Masks
Chapter Text
Harry stared blankly at the mask resting on his desk, the morning sunlight filtering through the curtains, casting a faint golden glow upon the room. On the day of his first Death Eater meeting, he had awoken to find this unexpected item added to his belongings. There it lay, an unwelcome guest in the silent chamber. Unlike the traditional silver and gray masks worn by the Death Eaters, this one was unique. It glistened with an eerie combination of gold and black, a puzzling contrast that hinted at his inevitable separation even within the dark follower's ranks.
Cautiously, he reached down and picked up the mask, feeling its cool surface against his fingertips. Upon closer inspection, Harry was taken aback by the mask's intricate, shadowy designs. Serpentine figures, expertly carved, coiled around the edges, their dark forms weaving an intricate tapestry. Its narrow slits for eyes, mouth, and nose added an air of foreboding unknown. It was a work of art, the craftsmanship evident even in its sinister aura. Nausea swept through him at the realization that he would soon be parading around as one of the Death Eaters he had grown up despising.
He wasn't sure what he had expected, but this mask was not it. He detested what it represented in terms of conformity and submission. Moreover, he was confused as to why he would be forced to wear something that made it more difficult to recognize him, the light's savior turned enemy. Was Voldemort intending to keep him hidden? Draco had mentioned that the Ministry was aware of his capture and the mark etched into his flesh. So, why the need for anonymity, if such a thing was even possible? Harry couldn't help but be skeptical. His unmistakable mop of raven-black hair and his piercing emerald gaze would surely give him away, especially since the mask was a different color, one that would quickly draw everyone's attention.
His hands trembled as he grasped the mask, its cool surface offering a stark contrast to the anxiety surging within him. With shaking fingers, he gingerly raised it to his face. The magic woven into the mask ensured it clung firmly to his skin. Slowly, he turned to face the full- length mirror against the wall, anticipation and uncertainty melding in his eyes as he met his own reflection.
Someone he no longer recognized stared back at him from the mirror; his emerald eyes, once vibrant with determination, were now mostly masked by the ominous golden slits of the Death Eater mask. The shadows cast by the mask accentuated the angles of his face, lending him an air of mystery and severity. The light steal hugged his features snugly, shrouding him in an aura of foreboding. His raven hair framed it in a disheveled mess, swept this way and that. With his features concealed, he thought he looked more imposing than childish. His youth was equally masked as his features.
He glanced at the rest of his body. It had been a while since he'd bothered to look at himself in a mirror. Adorned in the luxurious, high-fashion black wizarding robes that Voldemort had left for him, Harry felt the soft weight settle upon his shoulders. The fabric, smooth as midnight silk, clung to his form with an almost sentient elegance. The robe's design was impeccable, tailored to perfection, with intricate patterns of serpents and dark skull symbols adorning the hems, a chilling testament to the world he had reluctantly become a part of. The robes exuded an aura of power and authority, an unmistakable statement of his presumed allegiance to the Dark Lord.
As he gazed upon his reflection, Harry couldn't help but feel a dissonance between the person he had been and the one he was becoming. The mask and the robes seemed to symbolize a tangible representation of the path he had chosen to tread. The juxtaposition of his youthful face behind the mask and the imposing attire served as a reminder of the contrast within him
—caught between the innocence of his past and the dark realities of his present.
He no longer felt like Harry Potter, the boy who had once faced the world with bravery and hope, who had blindly trusted in Dumbledore and the light. He was becoming something else, something darker, and the reflection before him was the embodiment of that transformation. The mask and the robes were all parts of the enigma that was becoming his new identity—an identity forged in the crucible of Voldemort's influence and his own reluctant acceptance of the apprenticeship he was forced to live every day.
Harry's fingers tightened around his wand, the familiar holly and phoenix feather core nestled securely within his grip. With practiced ease, he slid the wand into a specially designed holder strapped to his forearm, concealed within the folds of the cloak. It was no ordinary wand holder; it responded to his wandless magic, a mere flicker of desire causing it to shoot out into his hand for quick access. The mechanism was ingeniously crafted, a testament to the Dark Lord's meticulous skills. It was also heavily protected by multiple charms, ensuring that no one could summon his wand or disarm him without his consent.
The gift from Voldemort, who had presented it one night during dinner, had left Harry with a strange mixture of emotions. On the one hand, it was a testament to the Dark Lord's dedication to Harry's education as his apprentice, showing his ability to provide Harry with the tools that would aid him in becoming a skilled wizard who could defend himself. On the other hand, it highlighted the stark contrast between his current situation and his past life.
The Dark Lord took care of him, providing him with resources that the light side had never offered. It left Harry feeling oddly empty and frustrated. Why had the light so thoroughly neglected him? Did they not care that he was so weak, so foolish? The more he learned under the Dark Lord's tutelage, the more he realized how woefully behind he had been. How little help anyone had been willing to provide him to help him grow stronger and survive.
With a faint pop, Tipsy materialized before Harry. "It is time, Master Harry, for yous to join Master and his followers," she squeaked, her voice quivering with anxiety. Harry could see the nervousness in her wide, bulbous eyes as she shifted back and forth from one small foot to the other. He couldn't help but mirror her nerves. The prospect of being surrounded by the insane Death Eaters wasn't something he looked forward to either.
Harry nodded, signaling for Tipsy to lead the way. His steps echoed softly in the dimly lit corridor as he followed her, the flickering torches on the walls casting dancing shadows that created an eerie atmosphere, mirroring his own unease. They traversed the familiar path, passing the large wooden door leading outside to the garden he had visited the other day. Harry couldn't help but glance at it, yearning for the perceived freedom it represented. How he wished he could escape the impending encounter, finding solace beneath the swaying branches of the ancient magical trees.
As he walked, his mind whirled with questions. Would he be expected to actively participate in the meeting? Would Voldemort acknowledge him in front of the Death Eaters? Harry suspected that the Dark Lord would seize the opportunity, not just to gloat about defeating the Boy Who Lived, but also to flaunt his prized possession—a former champion of the light, now entangled in the dark arts under his tutelage. But the mask had thrown him for a loop.
On one hand, he was grateful he might not be immediately recognized, but on the other, he feared what Voldemort had up his sleeve.
The weight of Voldemort's scheming bore down on Harry, making his footsteps heavier as he continued to walk. As they neared the meeting chamber, Harry couldn't shake the feeling of being led to the snake's den. What if he was challenged to another duel? He knew his power had grown considerably, but he wasn't sure he could face someone like Bellatrix and win.
The more he learned, the more he appreciated how little he actually knew, and how much magic was still out of his reach.
He clenched his fists, summoning as much courage as he could muster. The air grew colder, and a chilling draft swept through the corridor, making the teen shiver. As Harry approached the end of the corridor, Tipsy came to a halt before a massive door. With a submissive motion, she indicated for Harry to enter. "I is not allowed in here, Master Harry," she whispered. "You is, and must continue alone."
Steeling himself, Harry pushed open the door. As it creaked open, he stilled, his emerald eyes widening in astonishment as they swept over the room before him. The chamber was vast, basking in the light from the flickering candles hung magically around the room. Cloaked figures, their faces hidden beneath dark hoods and masks, filled the space. Harry's quick estimation put the number at close to fifty, a formidable assembly of Voldemort's devoted followers. Over half of them had hoods pulled up, fully concealing their features, a precaution Harry wished he had taken, but his cloak did not have a hood. It would have made it harder for them to identify him if they couldn't see his unruly black hair.
His heart raced as he stepped further into the room, the golden mask he wore setting him apart from the rest. The air grew heavy, and a hush fell over the already low murmurs that had filled the chamber. Harry could feel the weight of their collective gaze settling upon him, the intensity of their scrutiny sending a shiver down his spine. Despite the concealment the mask provided, he sensed their eyes dissecting him, assessing the newcomer in their midst.
Noting his different mask, that he was adorned in expensive wizarding clothes. Did they know he would be joining this meeting? Did they already know who he was?
The door magically closed behind him. The click of it sealing made him tense further. He was literally in a room surrounded by his enemies. It was more unnerving than training with Voldemort. For a moment, time seemed to stand still, the silence stretching taut. He contemplated grabbing his wand, but thought better of the action; it might encourage others to do the same. As of yet, there were no wands drawn.
The Death Eaters were spread out, some in groups, clearly having been talking before he entered. Others stood apart, whether from preference or exclusion, Harry did not know. He was struck by how very little he knew of Death Eater meetings. He had no idea what to expect. How did they interact with their master? Did all speak? Was there a rank structure? He knew Voldemort had an inner circle, but outside of that, he was very much in the dark.
Hoping to diffuse the stir his presence was causing, Harry glanced around, spotting an alcove that was mostly shadowed. He forced himself to slowly walk towards it, keeping his eyes on the room occupants with his back mostly to the wall. If he could get out of the center of attention, maybe they would forget he was there. He didn't sense or see Voldemort, not that he was in a hurry to go running up to him either.
He felt eyes following him, but some had turned away now that they saw he wasn't about to speak or act. With his head tilted down, his unique mask did not stand out quite as much. A soft murmur began again in the room, some of the Death Eaters returning to their conversations.
He stopped at the alcove, putting his back to a giant pillar that further helped him slip out of notice, slightly more in the shadows. The teen's emerald eyes darted around the room, trying to recognize anyone, but the masks and cloaks made it impossible.
"Potter?" a soft voice asked, coming up beside the pillar. Harry glanced to the right; platinum blond hair and a masked Death Eater just a few inches taller than himself, but equally slim and lithe approached.
"Malfoy?" Harry guessed, keeping his voice similarly quiet; he did not want others to overhear and was grateful Draco appeared to be using discretion, not drawing immediate attention to his identity.
"What are you doing here?" the Slytherin-teen asked, stopping closer than was socially acceptable.
Harry gave a half shrug. "I was told to be here," he said, not desiring to go into any specifics with so many listening ears nearby.
"Your mask?" came the questioning probe. Again Harry shrugged, "It is what I was given."
Behind Draco's silver and gray skull mask, Harry sensed the assessing gray eyes of the Slytherin, clearly attempting to comprehend why Harry was suddenly attending and why he looked different from the rest.
"And you?" Harry asked, eager to shift the topic away from himself. "I thought you said you didn't attend these?"
Draco responded with a shrug of his own. "I was commanded to be here today; Father specifically said so. There are other classmates here as well, Crabbe and Goyle. Probably Pansy. I think I saw Nott and Zabini too."
Harry frowned. "Are they all marked?" He realized he wasn't sure if Draco was.
The blond glanced away, avoiding Harry's gaze. "Yes, all the sixth and seventh years with parents who follow him were marked this summer. Father said in the first war, he had waited until students graduated, but not this time." Gray eyes met his again, and Harry recalled Draco mentioning in the garden how he felt forced into this life, that he had not wanted to be here. Harry had countless questions about the mark—whether it was a traditional one or if they had received unique ones like his own. He wanted to know what control it gave Voldemort over them. But he suspected now wasn't the time to ask, especially considering Draco's agitated demeanor.
Harry scanned the room. He was still the focus of many eyes, but more had turned away. The murmur was growing louder. A few more Death Eaters had arrived, entering through multiple entrances on the other side of the room. Perhaps they came from outside of the manor? Harry again chided himself for his lack of knowledge about the dark organization's size. He was in a war and had zero idea what the size of the opposing side had been.
"How many usually attend these?" Harry inquired.
Draco turned, glancing around the room as well. "It varies. Today everyone has been instructed to attend, which can only mean the Dark Lord has something significant he wants to reveal." The blond teen gave Harry a considering look. Harry fervently hoped it had nothing to do with him. "And our numbers continue to grow by the day. Since this summer, the meetings have nearly doubled in size."
Harry wondered what caused the shift. Was Voldemort viewed by more and more as the stronger side? Was Dumbledore losing the light's faith? And how much of it had been influenced by Harry's own capture and submission? He hoped not much but suspected it had. Too many had misplaced faith that he could save them all. Being captured for over two months had probably instilled fear that the ministry and Dumbledore could not protect them if they could not even protect the Boy Who Lived.
A disturbance caught both of their eyes. Death Eaters were swiftly parting, making space for an unseen presence. Shouts of surprise and squeaks filled the air. Craning his neck, Harry resisted for a second time drawing his wand. The disturbance seemed like it was heading his way. A hiss came before a large giant servant was revealed on the cobbled floor, slithering directly towards him. Draco jerked in fright, taking a half-step behind Harry. "Merlin's tits," the blond exclaimed, his voice an octave too high.
Bright, poisonous green eyes lifted to eye level before the raven-haired teen. Her remarkable size was all the more impressive as she stretched across the floor. Death Eaters had hurriedly moved out of her way and were now staring fearfully at both him and the giant snake.
"There you are. I was instructed to bring the hatchling to the Master when you arrived," she hissed, her tongue darting out, tasting the air before them.
Draco squeaked again, taking a further step back. Great, Harry thought. If there had been any doubt about who he was, that would quickly be solved. There were only two living Parseltongues, and he was clearly not Voldemort.
"Come, I will take you to him," she turned, shifting to the right in a new direction. Death Eaters quickly parted again, creating a path for the massive snake as she moved over the polished granite floor, her scales glinting in the candlelight. Harry couldn't help but marvel at her sheer size and power. The terror she instilled in the room was impressive. She even snapped at one or two unsuspecting Death Eaters who were not quick enough to move out of her way. Harry would have found it funny in any other situation.
"I better follow her," Harry told Draco as a way of excusing himself. He did not want her to turn back and try and force him. His peer, who was clearly horrified that the snake had come so close to them, nodded silently. Once again, all eyes were on him. He hadn't spoken to her, but Harry suspected his cover was more blown than it had been.
The wary teen silently followed Nagini, his steps echoing softly on the cold stone floor. As he approached the far end of the chamber, his eyes were drawn to the imposing sight of a massive throne, crafted from blackened wood and adorned with ornate carvings of serpents and skulls. It was perched atop a dais made of polished granite, the surface gleaming dully under the dim light. The throne itself seemed to pulse with malevolent energy, its dark aura seeping into the air around it. Harry couldn't help but feel a shiver crawl down his spine as he studied the intricate details of the carved serpents, their eyes glinting with a wicked gleam.
The dais, too, held an air of foreboding, its smooth surface marred only by the occasional flicker of candlelight.
Amidst the eerie silence, Harry whispered to Nagini, his voice barely audible amongst the quiet rustle of robes, "Where is he?" His eyes darted around, searching for any sign of Voldemort, his heart pounding in his chest. The anticipation hung in the air like a thick fog, suffocating and heavy. Others in the room clearly sensed their Dark Lord was near if his familiar was present.
"This way," she hissed back, leading him past the empty throne and through a dark stone passage he had not originally seen. It was a testament to how dreadful everything had become that Harry felt more at ease going to a room where he knew Voldemort would be waiting than being left in the chamber with all his crazy followers.
The torches hissed and flickered, casting eerie shadows that danced along the passage as the two of them passed. Nagini halted before a large wooden door. Harry knocked once and entered, following the customary protocol he'd been taught each time he joined his master. The apprentice-master decorum had gradually become routine for Harry, who was relieved he was required to do little more than show basic respect. If he had been expected to bow and beg like the other followers, he was certain that would have resulted in a lot more torture.
He stepped into the room, pondering just how vast this manor was. He'd entered a blend of a receiving room and a library; towering shelves lined the walls, filled with books and tomes. There was a desk in front of a large ceiling-length window. The rustic brown curtains were pulled back, revealing the last traces of fall scenery. To one side was a small receiving area with two thick plush armchairs, a sturdy wooden table, and a couch. Voldemort stood before the window, his back to the teen, gazing outside pensively.
"You and the Malfoy heir seem to be on more amenable terms," Voldemort observed, not turning.
Harry stepped further into the room, the door closing behind. Nagini slithered over to her master, her massive form coiling at his feet at the base of his elegant, long robe. The Dark Lord was wearing Slytherin jade and black today, his presence exuding an aura of sinister elegance that matched the grandeur of his surroundings.
Taking a moment to collect his thoughts, Harry chose his words carefully. "It's more of a necessity, I suppose," he replied, his voice laced with caution. He didn't want Voldemort to target the Slytherin just because he was being somewhat kind to Harry. There was a constant worry that Voldemort might grow possessive and territorial if he saw Harry on good terms with anyone else. The Dark Lord clearly enjoyed the fact that Harry was dependent on him for everything. "It makes sense for us to at least tolerate each other for now."
Voldemort turned to face him, his scarlet eyes glittering with curiosity. "Indeed, a unique situation," he mused, his lips curling into a faint smile. "You see, Harry, I've always believed in the power of alliances, even those formed out of necessity. They can be quite... enlightening."
A chill ran down Harry's spine as he tried to decipher Voldemort's underlying message. He had learned the hard way that everything his master said had layers of meaning, and he couldn't afford to underestimate any of them.
"Of course," Harry responded carefully.
Voldemort's smile widened, and he turned back to the window, his attention seemingly drifting to the outside world. "It's good to see you adapting to your new reality, even in something as trivial as this, Harry. I have no qualms with you solidifying power within my ranks. You are my apprentice; I expect you to interact with my Death Eaters and earn their respect."
Harry nodded a mixture of relief and resignation swirling inside him. The last thing he wanted was for Voldemort to use any weakness or attachment against him, but it was a relief to know that, at least for now, Voldemort would not punish him or Draco for their interactions.
"There are a lot of your followers in the meeting chamber," Harry observed, wanting to shift the topic away from Draco. It wouldn't do for Voldemort to dwell on Harry's only source of information from the outside world. It was enough that the wizard was aware that they were talking and did not seem to want to forbid any alliances or, dare Harry think it, friendships forming.
"There are," Voldemort agreed, aggravating Harry by not expanding.
"Why have so many assembled?" Harry pressed. The last large gathering of Death Eaters Harry had entered into had been when Voldemort was attacking the Burrow. He hoped an attack was not imminent.
"Because they should all know that I have an apprentice, that you have a special position in their ranks," Voldemort said, his tone laden with implications. Harry shifted uncomfortably, glancing from the tall Slytherin to the window beyond. He reached up, pulling free his mask, which he'd almost forgotten adorned his face. His fingers absentmindedly traced its intricate design as he pondered the hidden meanings in Voldemort's words.
"Why the mask, if you intend to introduce me?" Harry questioned; his voice steady despite the turbulence of his thoughts.
"Because you will wear it when outside of the manor," Voldemort replied calmly, his crimson eyes piercing into Harry's. "They should grow accustomed to obeying you both when you have it donned and when not."
Harry stilled, his heart racing with a mixture of hope and fear. It was the first time Voldemort had alluded to letting him leave the manor. Did this mean he would not be just a prisoner anymore? If he was to command Death Eaters, then he clearly would not be the one being controlled.
"You will let me command them?" he asked cautiously, his hands unconsciously clenching and unclenching. He wasn't sure how he felt about the prospect. The idea of having power over Voldemort's followers was both exhilarating and terrifying.
Voldemort nodded, his sharp features uncharacteristically serene. "Eventually, if you continue to please me and prove trustworthy."
Trustworthy. The word hung in the air, heavy with significance. It was such a simple yet complex concept. Harry doubted the Dark Lord was capable of true trust, and he wondered if he could ever trust Voldemort in return. The thought made his heart pound uncomfortably in his chest.
Not having a response, Harry nodded. He hadn't been expecting that. Within the span of a few days, he had gone from daily, mundane training to learning the Unforgivable Curses, him suggesting he might give Voldemort real submission, and agreeing to participate in a Death Eater meeting. Worst was his first meeting was about to begin shortly. It all felt like it was spiraling out of control. Was Voldemort doing this on purpose? The thought gnawed at him, adding to the unease settling in the pit of his stomach.
"Are you prepared for the meeting?" Voldemort asked, his attention fully concentrated on the teen.
Harry shrugged, his uncertainty palpable. "I don't really understand what is expected of me. What you want me to do," he admitted, his voice tinged with a mix of confusion and apprehension.
"For now, you will enter with me and stand beside my throne, to the right and one step behind," Voldemort instructed, his voice a low, commanding murmur. "It is a place of honor, reserved for a second in command and fitting for my apprentice. Wear the mask; I will tell you when to remove it. I do not expect you to participate in the large group. I will address my followers and then dismiss all but my inner circle. We will retire to a less formal meeting room. You are expected to actively observe, but if you have something to say, I will allow you to speak when in that setting."
Voldemort tilted his head; his next words carried a warning, emphasizing the delicate balance of power that still existed. "But I will caution you, Harry, do not anger me in front of my followers. I am granting you a glimpse of the freedom and power I want you to have. But if you act out against me, I will see it as betrayal, actions unbefitting an apprentice before his master. I will respond in kind. I have no qualms about punishing anyone who steps out of line, especially my apprentice. And your punishment will not just reach you, do not forget that there are many you care about who are easily within my reach. Do you understand?" Voldemort's eyes bore into Harry's, demanding compliance and understanding, leaving no room for doubt or hesitation.
Harry nodded; he doubted he would want to speak at all. It was already too much that he would have to attend. He was just grateful he wasn't being asked to do anything, whether it be a duel or professing his supposed loyalty or some other such horrific gesture. It was all the worse that his former classmates would be present, watching his every move. Were they all truly loyal to Voldemort, or would they carry their own rumors back to the light saying that he was more firmly on the dark side than any had suspected?
"With your words, if you would," Voldemort demanded, stepping forward. He raised his hand, fingers ghosting under Harry's chin, forcing him up straighter.
"I understand." Green eyes balefully narrowed at the encroachment into his space, at the familiarity in which Voldemort maneuvered the teen to do his will so deftly.
"Good." The Slytherin stepped back, moving towards the door. Nagini slithered after him. "Then I think we have kept them waiting long enough. I'm certain they are eager to meet you. There have been plenty of rumors circulating over what I've done with my prize; it is time we put those to rest."
Harry trailed behind the tall Slytherin, his footsteps echoing softly in the corridor, the cold stones beneath his feet adding to the sense of foreboding that hung in the air. Careful not to tread on Nagini, who slithered between them with an eerie grace, he kept his gaze fixed on the ground.
"Put your mask back on," Voldemort's command cut through the silence. Harry suppressed a sigh. With a resigned acceptance, he placed it over his face, feeling the familiar magical seal encase him. The mask molded itself seamlessly around his glasses, allowing him to see and breathe, yet shrouding him in an eerie anonymity. He was once again struck by how impressive the dark lord's magic was, even in the small things. It seamlessly warped around his glasses, framing his face in a way that he could see and breathe perfectly despite what he knew to be small slits.
As they continued down the corridor, the weight of what was about to happen settled heavily on Harry's shoulders. Tonight, he would be presented to all of Voldemort's followers as the Dark Lord's apprentice, a path he could no longer envision himself escaping from. It was the only way to keep his friends safe, and now, with the promise to temper the Dark Lord's wrath, he suspected it was the only way he could ever hope to contribute to the war in a way that helped the light. It had been foolish to think a child such as he could stand up to the Dark Lord with only raw magic and skill. But maybe, just maybe, he would still be able to do some good.
And to do so, he thought morosely, would require him to actively take a spot beside the Dark Lord. The entirety of the dark side, maybe the entire wizarding world, would now know what had happened to him. He suspected there would be spies among the Death Eaters, infiltrators from the Order, their eyes always watching for some piece of information to bring back to the light. Snape had once hinted at it, that there was more than just him, just none as trusted as the potion master.
But with everyone summoned tonight, even the lowest-ranking spies would see him if they existed. The fear of exposure gnawed at him; the revelation of his allegiance to Voldemort would send shockwaves through the wizarding world, and he would be confirming it tonight. The anticipation of this moment, mixed with the dread of its consequences, created a turbulent storm of emotions within him that he was struggling to handle. How could anyone expect a sixteen-year-old to combat this, to stand and win against a Dark Lord as powerful and conniving as Voldemort?
Sadly, despite the menacing nature of the man before him, Harry couldn't deny that Voldemort was proving to be a better guardian than anyone else ever had. In these last few months, Harry had been fed, trained, and cared for—promises made by Voldemort were being fulfilled. He had even promised Harry freedom, the second-highest position in his ranks, and it appeared that was on the brink of becoming reality. He imagined his parents would be turning in their graves at the sight of their own son bearing the mark of the very darkness they had fought against, given their lives for. The irony was not lost on him, the bitter taste of regret lingering on his tongue as he followed Voldemort further into the depths of the manor.
And worst, the young Gryffindor couldn't shake the disbelief he felt. He hadn't believed Voldemort's claims months ago when he was trying to entice Harry into accepting the apprenticeship. The idea of leading the dark forces against the light was something he didn't want, nor could he bring himself to accept it in any form. And yet, it seemed Voldemort was willing to provide him with more opportunities to contribute to the war than Dumbledore ever had. The problem was that Harry now found himself on the wrong side of the battle, and the weight of that realization pressed heavily upon him.
In no time, they reached the chamber, the throne room. Just as they were about to enter, Voldemort paused, turning toward the anxious teen.
"You have pleased me more than I expected," he said thoughtfully, his crimson eyes washing over the masked teen. "Stand tall, don't cower. If they sense weakness, you'll find yourself challenged to a duel at every chance they get. If you truly hope to shape this war and protect those you care for, then you have to be someone worth respecting. It is no longer just me you need to impress if you hope to amount to anything. And do not forget you represent me now. As with everything, I expect you to meet my expectations in this." He paused, assessing the teen. "I would not bring you before them if I did not think you were ready. And do not forget why you have agreed to this; this is the only way you can help your friends, that you can save any of them."
Finding himself unable to respond, Harry fractionally nodded, the weight of Voldemort's expectations pressing on him. He felt a mix of conflicting emotions, anger that he was in this mess, resolve and desire to see it through and try to protect those that he could. As they stepped into the throne room, his mind raced with what he was about to do. He paused, mid- step; the sight that met his eyes was both grand and foreboding, the room shrouded in the darkness that was black cloaks and silver masks filling the chamber, illuminated by the flickering candlelight that danced upon the ornate walls. The number of attendees had nearly doubled again.
Voldemort led him to the front, where the imposing throne stood, its sinister aura casting a chilling atmosphere. Harry's heart pounded in his chest as he realized the significance of this moment. He was about to be introduced to Voldemort's followers, acknowledged as the Dark Lord's apprentice. It was a role he had accepted out of necessity, but now, in the face of the gathering darkness, he couldn't help but question his own resolve.
The room fell into a hushed silence as Voldemort elegantly descended onto the throne, his graceful movements belying the cruelty that lay within. His regal figure, in the prime of his new body, exuded an air of malevolent authority. Illuminated by the flickering candlelight, his handsome and refined features took on an otherworldly quality. His chiseled face, once a symbol of aristocratic charm, was now etched with the marks of power and immortality. His piercing red eyes, vibrant as rubies, reflected back the flames, seeming to be alive with darkness and an undeniable aura of malevolence. The Death Eaters remained silent, their attention fixed on their Dark Lord, captivated by his mesmerizing presence.
Beside him, Harry stood, the weight of the mask on his face a horrific reminder of his new identity. As Voldemort raised a hand, commanding attention, Harry felt the burden of the Wizarding World bearing down on him. The assembled Death Eaters turned their masked faces toward them, their eyes hidden, their expressions inscrutable. In that moment, Harry understood the gravity of his position. He was no longer just a boy; he was a pawn in a game of darkness, a player on a perilous chessboard where the stakes were nothing short of the fate of the entire Wizarding World.
"Tonight, my faithful followers, we stand on the precipice of a new era," Voldemort's voice resonated through the chamber, commanding respect and fear, sending chills down the spines of those present. "For far too long, we have hidden in the shadows, biding our time, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. That moment has arrived."
His crimson eyes glowed with a fervent intensity, reflecting the flames dancing in the torches that lined the walls. "The Wizarding World trembles in fear, shackled by feeble wizards and feeble leaders," he continued, his voice laced with disdain. "But no more. Our time has come, the time to rise from the ashes of obscurity and claim what is rightfully ours."
A low murmur of agreement rippled through the assembly, masked faces nodding in unison. Harry stood behind Voldemort, his heart pounding in his chest. He was grateful no one could see his expression, the absolute dread coursing through him.
"We will no longer cower in the face of the so-called 'Light.' We will crush them, expose their weakness, and bring them to their knees," Voldemort declared, his voice growing stronger with each word. "Together, we will rewrite history; darkness will no longer hide. You will no longer have to hide your true identities. You will be free to live the lives you were destined for; magic will no longer be constrained, tied down, and feared as it has been for decades."
The Death Eaters erupted into fervent applause, their masked faces contorted into expressions of loyalty and devotion. Harry watched, his stomach churning with disgust and fear.
Voldemort's words resonated with power; it was impressive how his followers hung on to his every word. These were not witches and wizards forced into submission; he could feel their hunger in the room, it was palpable.
"You, my followers, are the chosen ones," Voldemort proclaimed, his voice carrying the weight of prophecy. The irony of his word choice was not lost on Harry. "Embrace your destiny. No one shall stand in our way. No one shall deny us what is rightfully ours. I only ask in return that you trust me, that you follow me. Honor the timeless tradition, my dark followers, of submitting yourselves to the power of a reigning Dark Lord who stands before you, ready to change the world in ways you can scarcely imagine. Yield completely to me, and I promise that you will be rewarded."
As the applause died down, Voldemort's gaze flickered toward Harry, and for a moment, their eyes locked. In that silent exchange, Harry sensed a challenge, a test of his resolve. He straightened his posture, steeling himself against the doubts that threatened to surface.
The Dark Lord's attention returned to the assembled dark followers. "Prepare yourselves, my Death Eaters. Soon, we strike fear into the hearts of our enemies. Tonight marks a significant change; the light has lost more than that can comprehend. We have gained something that will change the tide of the war, strengthening the dark side beyond measure.
"Tonight, I present to you my apprentice, the one who will stand beside me in the battles to come." His gaze flickered toward Harry, his crimson eyes glinting with an odd mixture of pride and something Harry couldn't quite decipher.
The Death Eaters murmured amongst themselves, their whispers sending shivers down Harry's spine. He clenched his fists, steeling himself against the scrutiny. The moment stretched, heavy with anticipation, before Voldemort spoke again, his words slicing through the silence like a blade.
"Step forward, Harry," Voldemort commanded, his voice soft but carrying a weight that filled the room.
Harry wasn't sure how he managed it; he felt frozen with fright but somehow took a small step forward, coming level with the Dark Lord.
"Behold, the one who will help us achieve our rightful place in this world. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, now reborn in darkness. I have been instructing him for a while now, and he has exceeded my expectations in every way. Not only is his power formidable, but he is mastering the dark arts in ways many of you could only dream of."
Harry keenly felt the atmosphere in the room shift. The followers around him stiffened, their movements becoming more deliberate and calculated. Their eyes, hidden behind masks, bore into him with a mixture of curiosity, skepticism, and a hint of awe. The knowledge of his identity had a tangible effect on the Death Eaters. It was as if a puzzle piece had finally fallen into place, and now they could see the bigger picture.
The weight of their collective gaze bore down on him, each pair of eyes adding another layer to the burden he carried. He was no longer just Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, but Harry Potter, the Dark Lord's apprentice. The title felt like a shackle, chaining him to a destiny he had never chosen for himself.
Harry clenched his fists at his sides, his jaw set in determination. He refused to show any sign of weakness, any crack in his resolve. He had accepted this role out of necessity, but he wouldn't back down. He would find a way out of this, a way to protect his friends and turn the tide of the war, even if it meant playing the part of the obedient apprentice.
"I have trained him as my own and will continue to do so. That should serve as a warning to any of you who might ill-fatedly attempt to seek vengeance for the actions of a baby, actions that I myself have forgiven him for because he has seen the error of his ways and agreed to serve me."
The words hung in the air, heavy with manipulation and deceit, but to the Death Eaters, they were like a promise, sealing Harry's fate as the Dark Lord's apprentice. The weight of his new identity pressed down on him, and he felt more like a prisoner than ever before.
His fists tightened, nails biting into his palms as he struggled to maintain his composure. He had never sought forgiveness from Voldemort. He had no choice but to comply, to endure this twisted mentorship or be tortured and watch his friend die. But the truth was irrelevant in the face of the lie Voldemort spun for his followers.
As Voldemort continued his speech, his crimson eyes glinted with possession, making Harry feel ill and vulnerable. He was nothing more than a pawn in this game of darkness, a tool to be used for the Dark Lord's ambitions. The renewed realization settled in his chest like a stone, and he fought to keep his breathing steady.
The tension in the room was tangible. Harry stood there, masked and silent, his eyes concealed but his mind racing. He was acutely aware of the Death Eaters' gazes, of the expectations and judgments that rested upon him. His existence had become a performance, a carefully crafted act, and he wondered how long he could maintain the facade before it consumed the last remnants of his true self.
"Remove your mask, Harry. Show them that you willingly stand by my side. That you have chosen this life."
The threat was crystal clear, a reminder that Harry had chosen this to save Lupin, Ron, Hermione, and all his friends. He had agreed to the mark and accepted the apprenticeship to spare those he loved. Once again, Voldemort had masterfully manipulated everything. To maintain the goodwill he'd earned, to try and temper the Dark Lord's actions, he had to submit.
Harry was shocked his hands weren't shaking as he reached up and removed his mask. There was an intake of breaths, but Harry only had eyes for Voldemort. Anger and betrayal clouded his emerald gaze. His fury was palpable; Voldemort had presented him in this manner purposefully. Spies were present, that was now certain, and this was a show meant for their benefit. This wasn't the surface agreement Harry had given to observe and listen. Voldemort was presenting him as something much more. And Harry hated that even in this, the small Tom Riddle voice that liked to whisper to him at night when he felt like it was all becoming too much to take, told him to use this. To accept the gift because it meant he would have more freedom among the Dark Lord and his followers. To not do so would return him to being a helpless captive, unaware of what was going on in the outside world and powerless to do anything about it.
In that moment, standing beside the Dark Lord, Harry felt the full weight of his choices. He was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, now reborn in darkness, a prisoner of his own circumstances, trapped in a role he had never asked for, a role he wasn't sure he could escape, let alone survive.
"As you all can see, he stands here freely. I have chosen him to be my apprentice, and I am very pleased with what our side has gained. You will treat him with respect; he is now second only to me. I will be displeased if any of you act in a manner unbefitting one who is the apprentice of your Lord."
The weight of those words settled on Harry like a suffocating cloak. He was no longer just a pawn in this deadly game; he was now a player, forced to navigate the treacherous path ahead. As the Death Eaters bowed in acknowledgment, Harry's gaze met Voldemort's, and in that moment, he understood the gravity of his choices. There was no turning back now. The die had been cast, and he was bound to this dark fate, whether he liked it or the spectacle, Voldemort dismissed his followers with a sweeping gesture, his dark figure descending from the throne with a regal yet malevolent air. Harry awkwardly trailed behind him, his steps hesitant, his mind in tumult after the harrowing experience of being introduced as an apprentice and a supposed aspiring dark minion. The shadows cast by the flickering candles danced around them, mirroring the darkness that had settled within Harry's heart. He could not believe what had just transpired, that Voldemort had claimed he willingly came to the dark side, that he desired this place next to the Dark Lord, the murderer of his parents.
"How could you? How dare you!" Harry's voice hissed, sharp with anger, as he caught up to Voldemort. His hands trembled at his sides. "You lied. You spun it as if I willingly came to you, as if I wanted to be a Dark Wizard! Seeking forgiveness from you? You should be begging forgiveness from me!"
Voldemort spun around, his crimson eyes ablaze with a predatory glint. A searing pain shot through Harry's skull, dropping him to his knees. He cried out, his hands jerking to his forehead, white-hot agony pulsing through him like tendrils of fire. It was excruciating.
"Are you finished?" Voldemort's voice cut through the air, cold and cutting, echoing off the stone walls.
Harry glanced up from his knees, gasping for breath, his vision blurred by tears of pain. His head throbbed as if it might split open any moment, each pulse echoing the torment within him.
"Have you forgotten yourself, my foolish little lion? A tiny taste of power, and it has gone straight to your head." The Slytherin's wand appeared in his hands, twirling with agitation through his long fingers. A scowl graced his lips, anger and power emanating off him in waves, dark tendrils weaving around him like vipers ready to strike. "I should crucio you, but we still have to meet with my inner circle." He stepped forward, the tip of his wand resting under Harry's chin, tilting it up. "What has gotten into you?"
Pain still rippled through his scar, a relentless reminder of how quickly Voldemort could consume him again. Harry took in a shuddering breath, anger pulsing through him, mingled with a small amount of fear. But he couldn't act as if what happened was acceptable.
Spiteful emerald eyes met searing red. Harry leaned back from the wand, but Voldemort loomed over him, pushing it forward, the tip pressing just enough to send a prickle of agony on the tender skin.
"You lied. To them and to me." The words tasted bitter on Harry's tongue, a vicious truth he couldn't swallow.
Voldemort's lips twitched in disapproval, his expression a mask of calculated indifference. "I'm a Dark Lord, Harry. I will do anything to secure my power." He paused, giving him a knowing look. "You may not like my methods, but I thought you wanted a chance to influence this war? If all of my followers believe you are against them, against me, that you are a spy from the light, then how do you expect them to take anything you say seriously? How can I consider your suggestions if they will question everything you say? You should be thanking me. I have given you a gift, more power than you deserve, and opened the door for you to take it. You will only have yourself to blame if you ruin this opportunity."
Harry shook his head, his mind reeling in disbelief. "This can't be real. If this gets back to the light, to my friends, they'll think I've betrayed them. You make it sound like I came to you willingly, that I voluntarily abandoned them."
Voldemort's lips curled into a sinister smile, his eyes gleaming with malevolence, two burning coals in the darkness. "Oh, but you have, my dear apprentice," he sneered, the words dripping with venom. "Whether you've accepted it or not, the truth remains. You have my mark. You have agreed to study under me. You practice dark magic daily. You have betrayed them. Now, get up. This night is far from over. Another outburst like that, and I will burn the blood traitors' home to the ground, and if anyone is inside, so be it."
Harry's breaths came in ragged gasps as he struggled to his feet, leaning against the cold stone wall. His anger burned, but so did confusion and a sense of betrayal. Voldemort's words cut deep, sinking into the very core of his being like icy daggers. The realization that he was trapped, not just physically but mentally, settled heavily upon him like a suffocating darkness. This wasn't a game; this was his life, and he was ensnared in a web spun by the most dangerous wizard in history. And he hated that Voldemort was right. His words would grant him more authority to maneuver, to be able to speak up without immediate scrutiny. If the dark thought he was on their side, they might actually listen to him. But at what cost?
As he steadied himself, Harry met Voldemort's gaze, defiance sweeping through him like a fierce wind against the night. "You think you can break me. Bend me to your will. But I won't give you that satisfaction. Lie to them, but you and I know the truth. These games don't change that."
Voldemort's cold laughter echoed down the corridor, a chilling sound that reverberated through the very stones of the castle. "Oh, Harry," he sneered, his voice laced with mockery, each word dripping with venom like poison from a serpent's fangs. "You have already lost, and I haven't even begun to play with you. Do not lose control again; it is no longer just your friends' lives at risk. You have committed to this path, taken your place at my side. Blow this opportunity, and you'll have no chance to influence the war. All this potential and time you've spent growing stronger will be wasted. Is that really what you want?" He gave Harry a knowing look that cut straight to the teen's soul. He hated that Voldemort could read him so well after their time together. "Now collect yourself and meet me in the dining room. I have a war to win."
Harry remained against the wall, a chill seeping through his robes, mirroring the icy grip of fear in his chest. The weight of his choices bore down on him, threatening to crush his spirit. He closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing, but the fear lingered. Was Voldemort right? Had he betrayed them, and he was simply blind to it? Was accepting a place on the dark side the best way for him to protect any of them, or was he lying to himself? Was this truly his only option?
When he finally moved, he struggled to find any strength, any determination. He felt exhausted and defeated. Clenching his fists, he whispered to himself, "I won't let him break me. I won't let him destroy who I am." He had to stay present, remember that Voldemort was the master manipulator, a puppeteer pulling strings in a deadly dance. This wasn't a show for the Death Eaters as much as an attempt to make Harry feel like he had to voluntarily submit. He glanced down at the black and gold mask that had fallen to the floor during his punishment, a symbol of the facade he was forced to wear, the persona that Voldemort wanted him to accept and claim.
Bending down, he picked it up and stared at it pensively, his fingers tracing the intricate patterns, the cool metal against his skin made him shudder. It was a symbol, a reminder of the mask Voldemort was trying to force him to accept. Harry's grip tightened on it as he made a vow: you want me to wear a mask? I'll give you a mask that even you can't see through.
With newfound determination, he pushed the mask back in its rightful place, covering his face once more. He straightened his shoulders and marched toward the dining room, his steps heavy but resolute. Whatever lay ahead, he would meet it head-on. If Voldemort wanted to give him power, then he would just have to take it