Lord Potter
The two surprising offers the previous evening had affected Harry deeply. Finding himself back in the library's familiar surroundings, he couldn't shake off the remnants of either conversation as he tried to concentrate on his most recent studies, a dark tome detailing rituals on how to siphon magical power from one wizard to another. The concept horrified Harry; he couldn't fathom using such a ritual on anyone. Yet, Voldemort had suggested he familiarize himself with such texts to recognize ritual runes and safeguard against being trapped in an involuntary ritual—something Harry had already endured once, during Voldemort's resurrection.
That realization had also struck Harry with force. He was stunned by his own lack of curiosity or any general concern regarding the ritual that had taken place in the cemetery, a ritual that had used his blood to restore Voldemort to power. Accepting the first recommended book, Harry had asked the Dark Lord about the effects of that rebirthing ritual on himself, having been its involuntary contributor. Never one to provide an easy answer, Voldemort had shaken his head, seemingly repulsed by Harry's admitted ignorance, and walked over to one of the towering shelves, pulling out a worn leather-bound book.
"Finish that book, and you may research the consequences of the ritual in this one," Voldemort had said, indicating the aging volume. "I suppose I should no longer be surprised at the constant state of naivety that old fool kept you in; didn't he know I took your blood?"
Harry had nodded, feeling both foolish and relieved that Voldemort was providing him with the correct book, sparring him hours of aimlessly sorting through the library's extensive shelves. His skill in identifying where to look for specific knowledge was improving, but it was still a steep learning curve, and the Dark Lord had a seemingly endless supply of books.
Voldemort sighed at the admittance, his frustration evident. "Then I can only assume his lack of forthcoming was intentional. The use of another's blood in a ritual, especially taken without consent, carries deep significance. He should have warned you of the implications. Had I not found your cooperation more beneficial, the bond created by that ritual could have been exploited in numerous ways, something he undoubtedly understood."
Harry, unsettled by this revelation, accepted the second book with a wary look towards Voldemort, once again struck by how terribly outmatched and vulnerable he had been; that he still was. He had then dedicated the morning to studying rituals. He partly suspected Voldemort's willingness to divulge the second book as a tactic to pique his interest in completing the first. It seemed obvious that he was hoping Harry would stumble over a ritual that was interesting enough that he was willing to try it. And the Potter heir would be lying if he denied that some of them sounded very useful; besides the common use of blood, most seemed not to be inherently malevolent. The biggest concern was failing to conduct the ritual correctly and the toll it would take on the caster.
As Harry tried to work through the complexities of the ritual texts, his mind incessantly veered back to the astonishing turn of events the night before. Two of his most unlikely rivals had made offers of support towards him. The notion that either dark practitioner would seek his favor was astonishing. If someone had suggested this even a year ago, he would have recommended they visit St Mungo's Mental Ward immediately.
As he considered both offers, he found himself skeptical about accepting anything from either of them. And yet, he would be naive to claim both did not have their uses. Even as the thought crossed his mind, a significant amount of self-loathing followed. Voldemort would be so proud of him, he mused dejectedly.
While Snape had been one of his greatest tormentors during his school years, Harry found himself surprisingly convinced of the motivation behind the potion master's offer to stay and protect him. That night, when Snape had confessed to the oath, he shared enough genuine stories about Harry's mother to leave no doubt in Harry's mind that the sarcastically cruel wizard still harbored feelings for her, a revelation that Harry found astonishing.
On one hand, Harry couldn't ignore the advantages that maintaining such a relationship could offer. Snape was intimately familiar with the inner workings of the dark side, having close knowledge of both Voldemort and Dumbledore. Moreover, he seemed genuinely concerned with preserving Harry's soul. As Harry gradually came to terms with, and accepted his new life on the darker side with decreasing resistance, there remained a fleeting hope within him for a solution that didn't entail the dark side's uncontested rule. It appeared to be a world Snape also desired.
He also felt terribly alone and wanted someone on his side who wasn't trying to use him. While he harbored deep-seated doubts that Snape could ever truly serve as a confidant, mentor, or friend, he also recognized that Ron and Hermione likely could no longer fulfill those roles to the extent he needed. They might support him as friends, but he doubted they would ever accept his involvement with Dark Magic. He wasn't sure he wanted them to, unwilling to drag them into the confusing and compromised world he now navigated daily. And once they learned about the outcome of the duel, what he'd voluntarily done, they might finally realize the danger and decide they wanted nothing to do with him. If they were wise, they would.
Ironically, this positioned Snape as potentially the one who could prevent Harry from completely succumbing to the dark's insidious influence. Snape was deeply familiar with the Dark Lord, aware of Harry's current studies, and even knew of his actions against Selwyn.
Despite all this, he had insisted on supporting Harry. Worse, this left Harry in a state of profound uncertainty about what to consider genuine and real and how much he could trust a wizard who had spent the last few years convincing the two most powerful wizards of his utility. The voice in Harry's head, eerily reminiscent of a young Tom Riddle, couldn't help but suggest that Snape might simply be attempting to ingratiate himself with another powerful wizard in the same manipulative manner.
Then there was Bellatrix, who posed a completely different challenge—one that he didn't have the luxury of time to contemplate, yet needed to resolve before he came of age. As he had already discussed with Voldemort, he didn't want her as an enemy now that he had accepted his place on the side of darkness and intended to leverage the Black Lordship to his benefit. He loathed the bloodthirsty and insane witch for what she had done and still yearned to avenge his godfather. And yet, he doubted he was strong enough to confront her directly, and he was equally unwilling to face the repercussions and fallout from Voldemort should he manage to eliminate his most loyal follower without permission.
No, for now, he needed to take this offer seriously and decide whether it was worth his sanity to accept some lessons from her to strengthen his standing with both the Lestrange née Black witch and the rest of the inner circle. It was what Voldemort would expect of him, to use anyone and everyone to advance his position. He just wasn't sure he could stomach such lessons.
He glanced thoughtfully at the Dark Lord, who was engrossed in work at his own desk, deeply concentrated on the task he had set for himself that morning: spell crafting. The Slytherin Lord had recently shared with Harry his aim to develop a spell that would enable mind reading without the need for Legilimency. The concept was intriguing; he proposed that, if executed correctly, the spell would remain undetected, providing unparalleled insight into another's deepest thoughts. This would be exceptionally beneficial against adversaries proficient in Occlumency, offering a means to breach their minds without their awareness.
Lulled by the sound of a quill scratching across the parchment, Harry set his book aside, gazing out the nearby window. His thoughts, tangled with decisions regarding the two Death Eaters, equally wrestled with the allure of his most recent discovery. He had stumbled upon a ritual purported to significantly boost the practitioner's memory. It was dark in nature, requiring a blood sacrifice, but it promised to enhance the caster's memory to the extent of near-perfect recall of any event, spell, or piece of information encountered over the course of full day's cycle. While he found the concept fascinating, Harry hesitated to bring it up with the Dark Lord, cautious of the potential expectation to perform it or engage in something similar.
He had not yet voluntarily participated in any dark rituals and feared that it was only a matter of time before he would be asked, or worse, forced to engage in one. Despite his apprehensions, the allure of the ritual was undeniable; it would not harm anyone except Harry himself, should he make a mistake in its execution. The risk of a failed ritual was the irreversible loss of his mind. Yet, the potential benefits of what could be gained remained tempting…
"You seem lost in thought," Voldemort observed, his calm tone cutting through the silence. Harry blinked, momentarily caught off guard, before his gaze returned to the closed book in front of him. Choosing not to broach the subject of rituals just yet, he decided to tackle one of the other issues preoccupying his mind. He anticipated what Voldemort's advice would be but also knew the exceptionally intelligent wizard always managed to rationalize his viewpoints convincingly. Perhaps he would offer a perspective that could help Harry overcome his own hesitations.
"Last night, after the meeting, Bellatrix approached me," Harry started.
Voldemort's eyebrows rose slightly, his interest evidently sparked. "And what did she want?"
"She... she offered to teach me more dark magic," Harry admitted, recalling Bellatrix's eagerness sent a shiver down his spine.
"And what is it that you desire?" Voldemort asked, his crimson eyes examining Harry with curiosity.
"I'm... not entirely certain," Harry confessed.
Voldemort leaned forward, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. "I believe you have a clearer idea of what you want than you're willing to say," he suggested.
Harry struggled to maintain an impassive expression, disliking how the Dark Lord seemed to understand him better than he understood himself. "What do you think I want?" he challenged, his voice a blend of curiosity and wariness, intrigued by what Voldemort might perceive in him.
At Harry's obvious evasion, a hint of amusement flickered across the Slytherin's lips. "Why did you bring her up to me in the first place? What were you hoping to achieve?" Voldemort countered, his tone indicating he was willing to engage in this volley of questions with his heir, accommodating Harry's hesitance to acknowledge what the Dark Lord seemed to consider an evident truth.
Shockingly, Voldemort seldom dictated solutions directly to Harry unless he intended to coerce compliance through threats or actual torture, and thus bypassing their usual cat-and- mouse dialogue. However, when genuinely allowing Harry to make his own decisions, he adeptly posed questions designed to lead Harry to verbalize what Voldemort probably already guessed he would say, much like the strategy employed during Dumbledore's trial. This approach often left Harry questioning whether his feelings were genuinely his own or the result of being skillfully manipulated.
"Harry," came the scolding, devoid of any genuine sternness.
The Potter heir, feeling his cheeks warm, returned to the moment, setting aside his roving thoughts for later contemplation.
Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair, remembering the reasons behind their discussion from months ago. "I don't want to be in a constant battle with her, worried she'll try to kill me because the lordship was passed to me. I want her to accept me as Lord Black."
"And what about your own desires? Beyond titles and allegiances, what do you seek for yourself?" Voldemort's inquiry cut deep, it always did when he touched on Harry's personal ambitions, which the teen often hesitated to acknowledge. Admitting to personal desires felt profoundly unsettling, especially when such ambitions were intertwined with the dark magic he was embracing and the influence of the man responsible for his parents' deaths; a troubled history that seemed more and more emotionally removed from his thoughts as he endured each day at the Dark Lord's side.
Looking out the window again, Harry frowned. "To not fear her—or anyone, for that matter. To feel like I'm in control of my own life," he declared, his voice gaining strength. He was beyond tired of being a pawn in others' games, done with being a victim.
Voldemort nodded, seemingly satisfied with the pronouncement, a knowing gleam in his eyes that Harry found difficult to interpret. "That is admirable," he commended, his approval clear. "In that case, I suggest you take advantage of what she has to offer. Bellatrix is among my most skilled duelists. The spells she can teach you will not delve into darker realms than those you've already explored with me. However, her distinctive style will enhance your strength, expand your skills, and render you more unpredictable to future adversaries. If it's strength you seek, then she can aid you. All the while, you'll be securing an ally, someone you'll want by your side as you assume your lordship."
Finding no valid objection to present, Harry didn't have an immediate response. He disliked the confident glint in Voldemort's crimson gaze as the wizard returned to his work, indicating that he also felt there was no further persuasion needed.
At the next meeting, Harry sought out Bellatrix. When he voiced his acceptance of private lessons, her reaction was expectedly animated, a cacophony of laughter and joy erupting from her, glee mingling with manic delight. She began laughing so hard that tears cascaded down her cheeks, a sight Harry found deeply unnerving. Then, suddenly, she enveloped him in a hug that was as suffocating as it was startling.
"We will have so much fun!" She squealed. Harry could feel every eye locked on their uncanny exchange. "Aunty Bella is so proud, we will make the Dark Lord so pleased!" Shocked by the moment, Harry's eyes found Severus's across the room. Snape's expression was unreadable, his eyes devoid of any discernible emotion. That night, after the meeting, Harry did not meet Severus in the garden.
The following days unfolded with familiar rhythms of study sessions and practice drills. Amidst this routine, a spark of excitement came from Hermione's response delivered by Hedwig. He had written to her a few days ago, asking what she would want included in an introductory course to the wizarding world offered to future first-years. She had written back with enthusiasm, overflowing with ideas that spanned over nine full pages of parchment, much to his amusement. Her excitement at being consulted was palpable in her words. Harry dedicated his afternoon to poring over her suggestions, integrating the most promising ones into his proposal.
The one distressing part of the letter was at the end, where she had asked how the "you- know-what ended up shaking out," and if Harry had been allowed to implement Ron's plan. With his gut-churning, Harry had put off responding, wishing that they already knew, that the Order had revealed what happened to his friends so he would not have to. Would she help him in the future once she knew the full truth of how the duel concluded?
A few days later, Harry found himself in his first lesson with Bellatrix. They had met in the dueling hall he usually shared with Voldemort, the Dark Lord having magnanimously suggested it for their use that morning at breakfast. He supposed it went as well as he could have expected. She had arrived with a list of spells she wanted to teach him, many of which were grotesque and murderous. Harry had been able to persuade her to back down from anything too horrible, like a spell that boiled the intestines from within. She had been expectedly emotional about him wanting to change the curriculum, pouting and trying to convince him that only powerful spells would make the Dark Lord proud. For once, not worried about Voldemort's response, Harry had stood firm on excluding the outright torture spells.
Instead, they had compromised on a spell similar to the shadow chains she had taught him, teaching him how to cast a mist that left excruciating boils on anyone it touched. It was perfect against multiple enemies, almost impossible to dissolve, and the shield spell that would protect the caster and anyone who knew what the spell did was quick and easy to cast. But she promised not many would be able to counter or shield against it because it was a Black family creation, designed by her great-aunt who sounded just as sadistic and insane as the witch before him. It was no wonder Bellatrix referenced her with relevance. That she was willing to teach him something from her own family's grimoire left Harry infinitely pleased with his decision to take lessons with her. It was clear she saw them as a way to please the Dark Lord and was beyond eager to please Harry in response.
In all, it was a busy week. Harry didn't see Draco again after their last encounter, but he did make time to meet with Severus as the weekend approached. The black-eyed potions master had given him an almost pleading look and a subtle nod towards the garden exit after they'd finished an inner circle meeting. Harry knew he had been avoiding the wizard, partly out of shame for accepting, though not regretful, his decision to accept lessons with Bellatrix.
Walking out into the garden, Harry cast a non-verbal and wandless charm to repel the raindrops. Walking through the warm evening showers of late June, he took a moment to bask in the garden's warm humidity. He watched, captivated, as the flora surrounding them seemed to come alive in a new way, with the flowers and plants greedily reaching up to the sky.
Snape stood in his usual spot, halfway hidden beneath a tree, clearly repelling the water as well. While the spell worked, it would not be comfortable for a lengthy conversation under these conditions. Glancing at a nearby bench, Harry pulled out his wand, deciding to try his hand at transfiguring the wooden seat into a covered gazebo. He had been practicing larger transformations under the Dark Lord's demanding tutelage and had been pleased with how quickly he seemed to pick it up.
Once again, the Dark Lord had been able to explain magic in a way unlike any he'd ever heard, making it seem almost intrinsic. He still could not perform the type of casting that Voldemort had demonstrated, even though Harry was certain the Dark Lord had put in extra power to make it unnecessarily elaborate just to impress his heir. But, Harry had proven to be a quick study and was transfiguring larger and more detailed objects by the day.
Returning his wand to his holster, He glanced at his newly created gazebo happily. Pleased with the magic he'd performed, he walked inside, missing Snape's incredulous stare at the non-verbal spell casting, oblivious to the fact that he had exceeded any transfiguration a soon-to-be seventh year should be able to accomplish, which was even on par with what Minerva McGonagall could do.
Taking a seat, Harry glanced up expectantly at Snape, who sat across from him. This was their first meeting since Harry had released him from the oath. Beyond his reluctance to be questioned about his decision with Bellatrix, he's put off the meeting to give the wizard enough time to rethink his decision to leave, should he decide to do so. That Snape was still here, had sought out an audience with Harry despite everything, meant more to the young wizard than he wanted to admit.
"How are you?" Snape asked.
Harry could feel his eyes narrow; did the potions master actually want a real answer, or was it mere senseless formality? Harry usually just said that he was fine…
"Yes, a real answer would be appreciated," Severus said sarcastically, though not completely unkindly. If Harry weren't certain his shields were intact, he might have thought his thoughts were being skimmed.
Shrugging, Harry dropped the dark-eyed gaze, still unsure how to behave around the man who had made his younger years a living hell, and yet, had dedicated the last sixteen years to trying to covertly protect him.
"Will you reveal our conversations to the Order?" Harry asked, wondering how much of the wizard before him was still committed to his role as a spy.
"Only if you express a desire for me to," came the calm response.
Harry frowned, "How can I trust you?" He wanted to, more than he cared to admit, but that did not mean it was smart to do so.
Severus sighed. "I'm hesitant to commit to any more oaths, if it can be avoided," Severus admitted, though his tone suggested he might consider it if necessary. The idea that he might voluntarily subject himself to another's control again surprised Harry.
Yet, as Harry truly considered what he knew about the reclusive potions master, he wondered how much of Severus's identity had become intertwined with the mission of protecting him. While Harry despised any lack of choice, he could understand how it might simplify life, how Snape might actually prefer having such obligations to guide his actions, rather than continuously placing himself in peril by choice. He had done so under Voldemort, accepting his mark and surrendering his freedom, then again with Dumbledore and the oath he had pledged to Harry. And now, he was implying he might be willing to enter into another such commitment with Harry, just days after being released from an oath that had dictated his life.
Even as the thoughts crossed his mind, Harry recognized that his scrutiny and deductions resembled the same tone and thoughts he'd often heard from the Dark Lord, observing and assessing someone's motives, ambitions, and vulnerabilities. He loathed that his thought process had adapted in this manner, that it would be so easy to manipulate the wizard if chose, but couldn't ignore that it did assist him in navigating the conversation.
"I don't want an oath," Harry stated firmly, appalled at becoming even more like Voldemort or Dumbledore in the eyes of the wizard who had sworn to protect him. "I just..." he sighed, swiping his hand through his hair, glancing back at the wizard who was watching him silently. "There's just so much history between us. You were so mean to me. I believe your intentions now are well-meaning, but I can't lie and say I'm not afraid you'll use anything you learn against me." He wished Snape were easier to read, that his mask wasn't so meticulously crafted.
"Then perhaps we proceed cautiously," Snape suggested after several awkward and painful moments. "We avoid topics you're uncomfortable with and see if we can start afresh." He paused, frowning in distaste, "As much as it pains me to acknowledge, it's evident you're nothing like your father."
Harry knew his face must have become crestfallen, that while Snape likely thought it a compliment, it cut Harry straight to his core. Severus let out a long-suffering sigh. "Not like that," he corrected, his voice pained as if engaging in this conversation was the last thing he wanted. "I'm referring to his bullying tendencies, his capacity for cruelty as a teenager. But, even I must grudgingly acknowledge that he was magically talented, a trait you seem to have inherited in abundance from both your parents. My point was that you don't share the less admirable qualities your father exhibited in his youth, and you possess your mother's heart and kindness, perhaps even to a fault, given the dangers you now face in your determination to protect everyone." He paused, his next words seeming to actually cause him pain. "I would venture to say both would be proud of the wizard you're becoming."
Harry found himself frozen, utterly shocked. Since the year had begun, he'd assumed they would only be more disgusted with the path he'd chosen. Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine they'd be proud, nor that it would be Snape attempting to assure him of that. It left him momentarily speechless.
Ignoring the turmoil coursing through Harry, Snape continued as though his words were of no consequence. "I only say this because, perhaps I was premature in deciding you were a no- good, fortune-seeking brat when you first entered my classes. Despite clearly spending zero time or effort to apply yourself in your first lessons, and many subsequent ones after that, you do have a remarkable amount of talent now that you are actually applying yourself. And it was made all the easier to target you because of the circles I ran in, if I were to maintain my cover with the dark. And maintaining appearances is clearly no longer an issue. So, perhaps we can strive to start anew."
Harry found himself wrestling with a mix of bemusement and indignation. Snape had managed to backhandedly insult him, compliment him, and offer an olive branch, all in one breath. He resigned himself that this likely would be the norm for any conversation with the wizard moving forward.
"I think slow is good," Harry agreed.
Snape nodded, "Then we will steer away from uncomfortable topics for now. Should you wish to discuss anything you're going through here, I am available. You don't owe anyone an explanation, certainly not me, but I do want you to know that I'm here if you wish to talk and seek advice." It was a surprisingly generous offer. Harry had not been eager to talk about Bellatrix and truthfully didn't want to hear about the Order either. He was also unsure if it would be wise to discuss the Dark Lord with someone he did not fully trust.
At Harry's nod of consent, the potion master shifted his gaze to Harry's arm. "Perhaps we should examine your mark?" he suggested, revisiting a previous offer. Harry wondered why Snape was so fixated on it. Yes, it linked Harry to Voldemort, giving the Dark Lord power over him, but Harry had accepted that reality. He had witnessed the extent of Voldemort's power; he didn't need a mark to reach Harry. And Harry had hoped they'd moved beyond the Dark Lord needing his leash, or any other threats, to make Harry comply; that they had reached an understanding.
Harry shook his head. "I don't see why you still want to experiment on it; I can't remove the mark. Even if I could, he'd be furious. I'm not going to risk that, not when he's actually starting to trust me."
Snape's incredulous look made Harry lean back. "You actually think the Dark Lord trusts you? He doesn't trust anyone. He's manipulating you to make you feel that way; surely you can see that?"
Frowning, Harry wasn't in the mood for a debate. To someone who had spent their time as a spy, likely betraying both sides, it was understandable that Snape would think the Dark Lord showed no one any trust. And yet, maybe Harry was naive, but he believed the Dark Lord was beginning to trust him. He certainly acted as if he did, granting Harry increasing autonomy with his followers, seldom checking on Harry's work or whereabouts. He seemed to share all his plans with Harry as well—not just those of domination but also simple things like spell creation or newly acquired knowledge about a potion or ingredient. Unless there was a meeting or event Harry would find distasteful, he noticed they were spending more time together, not less. No, Harry resolved to believe his instincts. Even if he was wrong, he preferred to live with the hope that the Dark Lord wasn't just blatantly manipulating and using him, that some real trust was forming.
"It doesn't matter. I'm not going to experiment on it. He might find out, and I'd prefer not to have to explain what I was doing, either with the mark or with you. You're not exactly one of his favorite people these days."
Scowling, Snape pulled back the sleeve of his arm, clearly annoyed with Harry's defiance. Despite his own history of being bound to other wizards, it seemed to irk him that Harry was as well. "Fine, if you are content with having a leash and detonator on your arm, so be it. At least, study mine; the worst-case scenario is you might learn how they work, and you can use that knowledge over his followers you suddenly seem so thrilled to hold power over."
The two wizards glared at each other, Harry wondering what had possessed him to voluntarily put himself in Snape's company, and the potions master likely thinking the same about the teen. But the idea of studying his mark did hold merit. Harry was intensely curious about how the Dark Lord controlled his followers, and given his recent foray into the study of dark rituals, he wondered if he could learn something by experimenting on it.
Ignoring the accusing outburst, Harry stood up and walked nearer, retrieving his wand from his holster. He had learned some basic spells from the books that would give him a starting point, perhaps allowing him to identify some of the characteristics of the mark and the power it granted the Dark Lord. Harry felt a trickle of excitement as he began experimenting.
Allowing his own magic to probe the mark, Harry began to utilize some of the wandless sensing techniques the Dark Lord had taught him. Almost immediately, he sensed something.
Feeling a jolt of astonishment, he realized he could detect Voldemort's distinctive magic. As he delved deeper, Snape's eyes widened in alarm, jerking his arm away.
Worried he had inadvertently harmed the wizard, Harry quickly stepped back, retracting his magic. "Are you okay?"
"I felt you—not just your sensing of it, but I felt your presence. You activated it. It felt like a summoning."
"I... what?" Harry stammered, taken aback by Snape's revelation. Snape stared at him, his dark eyes becoming a mask of swiftly shifting emotions—intrigue, fear, anger, and then, oddly enough, resignation.
"I think you can, in fact, control it," Snape said slowly, his voice tinged with tone hard to decipher. "Dumbledore used to experiment on it, but it never reacted like that. It became almost alive under your touch, as if responding to you. I could feel it. It felt as it does when he's near, when he activates it."
Harry took another step back. It had sounded amusing at first, but he truthfully didn't want that type of power. He didn't want Voldemort knowing he had that kind of control. He had seen the Dark Lord using the mark to inflict punishment on Death Eaters that displeased him, and it looked as cruel as the Cruciatus Curse.
If Voldemort knew Harry could do the same, he might demand a demonstration. He might ask Harry to use his growing powers to instill fear in Voldemort's followers, to show them that he and Voldemort were even more connected, that his heir could punish them in the same ways. In a twisted way, Voldemort might even be proud, as he was when Harry displayed his ability to speak to snakes. It was something that made him unique from everyone else and thus worthy of the Dark Lord's attention and training. He swallowed hard, sinking heavily onto the bench. This had been a terrible idea.
"What did you do?" Snape asked, his curiosity clearly piqued.
Equally wanting to narrow down what had happened, Harry closed his eyes, focusing on what he had felt.
"What are you..." Snape began, but Harry cut him off.
"Please be quiet," Harry commanded, not caring that his voice came out harsh. He was shaken, and this was Snape's fault. He went through one of the Occlumency techniques he had learned, recalling the sensations and emotions he had just experienced. He could feel his magic hovering over the mark again, just as it had moments ago. It had felt foreign yet familiar. He had pushed on it, and then the magic seemed to explode, reaching out, passing through him. He suddenly felt connected to it. Yes, he realized, he likely could access it, control it. But why?
And then he knew. That feeling, the magic, the way it reacted to his own, and yet it had been deliberate, specifically responsive, as if only to a part of him. There was only one answer that made sense. It had to be the Horcrux, the soul shard within him. He had a part of the Dark Lord in him, which meant he could touch the same magic. It recognized its own. It even felt like his own. What had Nagini said? The same but different. She could sense magic; he was certain she could sense the soul magic in him. That was what she had been alluding to without knowing it. His eyes shot open, his gut clenching.
"What is it? You've realized something," Snape prompted.
Harry swallowed, shaking his head. He knew without even opening his mouth that to say anything would be a violation of his Unbreakable Vow. He could not hint at anything to do with the soul shards, that it was the Dark Lord's soul that likely played into this newfound ability. "I can't talk about it," he said instead, tucking his wand back into its holder. "I don't think we should experiment on the marks anymore."
Snape's eyes narrowed. "You can control it, can't you?"
Harry met his gaze briefly before turning away. Yes, he had realized, he could. It felt like a piece of him. Closing his eyes, he focused on his own mark. He could feel the same tug of magic that linked him to Voldemort, but now he saw it in a whole new light. With sudden certainty, he followed that tug to his magical core. It was almost as if he could isolate the soul shard. Dormant, it didn't feel alive, but it was there, tied to his mark—a small piece of the larger whole that exerted even more control over both his own mark and those of the other Death Eaters.
A piece of Voldemort that he could almost access. Harry wondered if he followed it even further, could he trace the magical thread all the way back to the Dark Lord? Was this the same magical connection that allowed Voldemort to access Harry's dreams, to make his scar hurt? He reinforced his Occlumency around it. Now that he knew what it felt like, he wondered if he could better block Voldemort. Yet, having not experienced any anger in a while, he hoped that maybe that was behind him, that he would never have to test if this newfound knowledge provided him some protection. He needed to think on this. He wanted to return to his room, meditate in his Occlumency state; it always brought him the greatest clarity.
"I need to go," Harry said, taking a step away from the gazebo, preparing to leave.
"You learned something, didn't you?" Snape repeated, unwilling to let him flee so easily. "Something unexpected about the mark, about him. And…about yourself." Harry hated how perceptive the spy was.
"Please," Harry said, turning back to face Snape, meeting the curious black eyes. "You can't say anything about this to anyone. You said I can trust you, then prove it. Promise me."
Snape frowned, clearly unsettled by the sudden nervousness emanating from the teen before him.
"Please, promise," Harry reiterated, feeling the stress coursing through him. He wondered if his magic was pulsing out like the Dark Lord's sometimes did when he was emotional.
Judging by Snape's increasingly pallid expression, it likely was. "Trust me," he implored, attempting to calm his magic and himself. "Nothing good will come from this getting out."
He wasn't ready for another thing that tied him to the Dark Lord. He didn't want this information spreading to anyone.
Black eyes stared at him intently. "Alright. I promise." Harry met Snape's gaze searchingly, nodded, and then left.
After that, he actively avoided Snape. Despite sensing Snape's inquisitive stare and noticing the potion master's attempts to prompt another garden rendezvous, Harry ignored him. The presence of the soul shard within him had never felt so tangible, and he dreaded Voldemort discovering that he could control his followers.
Even while grappling with the implications of the soul shard's influence on the Dark Mark, the next month flew by. He felt as if he were on a speeding train hurtling towards a cliff. His upcoming birthday loomed ahead, marking his ascension to Lord Potter-Black and the Slytherin Heir Apparent more real by the day. Wanting to avoid any thoughts of his impending shift in responsibility, Harry immersed himself in his studies and the overhaul of Hogwarts's curriculum. Hermione's recommendations had been brilliant; he had incorporated most of them, and the proposal was now with the Wizengamont for discussion and debate.
Harry had learned that once a proposal entered the legal system, it could take anywhere from a few days to months or even years to reach the floor for a vote. Lucius thought it would likely be out in early August, when the education board typically provided the Wizengamont with their list of proposals and assessments in time for the start of the September school year.
While he was grateful that he had consulted Hermione on the matter, he couldn't shake the feeling of guilt for ignoring her inquiry about the duel, brushing it off as a conversation best held in person. When pressed about a timeline for such a meeting, Harry had offered a vague response, promising to figure it out and inform them soon. He knew they were now on summer break and had likely returned home to the Order. He wondered if the Order had told them the truth, that his anger had driven him into unintentionally using the unforgiveables.
As June waned, Harry seldom left the manor, his reluctance rooted in a deep-seated aversion to facing the aftermath of his choices. While he remained committed to his path, standing steadfast at the Dark Lord's side, he grew more reluctant to confront the light, dreading their judgment and despair. If the Dark Lord noticed his reclusive tendencies, he made no comment. He appeared content with Harry's dedication to his training and commitment to his role as both apprentice and heir.
The Potter heir now seamlessly embraced the books and study topics suggested to him, displaying minimal resistance. On occasions when Harry did question the choices, the Dark Lord adeptly offered explanations that resonated with him, fueling his desire to bridge the vast expanses in his knowledge. The Dark Lord had a knack for sparking Harry's curiosity with each new subject, making him more receptive to the recommendations without any objections. At times, the Dark Lord seemed to take pleasure in presenting Harry with challenging material, which often led to engaging discussions during their meals. While the Dark Lord never mandated practical study of these materials, Harry found himself increasingly incorporating the recommended spells into his regular sessions with Voldemort, and even his occasional lessons with Bellatrix.
In the days leading up to his birthday, the reality of his situation struck Harry with profound clarity, signaling that everything was once again about to change.
"I've made all the necessary arrangements for the event," the Dark Lord announced one night at dinner. Harry nodded, not surprised but interested in the details.
"Will anything be expected of me at it?" Harry inquired.
"Nothing beyond the usual social decorum and appearance," the Dark Lord assured him, amusement glinting in his eyes. "You'll be the center of attention, so naturally, you'll need to be more sociable than usual. But I trust you'll manage. After all, this is a celebration."
Despite feeling apprehensive about the upcoming event, Harry found himself surprisingly excited. It would be his first genuine birthday celebration. Aware that Voldemort sought to impress, Harry anticipated it being an event that surpassed any expectations. Since it would be the best the Dark Lord and his followers could buy, he might as well try to enjoy it.
S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S
Harry stood on the sprawling lawn of Slytherin Manor, his eyes wide with disbelief. Before him unfolded a scene so surreal, it took several moments for the reality to sink in. Yes, Voldemort, the Dark Lord himself, had thrown him a birthday party. And not just any party— an extravagant celebration that seemed to defy every expectation.
The Manor's usually ominous facade was transformed, bathed in an enchanting array of magically enhanced lights that danced across the stone, casting ethereal shadows. The vast lawn had been metamorphosed into a lavish party venue, where no expense had been spared in food, decor, or entertainment.
Long tables draped in velvet cloths of deep green and silver—the colors of Slytherin—lined the area, groaning under the weight of an elaborate feast. The dishes were a gourmet's delight, featuring an array of magical delicacies that seemed to never end. Towering cakes adorned with intricate icing designs stood alongside platters of sumptuous appetizers, each bite a testament to culinary excellence. Enchanted silverware twinkled under the starlight, occasionally floating to serve guests with a flair that was both magical and efficient.
The decorations were nothing short of spectacular. Enormous banners bearing the Slytherin crest fluttered gently in the evening breeze, while magical lanterns floated overhead, casting a soft glow over the attendees. Sculptures made of ice, depicting various magical creatures, dotted the landscape, their surfaces shimmering with a mystical light. Flowers that glowed in the dark outlined the pathways, their petals opening and closing as if breathing, adding a touch of living magic to the scene.
In the center of the lawn stood a magnificent dance floor, where couples swayed to the haunting melodies produced by a band of spectral musicians. Their instruments glowed with an otherworldly light, the music they played a blend of classical enchantment and modern rhythm that was impossible to resist.
Around the edges of the party, various magical entertainments were provided for the guests' amusement. A small group of wizards and witches gathered around a dueling platform, where friendly bouts were cheered on. Elsewhere, a magical menagerie showcased rare and exotic magical creatures, enchanting guests with their unique abilities and beauty.
Harry could hardly believe this was all in his honor. The thought that Voldemort had orchestrated such an event—a celebration of Harry's coming of age and his acceptance into the legacy of Slytherin—was overwhelming. For a night, the dark overtures of their world were forgotten, replaced by the joy and extravagance of a party that would be remembered for years to come.
"Harry," a familiar, smooth voice called out.
Turning, Harry's gaze fell upon Draco Malfoy, who stood before him, the epitome of elegance in his finely tailored robes—a testament to the Malfoy family's renowned taste and wealth.
"Draco!" Harry responded with genuine warmth. "I'm glad you could make it. I wasn't sure you would..."
Draco nodded, eyes shifting around warily as if to confirm the Dark Lord wasn't nearby. "I wanted to be here for you, I didn't want to miss this." He smirked slightly, continuing, "And father thought it would be beneficial to be present at such a sought-after event, witches and wizards would sell their wands to be here!"
Harry laughed awkwardly, glancing around at the large crowd of people present, many of whom he didn't know, let alone had never seen before. The fact that each one wanted to come up and greet him and personally wish him well on the eve of his coming of age was leaving him exhausted. "It feels like the entire ministry is here. Doesn't seem like it was all that hard to get an invite."
Draco scoffed. "You're kidding me, right? This is probably the most selective event that's happened in years! Lord Slytherin's heir and the Potter Lord – AKA Mr. Chosen One – coming of age…" He shook his head. "Everyone," he emphasized, "wanted to be here. It was strictly controlled by the Dark Lord, of course, only those who have pleased him…"
Harry wasn't surprised; it sounded like something Voldemort would do, using Harry's birthday as a point of prestige. He was certain that both the light and dark sides likely wanted to attend this event. But he found himself not caring. The Dark Lord was willing to throw a party, a significant one at that, in celebration of Harry's coming of age. No matter what schemes or manipulations occurred, he was determined to enjoy the moment. It was the happiest he'd felt in years, if ever. He was still shocked it was occurring; in just a few hours, he'd make it to seventeen, something he'd long thought was no longer possible.
"Well, I'm glad you were on the list, that he let you come," he said seriously, gazing at the blonde. If invitations were that selective and Draco still received one, it could only mean a rare sign of favor that Voldemort had allowed for Harry, knowing of Harry's affections for the Malfoy heir.
Draco shrugged, as if to say that whatever existed between Harry and Voldemort was best left between them. "Enough of this morbid talk, it's your party, let's get you a drink!"
Smiling, Harry nodded, following the blonde into the crowd. He was beyond grateful he'd have Draco there to help him navigate all the pampering and social decorum required of him, even at a birthday celebration meant for Harry.
As the evening progressed, Harry found himself thoroughly enjoying the festivities. He indulged in various magical delicacies, savoring the unique flavors and textures that tantalized his taste buds. Draco proved to be worth his weight in gold, effortlessly helping Harry navigate the awkward social expectations and ensuring that he felt comfortable amidst the extravagant celebration. With Draco's support, Harry felt more at ease mingling with the guests, exchanging pleasantries, and even engaging in light-hearted conversations.
Amidst the lively atmosphere, Harry caught a glimpse of Voldemort from afar. The Dark Lord stood regally, surrounded by admirers and sycophants vying for his attention. Despite the distance, Harry could sense the intensity of Voldemort's presence, the Dark Lord immediately catching his eye. As Voldemort raised his glass in a silent toast to Harry, the Potter Lord-to-be raised his own, in silent acknowledgment and appreciation that this night was occurring at all.
As the grand clock struck midnight, signaling the dawn of raven-haired wizards coming of age, Harry glanced around the lush lawn of an opulent garden surrounded by the most influential figures of the wizarding world. They had all gathered to celebrate his seventeenth birthday, a spectacle of magic and power unlike any he'd ever seen.
As the final chime signaled the dawn of a new day and a new year for Harry, echoing into the night, the sky above them transformed into a breathtaking theater of magic and light. In an instant, the air crackled with energy as a dazzling array of spells and enchantments illuminated the darkness. Brilliant bursts exploded overhead, weaving intricate patterns and symbols of wizarding lore that whispered tales of ancient magic and legends of yore.
Gone were the simple fireworks of common celebrations; in their place stood enchantments that twisted the very fabric of the night. Spectacular creatures, wrought from pure magical energy, soared through the air, their forms shimmering with a radiance that was almost tangible. Dragons, adorned with scales that glittered like precious gems, roared as they wove between cascades of sparkling jewels raining down like celestial waterfalls. Each gem held within it a spell, meticulously crafted by the most skilled artisans of the wizarding world.
At the heart of the spectacle, a magnificent phoenix ascended toward the zenith, its wings spreading wide in a graceful display. Its feathers blazed with the colors of flames; each flicker a splendid surge of colors that shifted seamlessly. The phoenix's melodious cry resonated through the air. Its beauty served as a poignant reminder of the power and prestige held by the wizarding elite, casting a spell of awe and wonder over the enchanted gathering.
As the newly ascended Potter Lord watched the sheer display, a realization struck Harry that Voldemort had chosen this moment, his coming of age, to unveil such a spectacle. It was the first formal event open to those not marked that had been hosted at Slytherin Manor since the Slytherin Lord's title had been reclaimed. It was a twisted honor, a recognition of Harry's significance in the wizarding world, though one that was firmly attached to Voldemort's name and legacy.
The complexity of emotions Harry felt as he watched the sky alight with magical wonders was overwhelming. There was fear, certainly, and a sobering reminder of what lay ahead. But there was also a deep, unspoken acknowledgment of the significance of this moment.
Voldemort, for all his darkness and ambition, had chosen to mark Harry's passage into adulthood with a display that would be remembered by all.
As the final enchantment faded into the night, leaving behind a silence that was both eerie and awe-inspiring, the assembled guests erupted into applause. They, too, understood the magnitude of what had just been witnessed—the dual message of power and recognition conveyed by both the celebration itself and its orchestrator. It was a bizarre and twisted reward, one that Harry found himself oddly willing to accept.
After the mesmerizing display had concluded and Harry had finally finished dutifully greeting all the guests—those of a stature deemed by Draco as warranting personal acknowledgment—the blonde informed Harry that his obligations as the evening's honoree were now fulfilled. Draco assured him that any witch or wizard of respectable standing would henceforth grant him the freedom to enjoy the remainder of the event unburdened by formalities. Coming of age, as Draco explained, was a significant milestone within the traditions of the old wizarding families, marking a transition into adulthood where the constraints of social decorum could be relaxed in the later hours of celebration. Harry, who had grown weary of the constant socializing with unfamiliar faces despite the intrigue some had offered—like the international Quidditch seekers, whose acquaintance would surely leave Ron green with envy—welcomed this change with open arms.
Embracing the newfound liberty, Harry and Draco indulged in a few more drinks than was probably wise. Yet, in a rare moment of unbridled joy, Harry allowed himself to simply bask in the festivities. Their circle expanded to include Blaise Zabini, Daphne Greengrass, and Tracy Davis. Harry was silently appreciative of Pansy Parkinson's notable absence. Though he'd noticed Crabbe, Goyle, and Nott mingling in the periphery with some of the older year Slytherin classmates, he was relieved to avoid direct interaction with them as well.
The group of young wizards and witches retreated to a secluded fountain, nestled just downhill from the main celebration, where the night air and the sound of cascading water lent an air of tranquility to their gathering.
"Have to admit, this party's quite the spectacle," Zabini commented, his voice cutting through the peaceful hum of the night. He leisurely sipped from his goblet, a concoction of special mulled cider laced with fire whiskey that Harry found particularly delightful.
Harry offered a soft smile in response, content in the moment's simplicity. Words felt unnecessary; the evening had unfolded in ways he hadn't anticipated, bringing a sense of normalcy and genuine enjoyment he hadn't realized he'd been missing. Surrounded by peers, under the cloak of night and the subtle charm of the fountain's melody, Harry felt a rare, unburdened sense of joy. He took sip of his own drink; the warm numbness that washed over him felt comforting, like he was floating on a cloud.
Daphne sighed, her gaze lost among the fireflies that danced above them, casting a gentle glow. She had enchanted the grass beneath her, allowing her to recline gracefully without soiling her elegant silver dress, which cascaded from her slim waist. "It's hard to believe we have only one year left before graduation," she mused, her voice tinged with a mix of nostalgia and wonder. "Everything has flown by so quickly. Do any of you have plans for after we're done with Hogwarts?"
Zabini, took another sip, considering Daphne's question. A thoughtful expression flickered across his face as he carefully placed his goblet on the ground beside him. The relaxed atmosphere of the evening seemed to smooth away the usual Slytherin edge, allowing a rare vulnerability to show. "To be honest, I'm still exploring my options," he confessed with an easy shrug. "Though, my mother has her own ideas. She's quite adamant about me joining the Ministry, suggesting it's time I took a more... official path, maybe even venture into politics."
His tone was light, revealing neither excitement nor resistance, merely acknowledging the weight of his mother's expectations. "But personally? I'm not entirely convinced. I'd rather take some time to discover what's out there, beyond the paths laid out by others."
Draco couldn't help but laugh at the notion. "As if your mother would ever let you wander off to 'explore the world,'" he teased, his voice dripping with amusement.
Zabini's response was mock indignation. "Hey! I'll be assuming my Lordship before long; my mother doesn't dictate my every move!" His retort was full of feigned offense but undercut with humor.
"If you say so," Draco remarked with a hint of skepticism, his closeness allowing Harry to catch the scent of alcohol on his breath. "Everyone knows that it's Blaise's mum who wields the real power in their family," he whispered, likely thinking his voice was more subtle than it was. "Her reputation precedes her, and it's likely Blaise will end up in whatever position she's already secured for him."
"Oi!" Zabini protested, albeit half-heartedly, unable to fully muster the will to argue against the well-known truth about his formidable mother.
The conversation then pivoted towards the blonde, with Tracy Davis chiming in, "And what about you, Draco? Planning to follow in your father's footsteps?"
Draco attempted to adopt an air of detachment, but Harry, knowing him better than most, could see right through the facade. The uncertainty of Draco's future weighed heavily on him; despite Lucius Malfoy's efforts, he remained out of favor with Voldemort, his presence barely tolerated and his achievements often criticized. If the others were aware of the Malfoy family's precarious standing, they didn't show it.
"I expect I'll be quite occupied, assisting my father and upholding the Malfoy legacy," Draco responded, his tone devoid of its characteristic arrogance. The brevity of his comment spoke volumes to Harry about the pressure Draco was under.
The focus then shifted to Harry, all eyes turning expectantly towards him. Zabini's question hung in the air, "What about you, Potter, when are you planning to take over the world?"
Harry hesitated, aware of the luxurious backdrop against which they were conversing and the implications it held. "What do you mean?" he asked cautiously, not entirely sure how to respond.
Travis gestured broadly at the remnants of the evening's opulence. "Well, with the kind of display tonight, it's clear you can choose any path you want. Everyone who's anyone was here."
Harry nodded, feeling the weight of expectations. To the outside observer, it might seem as though his future was an open book, a path paved with opportunities. Yet, Harry was acutely aware of the challenges that lay ahead. Voldemort's plans were far from complete; his slow, methodical moves were a clear sign that he was still shaping the wizarding world—and Harry—according to his own dark designs. Harry still wasn't sure what they would look like when complete, what he himself would ultimately become.
The newly established Potter Lord's path was far from certain, mired in the complexities of a world still under the shadow of Voldemort's ambitions. He didn't have a good response, shrugging. "I don't know, I guess I'm still figuring it out."
"Oh, come on, Harry," Daphne said, her eyes alight with curiosity. "You're the Dark Lord's heir, the Potter Lord. You could do anything you want; surely there is something you have planned?" Truthfully, Harry had always just tried to stay alive and was shocked that he'd actually made it to this point. While life had gotten a lot better for him, a part of him kept waiting for the next shoe to fall.
"Give him a break," Draco interjected, his voice carrying a protective edge as he noted Harry's unease. Understanding better than most the complexities of Harry's experiences with the Dark Lord, Draco was keenly aware that the path leading to this evening was fraught with challenges and shadows, far removed from the glamour that might be inferred from the night's festivities. "He's only just come of age. There's no rush for him to map out his entire future. Let him just enjoy the moment."
Harry shot Draco a look of silent gratitude. The conversation shifted away from the heavy topic, with Zabini curiously probing Daphne about her recent travels to France. Her tales were vibrant and full of life, painting pictures of museum visits, explorations through fashion districts, and attendance at lavish parties. It was the kind of adventure that sparked a twinge of envy in Harry, yet he found himself captivated by her stories, especially the amusing account of dodging the affections of a persistent French Duke who had, following a memorable evening, become keen on winning her hand in marriage.
The group lingered on the fringes of the party, engaging in light-hearted banter and attempting to outdo one another with tales of their summer escapades, all while enjoying a few more drinks. Harry, though mostly quiet, felt a sense of belonging and contentment among the animated exchange of the Slytherins. It was a good, albeit rare, feeling.
Their moment of leisure was interrupted by the arrival of Tipsy, who seemed hesitant, her eyes flitting between Harry and his companions, wary of intruding. Harry's face lit up with a sincere smile at the sight of her, the booze helping his affections, his protective instincts kicking in. He felt determined that, under his watch, Tipsy would never face harm or punishment. And that wasn't just the alcohol talking… he was certain of that!
"Heya, Tipsy," he greeted her warmly, his tone inviting, his words only slightly slurred. "Are you having fun, do you get some time to enjoy an event like this?"
Zabini's expression was one of utter bewilderment, while Greengrass looked at Harry as though he had just landed from another planet. Only Draco averted his gaze, a laugh barely concealed behind a self-amused shake of his head.
Tipsy's reaction to Harry's question was immediate and almost defensive, as if she had misinterpreted his casual inquiry as a critique of her diligence. "Oh no, Master Harry," she squeaked, her voice tinged with worry, "I is making sure the party runs smoothly, ensuring there are no issues!"
Harry's response was somewhat fumbled, the effects of the alcohol rendering his thoughts and speech less coherent than he would have liked. "Oh," he said, feeling somewhat foolish. "Right… well, the party's been fantastic. Truly perfect. Thank you for all your hard work. It's been brilliant, really…" His words trailed off into a ramble that left the house elf looking at him beyond confused. Draco's snort and eye-roll did nothing to bolster his confidence.
"Thank you, Master Harry!" Tipsy responded, brightening after a moment's hesitation before a shadow of concern crossed her features, signaling the real reason behind her approach. "I is sorry to interrupt, but the Master wants to see you. In his office."
The sudden summons caused Harry's heart to sink, a sobering realization crashing down amidst the festivities. Draco had assured him that his obligations for the evening were concluded, that he was free to enjoy the party. The thought of facing the Dark Lord in his current state, slightly inebriated and unprepared, filled him with worry.
"Right now?" Harry asked, casting a nervous glance toward Draco, who had immediately tensed at the news.
"Yes, Master Harry," Tipsy confirmed.
"Is he angry?" The concern in Harry's voice was palpable.
Tipsy seemed to ponder this for a moment before answering, "I is not believing so."
The exchange of worried glances between Tracy and Daphne was telling. They all knew that none of them were sober. Sensing the urgency of the situation, Draco quickly took charge. "Can you get him a sobering draught?" he asked, moving closer to Tipsy.
"Of course, sir!" Tipsy chirped with a sense of purpose. In an instant, she vanished, only to reappear moments later holding a silver plate elegantly engraved with the Slytherin crest.
Atop the plate were five small vials, a potion for sobriety offered to each of them. "One for each of yous, if you want!"
Harry, intrigued by the concoction, picked up a vial and examined it against the soft glow of a distant torchlight. The existence of such a potion was news to him, a testament to the many facets of magic he had yet to explore.
Draco wasted no time, uncorking a vial and swallowing its contents in one swift motion. "Much better," he commented with a hint of relief, then turned to Harry with a raised eyebrow. "Have you never had one before?"
Harry, feeling a bit out of his depth, shook his head and cautiously sniffed at the potion, which emitted a light lemon scent.
"Merlin, Potter, haven't you ever had a drink before?" Draco's question was tinged with disbelief.
Feeling his face warm with a flush of embarrassment—a notable feat given the alcohol's prior influence—Harry defensively claimed, "I have," carefully omitting the details of that experience involving Snape and the subsequent encounter with the Dark Lord.
Draco's skepticism was palpable, but he urged, "Drink," as Daphne, Tracy, and Blaise unhesitatingly consumed their potions.
Driven by the urgency of his impending meeting with Voldemort, Harry downed the potion. The effect was immediate and profound, akin to being doused with a cold shower from within. Clarity replaced the fuzzy warmth that had enveloped his mind, leaving him sharply sober. "Wow," he couldn't help but utter, a newfound appreciation for the wonders of magic blossoming within him.
"You're hopeless," Draco commented with a shake of his head, though the fondness in his voice was unmistakable.
Knowing that he should not keep the Dark Lord waiting, especially after he'd spent so much effort to throw him a party, Harry waved to the others, "I should probably go," he said as Tipsy shifted from one foot to the other anxiously. "Thanks for coming. It was a fun party." He turned, making his way back to the manor.
As he walked, the joy of the evening's festivities was overshadowed by the apprehension of Voldemort's summoning. Harry couldn't fathom what might have prompted such a request at this late hour unless something significant had occurred. With each step, he steeled himself, pushing down the rising tide of dread.
Harry's approach to Voldemort's office was swift. Upon reaching the door, he knocked once, receiving a prompt "Enter" from within.
As he stepped inside, the scene was as he had come to expect: Voldemort seated at his desk, the room dominated by shadows and the palpable presence of power. The familiar leather chair awaited him in front, a silent invitation to sit. At the heart of the desk rested a bottle filled with a rich amber whiskey, flanked by two crystal glasses, each proudly bearing the Slytherin crest. Harry met the Dark Lord's piercing crimson gaze, offering a respectful nod in lieu of words. Voldemort's demeanor was calm, his magical aura contained—a hopeful sign that perhaps this meeting might not bear the weight of wrath Harry had feared.
Voldemort gestured towards the chair, and as Harry took his seat, the tension within him remained, though it was slightly eased by the absence of any overt signs of anger from the Dark Lord. "How did you find your party?" Voldemort inquired, his tone neutral yet carrying an undercurrent of genuine interest.
This was uncharted territory. Never before had Voldemort summoned him for mere conversation, especially not within the confines of his private office. Their rare instances of small talk usually unfolded in less formal settings, like at a meal. The unexpected casualness of Voldemort's inquiry now disconcerted Harry.
"I had a good time," Harry responded honestly. The evening had indeed been remarkable, marking the beginning of his seventeenth year as the most memorable birthday yet. "Thank you," he added genuinely.
Voldemort's nod, accompanied by a soft "Good, that pleases me," did little to dispel the growing tension. The Dark Lord silently used his wand to rotate the whiskey bottle, elegantly filling both of their glasses before levitating one towards Harry. Harry, uncertain but intrigued, grasped the floating glass with a tentative hand.
The silence that followed seemed loaded, and Harry fought against the urge to fidget, aware that any sign of discomfort could be interpreted as weakness. The situation was unusual.
Voldemort was not one to dally without purpose, and his calm demeanor, devoid of anger yet marked by an unfamiliar difference, left Harry in a state of heightened alertness. He remained silently seated, his senses attuned to any shift in the Dark Lord's mood, trying to prepare for whatever might unfold from this unexpected and unnerving small talk.
Voldemort took a sip from his glass, then fixed Harry with a meaningful gaze. Hesitantly, Harry mirrored the action, taking a cautious sip. The whiskey was exceptional, smoother than any he had previously tasted, effortlessly gliding down with a subtle, smoky essence. "Are you prepared for what awaits you, coming of age? Both as the Potter-Black Lord and my heir?" the Dark Lord asked.
Harry found himself at a loss for words. On one hand, he was gripped by fear, uncertain of the demands and expectations that lay ahead. On the other, a sense of excitement bubbled within him; he had already begun to influence events, feeling as though he was making a tangible difference and harbored the hope that he could sustain this impact. That everything the Dark Lord had promised him would actually come true.
"Yes," he voiced at last, his tone laced with both resolve and a hint of trepidation. In the momentary quiet that followed, Voldemort took another measured sip of whiskey, the liquid's amber glow reflecting briefly in his eyes. Then, with a deliberate motion, he reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out a package wrapped in green and silver, extending it towards
Harry. With a mix of caution and curiosity, Harry set his drink down and accepted the offering.
"What's this?" Harry inquired, his voice unintentionally carrying a lighter note that thinly veiled his underlying apprehension.
"A gift," Voldemort replied simply, an unusual gesture that seemed at odds with the wizard Harry had come to know.
"I thought you didn't give gifts," Harry commented, his words unintentionally laced with a playful edge that masked his inner conflict. He carefully traced his fingers over the wrapping, his emotions a whirlwind of apprehension and eagerness.
The amusement twinkling in Voldemort's crimson eyes was undeniable, offering a fleeting look at a rarely observed, more lighthearted facet of the Dark Lord. "Indeed. However, you stand apart from the rest, my heir," he declared, his tone imbued with a blend of possessiveness and a palpable sense of pride.
Under that penetrating gaze, Harry felt profoundly vulnerable, the magnitude of Voldemort's claim over him starkly evident. He diverted his eyes from the intense stare, acutely aware of the contradiction before him. This was the same Dark Lord who had sparked the first wizarding war, who had claimed the lives of Harry's parents, and the very wizard who had ensnared Harry into the realm of dark arts, setting him on a path against the light, his friends, and everything he had once held dear.
And yet, bizarrely, this was the same man who had, in a convoluted way, returned Harry's life to him, offering him the opportunity to truly live. Through Voldemort's hand, Harry had evolved significantly from the weak and meek boy he once was. By his seventeenth birthday, he wasn't merely acknowledged as the Potter Lord but had emerged as a formidable figure in his own right, garnering respect and loyalty through the undeniable strength of his magic.
"Open it," prompted Voldemort, catching Harry's attention and drawing him out of his deep thoughts with an amused look. Harry's embarrassment was palpable as he locked eyes with Voldemort, momentarily caught off guard.
With a slight tremor in his fingers, Harry carefully unwrapped the paper, which encapsulated the gift in a refined yet subtly lavish manner. As the box opened, his eyes widened in astonishment at the discovery of a gold watch inside, its face proudly adorned with the Slytherin emblem, igniting a mix of curiosity and admiration. "What's this?" he asked, his voice filled with awe as he closely inspected the exquisite craftsmanship. The watch stood out as a work of art, its gold framework enhanced with rose gold and silver detailing along its periphery, and the Slytherin 'S' intricately set with what seemed to be tiny, shimmering emeralds.
As Harry opened the watch, he was met with the sight of its stunning dials, which not only told time but did so with remarkable elegance. The hands, crafted in the shape of serpents, moved with a mesmerizing grace, their tongues deftly marking the minutes and hours in a magical ballet. Behind the serpentine hands, constellations shimmered, suggesting an enchantment that mirrored the night sky.
Intrigued by the detail, Harry's attention was drawn to an inscription on the inner surface. Bringing it closer, what initially appeared as indecipherable scribbles gradually aligned into legible words in parselscript.
"Sovereignty in cunning and power," Voldemort intoned softly, his voice a sibilant echo that brought the Slytherin family's motto to life.
"Is this an heirloom?" Harry asked quietly, his fingertips delicately tracing the artifact's surface.
Voldemort nodded. "It symbolizes a deeply rooted tradition; a sacred rite of passage. The act of presenting a watch to an heir as they reach maturity is a symbol of the passage of time, the arrival of adulthood, the weight of expectations, and the lasting legacy of one's lineage. Uniquely crafted for each family, this particular timepiece has lingered in the Slytherin vaults, awaiting an heir deemed worthy of its legacy."
Voldemort's gaze fixed on Harry with intensity. "You have surpassed my expectations in ways I hadn't anticipated," he admitted, his voice carrying a soft murmur filled with an unusual warmth of approval. "This path we now embark on together... it has become more fulfilling than I initially imagined."
Harry found himself momentarily at a loss, not sure how to respond, his throat tightening as he met Voldemort's gaze. Within those crimson eyes, he sought any underlying meaning, deeply unsure how to take this unexpected gesture. It appeared, however, that Voldemort sought no verbal response, finding satisfaction in the significance of his act and the mutual recognition that, perhaps for the first time, he experienced a genuine sense of fulfillment in their shared fate.
"Tomorrow, we will visit Gringotts, granting you full access to the vaults and inheritances of both the Potter and Black families," Voldemort continued, his voice carrying a sense of anticipation. "And come next Friday, you will stand before the Wizengamot. There, you will formally claim your rightful places and the authority to vote as the head of both the Potter and Black houses." He stood, clearly the beginning of a dismissal. Harry stood as well.
"Happy Birthday, my heir. We stand on the edge of a new dawn. Our work has merely begun."
S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S
Harry arrived at his room, immediately drawn to the window, where he gazed out at the remnants of the evening's festivities. The soft glow of lamps, still shining after the departure of the guests, bathed the now-silent grounds in a tranquil light. This serene vista belied the tumult of feelings swirling within him.
The watch gifted by Voldemort weighed heavily in his grasp. As Harry's thumb gently traced the Slytherin emblem, his feelings oscillated between admiration and doubt.
Deep inside, Harry grappled with the desire to understand the true nature of the burgeoning connection he sensed with the Dark Lord. Was Voldemort's gesture a sincere acknowledgment of his value and potential, or merely another strand in a web of manipulation designed to tether Harry more tightly to a dark fate the Dark Lord controlled? The question lingered, unanswered, in the solitude of his room. Above all, Harry sought clarity regarding this path he found himself increasingly committed to: was it a path to a genuine destiny or was he simply a piece in a grander, more malevolent scheme?