warned, his threat hanging in the air like a dark cloud. Harry's body tensed, trembling from pain and exhaustion. With a resigned sigh, he nodded and chose to speak the truth, recognizing that the information he held was hardly valuable, as Voldemort could simply extract it from his mind.
"I see what you're trying to do," Harry began in a monotone voice, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. "You're attempting to turn me against Dumbledore, to make me view those I trust as enemies instead of you. You're trying to manipulate me, just as they warned you would." His last words carried a trace of anger.
"Then I assume you doubt your own abilities?" The Slytherin heir interjected with a sly smile, his question laying bare the inner turmoil that Harry was grappling with.
"I don't know," Harry whispered, self-doubt gnawing at him. He loathed himself for allowing this to happen, for letting Voldemort sow the seeds of doubt among those he had grown to trust. But a part of him recognized a shred of truth in Voldemort's words. He had always wondered why Dumbledore hadn't prepared him better for the inevitable confrontation, why he had been kept in the dark about the role he was expected to play in this war. Dumbledore had shared the prophecy and said Harry was capable of vanquishing Voldemort, yet he had provided no guidance on how to accomplish this daunting task.
Instead, Harry had endured five years of subpar defense training at best. The meager knowledge he possessed of real spells was the result of his own self-instruction. Dumbledore had not lifted a finger to train or protect him. Harry remained weak and alienated in the muggle world for his supposed safety. Voldemort still managed to capture him and curse his uncle, despite Dumbledore's assurances of safety.
Voldemort's soft voice, uttered in Parseltongue, sent a shiver down Harry's spine. "He saw what I now see, Harry. You are like me. You could be powerful, stronger than him. And he is afraid." The serpent-like hiss hung heavily in the air, causing Draco Malfoy to shift uncomfortably by the door, not oblivious to the significance of Voldemort's previous words.
As Harry stared at the man who had pursued him relentlessly throughout his life, he couldn't help but acknowledge a kernel of truth in Voldemort's assertions. Lupin had intervened to help him fend off Dementors, and Hermione's tutelage had saved him from the deadly maze during his fourth year. Dumbledore had never offered any meaningful guidance or taught him advanced spells. He had remained inexplicably passive in preparing Harry for his destined battle.
Harry was caught in the crossfire of two of the most potent wizards alive, both vying for control over him, both manipulating his destiny. For the first time, he felt utterly terrified and lost, not only because of Voldemort but also because of Dumbledore. He was ensnared in a
power struggle between two influential wizards, both seeking to mold him into their obedient puppet.
"You see the truth now, don't you, Harry?" Voldemort inquired, his words almost caressing. He had reverted to English.
Harry nodded hesitantly, torn between conflicting allegiances. Voldemort's words had sown doubt in his mind about Dumbledore's motives, but he also knew better than to trust anything the Dark Lord said. His words were laced with deceit, designed solely to exert control over Harry. This was the same man who had committed countless murders and targeted witches and wizards for their blood purity. He was a ruthless dictator, feared even by his own followers. Even if what he said had a grain of truth—that Dumbledore had intentionally restrained his potential—Harry understood that any offer from Voldemort would come at a horrifying cost, one that contradicted everything he stood for.
"Leave us, Malfoy," Voldemort ordered in a hushed tone. The room fell silent as Voldemort awaited Malfoy's departure. Without turning or using his wand, Voldemort casually flicked his wrist, causing the door to shut with a muted thud. Harry couldn't suppress the instinctive flinch that coursed through him at being locked in a room alone with Voldemort.
"I will offer you something that my followers can only dream of," Voldemort promised, his voice intense yet soft, his eyes locked onto Harry's. "I will become your instructor, Harry."
"I have never extended this opportunity to anyone before. I will teach you magic that exceeds your wildest imagination—spells so potent that the Ministry sought to erase them from history. The only remaining copies reside in my private library. I will instruct you in the mastery of wandless magic." He paused, his lips curling into a predatory smile.
"Consider the possibilities, Harry. You could cast spells without the constraints of a wand. No one would be able to restrain you or dictate your actions. You would finally be free to live life on your own terms, unburdened by the dictates of an old man who fears anyone but himself wielding power." Voldemort's words were like a seductive siren's call, tempting Harry with the allure of unparalleled power and freedom.
"Does that include yourself?" Harry questioned bitterly, already aware of the answer. "Would you teach me everything you know and then release me to live my own life?"
"You already know the answer to that," Voldemort responded, his tone deadly serious. "But under my guidance, you would gain more control over your own life than you have now."
"And how would that be?" Harry asked angrily, his mind wrestling with the implications. He would become a pawn, enslaved by the monster who had murdered his parents and turned his life into a living nightmare. Voldemort represented everything Harry despised.
"Because I would have no reason to keep you in the dark about my plans," Voldemort stated. "I would not instruct you to wait passively in a home filled with loathsome relatives while a war rages around you, expecting you to win it for me. I would not impede your growth and learning. Instead, I would nurture your potential. You could achieve greatness under my tutelage."
Harry couldn't help but let his mouth fall slightly open as he stared at the Dark Lord. The life Voldemort offered contradicted everything Harry believed in, yet it also presented the opportunities he had longed for, opportunities denied to him by Dumbledore. But Voldemort was a murderer, a sadistic tyrant who reveled in torture and death. Even if Harry were freed from the Dursleys, he could never accept a life under Voldemort's rule. The prospect of becoming a puppet, subservient to the monster who had destroyed his family, filled him with dread.
"I would place you in a position of power and authority," Voldemort continued, his voice impassioned. "Instead of being told what to do every minute of your life, you would be the one giving orders to others. Between the two of us, the world would kneel at our feet."
Harry took a deep breath, blinking rapidly to break the connection with Voldemort's persuasive words. What Voldemort offered conflicted with everything he valued. He had no desire to rule the world, especially in the tyrannical manner Voldemort intended, with torture and death as his tools of control. "No," Harry replied softly but resolutely. "I will never join you or allow you to instruct me. I cannot be responsible for the countless murders you've committed. Everything you stand for is the opposite of how I want to live my life. I cannot willingly become your student."
Voldemort's response was a sigh tinged with disappointment and anger. "You have made a grave mistake by refusing me, Harry." He turned and walked toward the door, passing through the frame before turning back. One long, pale hand rested on the door handle. "Just remember, I always get what I want, but you may not appreciate the means by which I achieve it." With a final thud, the door closed, leaving Harry alone with his bewildered and conflicted thoughts.