The Dark Lord's Plan
The intensity of the shield training took Harry by surprise, and that was saying a lot considering his familiarity with dark wizard's training methods. Voldemort's warning had resonated deeply, driving Harry into a relentless night of study dedicated solely to shields. Exhaustion clung to him like an unwelcome shadow as he headed to the library to continue his morning studies before the impending practical session. By the time the sun was high in the air, Harry was surprised at the quiet confidence that had begun to surface within him, sparked from the relentless hours he had spent painstakingly etching the magical foundations of shielding spells into his memory.
Looking through his notes, Harry couldn't help but feel a sense of pride in what he had accomplished in such a short span. He had approached the selection of shields with meticulous care, ensuring that each one was adept at countering different forms of attacks. Some specialized in curses, while others excelled in elemental defenses or repelling solid objects. While he knew there was still much he had to learn on shielding, he felt confident that he could raise most of the new shields he'd found, and they were all ones that would have proven successful against Mad-Eye Moody if he were forced to recreate their duel.
After a quiet lunch, it was finally time for their lesson.
Walking silently beside the imposing wizard, Harry's unease felt palpable. He knew that this lesson was, in part, a punishment because of his decision to accept the duel with Mad-Eye in the first place. As they entered the training room, Harry braced himself, half-expecting Voldemort to forego the usual instructional formalities. He feared the Dark Lord might skip straight to launching attacks, more focused on imparting a stern lesson rather than evaluating his magical proficiency. To his relief, the Dark Lord adhered to the established pattern he had come to expect before the ill-fated Order rescue mission.
For each spell, Harry explained the spell he had chosen to learn, practiced the wand motion, and then successfully cast it a few times. He was relieved that he was able to successfully cast each shield several times before Voldemort nodded in approval, all but sauntering to the other side of the hall, and began attempting to breach the shields. For the most part, Harry managed to block the Dark Lord successfully. He was glad he had practiced the wand movements beforehand, late into the night, but the actual casting and witnessing of the different domes of pink, steel gray, and orange manifesting as a solid mist before him, holding the attacks at bay filled him with a sense of accomplishment.
But it wasn't meant to last. Seeing that his pupil was initially holding his own and even seemed self-satisfied with what he'd accomplished in such a short time, the Dark Lord took it upon himself to challenge Harry's shields with the full spectrum of his formidable magical power and spell repertoire. Harry found himself caught off guard by the sudden surge in power and complexity of spells hurtling towards him. The once poorly veiled pride that had filled him was now replaced with sweat and strain as he struggled to keep the Dark Lord's relentless barrage at bay; it took every ounce of restraint not to dive and hide from the pulses of powerful magic racing towards him with only brief respites between each casting. The
Slytherin heir was no longer casting the same type of spell, forcing Harry to switch between different types of shields in a desperate bid to defend against the torrent of offensive magic. The attacks shifted seamlessly from a blazing barrage of fire to a biting blade of ice and then to a hail of daggers raining down on the frantic teen.
A momentary lapse in concentration as Harry struggled to identify the curse racing towards him proved costly as Harry failed to block a brown wisp of light that shot through a shield meant to block elemental casting. He gasped as a powerful punching charm breached his defenses, sending him sprawling to the ground.
Voldemort's warning was clear. "Get up," he commanded, wand poised for another onslaught. Harry, gasping for breath and nursing what felt like bruised ribs, hauled himself upright. The following spell, unfamiliar to him, streaked through the air with a dense, blue tail, appearing almost physical. It wasn't an illusion, it seemed solid, so he cast a shield meant to catch objects. He was again mistaken. A sharp cry tore from Harry's lips as the spell sliced into his left arm, cutting deeply, as if cleaving through bone. Agonizing pain seared through him, blood gushing from the gash.
In desperation, Harry attempted to heal the savage wound inflicted by the mysterious slicing hex. The healing charm wavered against the pressure of blood loss; he had to attempt it four times before finally managing to staunch it, leaving behind a thick scar indicative of a dark curse. Throughout, Voldemort watched with a chilling, sadistic delight.
As soon as Harry stabilized the wound enough to avoid fainting from blood loss, Voldemort granted no reprieve. He launched the same severing charm, its blue arc narrowly blocked by Harry, whose shield disintegrated upon impact. The close call elicited a shiver of horror, as it had been aimed directly at his vulnerable stomach. He struggled through blocking a few more aggressive and powerfully cast attacks, many of which breached his defenses, leaving him either sprawling on the ground, wracked with pain, or bloodied and battered
Acutely aware that the Dark Lord's mastery of magic far exceeded his own, Harry wasn't surprised to find himself in a wretched state at the end of the lesson, covered in much more sweat, burns, and blood than when he had entered. At least the Dark Lord had healed the more painful curses, such as one that made his nerves feel like they were on fire after the teen had admitted through painful pants that he had no clue how to counter it.
Voldemort, in his own Dark Lord manner, had graciously provided Harry with a list of additional shields to study and practice later. The thorough list encompassed a variety of shields Harry would never have thought to research on his own. He even suggested that Harry explore full-body shields, akin to bubbles, which could protect against poisonous gases—a threat Voldemort ominously promised to use in future training sessions. Moreover, he pointed out that Harry didn't need a magical shield for every defense.
He lectured that Harry should consider summoning objects or using conjuration to block some of the more perilous curses that Harry was not yet adept at recognizing. If unsure about an attack and unable to dodge, Voldemort warned to use a physical object as a barrier instead of a potentially unsuitable magical shield. Upon hearing this, it immediately made sense to Harry, leaving him feeling somewhat embarrassed that it had never even occurred to him to block some of the more painful curses he had ended up being struck with multiple times throughout the lessons because he could not find a shield that worked against them.
Voldemort, predictably, seized the training session as a chance to advocate for the inclusion of more dark spells in Harry's learning repertoire. He argued, rather convincingly the teen thought, that the only way Harry could truly recognize and counter dark magic was by engaging with it directly, beyond just theoretical study. Despite the pain and exhaustion overwhelming him, Harry couldn't entirely dismiss the logic in Voldemort's argument. He pondered how accomplished wizards like Dumbledore or Aurors approached their duels. Did they also delve into dark magic for a fuller understanding, or was academic knowledge deemed sufficient? He recalled how insufficient mere book learning had been during Umbridge's tenure.
The lesson left Harry grappling with uncertainty about the right approach and the extent to which he should explore the Dark Arts, not just to be more powerful, but to be able to defend against them. Drained, he was finally dismissed to prepare for dinner, but not without a stern warning from Voldemort cautioning that should Harry fail to incorporate shields or other defensive strategies in their future practices, he would make an unforgettable example out of Harry to ensure the lesson's importance was fully grasped.
Freshly washed and seated at dinner, Harry found himself famished. The day's rigorous training had effectively diverted his mind from his recent betrayal, allowing both his mental and physical state to start reverting to the routine he had established before the entire ordeal unfolded.
That brief respite didn't last, as Harry felt Voldemort's piercing crimson gaze settle on him as they finished eating. "Were you successful in retrieving the books I sent you to get from my vault?" Voldemort inquired casually, reminding the teen of the very texts that had triggered his recent harrowing experience.
"Yes, they're in the leather pouch you gave me, in my room," Harry replied. He had stopped carrying it with him upon his return to the Manor and was somewhat surprised it hadn't been confiscated during his time at the Order, a thought he shared aloud.
Voldemort appeared unfazed by this, revealing that he had applied the same anti-detection spells to the pouch as those on Harry's necklace-turned-emergency Portkey. Internally, Harry marveled at the power of the Dark Lord's magic, which had managed to elude detection by both Dumbledore and Mad-Eye's magical eye. However, he kept his grudging respect private, not wanting to inflate Voldemort's already excessive ego further.
"Bring it to my private study this evening," Voldemort directed.
Harry frowned, caught off guard and unfamiliar with the room. It made sense that such a space existed in a manor of this size, but he was unaware of the whereabouts of the Slytherin heir's study.
His ignorance must have been obvious. "Nagini will guide you; it's located in the wing where I reside," Voldemort explained, nodding towards his familiar, coiled near his chair. "Access is exclusive to Parseltongues." He paused, giving Harry a meaningful look. "Now that you've decided to make this place your home, it's only fitting that you become acquainted with the deeper secrets of the manor."
Unable to resist his curiosity, Harry found himself strangely excited at the idea of exploring. He was still a sixteen-year-old boy at the end of the day. He'd loved exploring Hogwarts and suspected the Slytherin Manor was equally interesting, as long as he didn't stumble across a dungeon or a torture room or something equally awful. "Are there any areas that are off- limits?"
The mischievous gleam in Voldemort's crimson eyes sent a shiver down Harry's spine as he replied cryptically, "Oh, I'm certain you will know if you stumble upon somewhere you shouldn't be."
After dinner, Nagini accompanied Harry back to his room to retrieve the leather pouch.
"Hatchling, you were gone for quite a while," she observed, her serpentine presence silently gliding beside him.
"Yeah," Harry responded awkwardly, unsure what to think about this rare moment of solitude with the massive snake. "I mean, I didn't plan on it. It just happened."
"Clearly," she agreed. "Master was not pleased."
"Did the master say anything about my absence?" Harry asked, his curiosity piqued. He was shocked by how eloquent she was, that she seemed to grasp the nuances of her master in a way that seemed very different from what he would expect of a pet or wild animal.
Nagini's silence stretched, making Harry wonder if she would answer at all. Finally, she hissed, "He did not appreciate having his hatchling away. You should avoid that in the future."
Harry glanced at her bemused. "I didn't mean for it to happen at all. I doubt it will happen again."
"Good," Nagini replied curtly.
As they reached his door, Harry retrieved the leather satchel. Nagini followed him, flicking her tongue out to taste the air in his room.
"You are similar yet different from the master," she observed. Harry found the observation intriguing yet terrifying. "How so?" "I'm not entirely sure," she hissed, leading him out of the room.
Harry trailed behind Nagini, slowly navigating the complex, labyrinthine corridors of the Manor. In the dimming light of evening, the mansion felt like a maze, its passageways lined with shadow-draped alcoves and sealed doors. As they wound through the convoluted turns, Harry's mind was awash with curiosity as they entered areas he'd never known existed.
"You're not sure?" Harry pressed, curious about her perception and relationship with Voldemort. She was the only living being that the teen thought the Dark Lord genuinely cared about.
Nagini, with her coal-like eyes reflecting the torchlight, paused, raising herself to eye-level with Harry. Her flickering tongue came dangerously close to his face.
"It is odd," she murmured, seemingly perplexed. "You are not his blood, not his actual hatchling. But, yet… you are. It is just… It is."She struggled to find the words, leaving Harry with a sense of wonder and unease. Could she sense the mark on his arm or the soul magic entwined within him? Could familiars sense their master's magic in such a way?
Eventually, she dropped herself back to the floor and resumed leading Harry through a part of the Manor distinctly different from the rest. The air was laden with a tangible aura of power, and Harry felt the presence of ancient magic infused in the very stones of the building. He wondered if the Dark Lord had performed rituals or other formidable magic here, leaving such a profound imprint, or if this was inherited from previous generations. They stopped before an impressive door intricately adorned with serpentine designs.
"This is the entrance to the Dark Lord's nest," Nagini declared. "His study is on the right. Avoid venturing into the other areas, especially where he rests. He would be displeased. Command the door to open in the true tongue."
Feeling a wave of apprehension, Harry hesitated. He had faced the Dark Lord numerous times, but entering his personal dominion was completely different. Sensing his reluctance, Nagini nudged him forward gently with her head.
"Open," Harry hissed. He could hear the door unlatch.
Summoning his courage, Harry pushed the door open and stepped into the wing. The interior hallway, adorned with a rich burgundy carpet, showcased an eclectic array of artifacts, paintings, and magical instruments. Three doors lined each side of the hallway. He approached the first door on the right, as Nagini had indicated, knocking once and was told to enter.
Voldemort was seated at a grand, obsidian desk, deeply engrossed as he scratched out a letter on a piece of parchment. He looked up as Harry entered, his piercing red eyes locking onto him. Without a word, Harry approached, pulling the contents from the pouch, and presented the texts he had gathered from the Slytherin Vault to the reigning, if unclaimed, Slytherin Lord.
Reaching out his hand, Voldemort took the contents, placing the ancient tome and scrolls on his desk. "Would you like to see the instructions for the ritual I plan to perform?" he asked, his tone noticeably neutral.
Harry, immediately uneasy, asked, "Is it dark magic?"
"Of course," Voldemort answered as if that were the only answer that made sense. "It involves blood magic."
Despite his reservations, Harry's curiosity was piqued. He'd never seen such a ritual before and had no clue how something like that could even exist. How could someone change their bloodline? He had thought it impossible; otherwise, anyone might attempt it in pursuit of blood purity or some other equally distasteful and archaic societal goal. He tried to compose his expression, aiming to conceal his apparent repulsion and intrigue, all the while disliking Voldemort's knowing gaze as he watched the teen intently.
"Come here," the Dark Lord beckoned, motioning for Harry to join him at the desk. As Harry peered over his shoulder, he noticed the text was in Parseltongue. Squiggles and lines seem to blur into words before his eyes. Voldemort found the page he sought and angled it towards Harry.
The tome, presumedly penned by Salazar Slytherin himself, laid out the dark and intricate ritual for altering one's bloodline. Its pages, handwritten, were intended for those who sought to renounce their current lineage in favor of a lineage they deemed more 'noble'.
Set to begin at midnight during a new moon, the ritual symbolized the termination of an old bloodline and the emergence of a new one. The instructions were meticulous, detailing the need for intricate and numerous rune markings around the caster on a bare-earth floor, and painted on the one whom the ritual would be performed. These runes, representing a sacrificial commitment, had to be inscribed in blood.
At the ritual's height, the caster would kneel within the drawn circle. As the moon reached its zenith, the caster would then consume the prescribed potion, an elixir steeped in magic and sacrifice, followed by the utterance of the spell. This combination of the sacrifice, the potion, and the incantation at the moon's peak seemingly had the transformative power of forging a new destiny from the remnants of the old. The language was odd, seemed of an older tongue and Harry found it hard to perfectly translate some of the instruction to modern day.
The potion's recipe was just as complex as the ritual's diagram. Harry cringed, reading the ingredients, which included Basilisk venom, a bone or blood offering from the lineage to be forsaken — the Riddles, in Voldemort's case — and offerings from the bloodlines one wished to preserve. This was followed by an elaborate sequence of Latin to be cast at the precise moment the moon died and became a new cycle. Each step was said to be carefully crafted to persuade Magic herself to realign the caster's bloodline, shedding the undesired and enhancing the preferred ancestry.
As Harry continued to read, both fascinated and utterly disturbed, Slytherin's account underscored the peril and finality of the ritual. It warned that the ritual could be performed only once; any further attempts would result in the caster's death.
As Harry finished, a deep unease settled over him. The extent of Voldemort's willingness to endure such a torturous and complex ritual just to sever his ties with his Muggle heritage was unnerving.
"What do you think?" Voldemort's voice pierced through Harry's deep contemplation.
Jolted from his thoughts, Harry raised his eyes, realizing he had been intensely focused on the ritual. He took a moment to consider the text once more, weighing what he'd read.
"It seems really dangerous… and painful," Harry responded honestly. He knew dark rituals such as this existed but had never seen one firsthand. Nothing he read made him want to conduct one of his own.
"Indeed, the pursuit of power often is," Voldemort replied, his voice laced with an undertone of harsh truth.
"Do you have the ingredients?" Harry assumed the Gaunt and Slytherin line both ended with Voldemort, he wasn't certain what had happened to the Riddles. He suspected nothing good if Voldemort had a hand in it. He fervently hoped he wouldn't be involved as part of any of the ingredients. He had accepted that he was the magical heir of Slytherin and Gaunt, but fortunately, the text seemed to call for blood relatives for the sacrificial ingredients.
Voldemort, his attention back on the book, traced his finger along the list of ingredients. "Providentially, Slytherin, with his penchant for blood magic, left a reserve of his own blood, accessible only to his descendants. And as you're aware from your fourth year, I have the remains of my father," that was said with such loathing and disgust that Harry found himself taking a subconscious step back. The Dark Lord, immersed in the text, did not seem to notice.
"And the Gaunts?" Harry asked, almost hesitantly.
A dark intensity flickered in Voldemort's eyes. "I dealt with the Gaunts upon leaving Hogwarts. They neglected their heritage, so I saw fit to continue that disregard in my dealings with them. While you and I are the last of their line, I have already secured the necessary components of those three bloodlines to meet the intent of the ritual. I will shed my Riddle lineage while amplifying the Slytherin and Gaunt bloodline within my own."
"Why maintain your connection to the Gaunts? It seems you despise them," Harry inquired, noticing the simmering anger in Voldemort as the Dark Lord revisited his past.
"The Gaunt lineage, despite being driven to ruin, remains an ancient and noble house," Voldemort explained, his voice betraying a hint of grudging respect. "They held a title, even if the last of their descendants failed to uphold its legacy. I would not squander that potential, despite the last bearers of that noble title having reduced it to a mere source of embarrassment before meeting their deserved demise." His words were heavy with disdain.
As he absorbed everything, there was something unsettling that struck the raven-haired teen, something that didn't quite add up. "But why go through with this ritual at all? I understand your disdain for your Muggle heritage, but isn't that part of your past now? You've already proven yourself far more powerful than anyone who might have doubted or rejected you.
And the past can't be changed; those who know your true background are also aware of your Slytherin bloodline, they would never stand against you. And the rest will never find out."
Voldemort's gaze met Harry's, the teen did not like what he saw in the depths of those intelligent yet calculating eyes. "My dear apprentice, you, of all people, should grasp the significance of legacy. Yours was forged when you were just an infant. Consider the opportunities that have opened for you and the power you hold, all stemming from events you do not even recall. It's not just about the past. It's about defining my future," his voice was resonant, impassioned. It reminded Harry of the night he spoke to his followers when they had all shifted and cried with zeal, wanting the Dark Lord's future to be their own. It was persuasive, and it was dangerous.
Voldemort continued, his eyes aglow with desire. It was apparent he wasn't trying to convince or manipulate Harry, that he truly believed what he was saying. "The ritual isn't merely a rejection of my sullied lineage. It's a declaration of my wizarding identity, not just as any wizard but as a descendant of one of the most influential bloodlines to walk among wizardkind. This is about solidifying my status in the wizarding world, not as Tom Riddle, but as Lord Voldemort, heir to Slytherin and the Gaunt legacy." He paused, shifting in his seat so the full weight of his attention was now on his apprentice, his heir.
"I've revealed to you my plans to claim my titles, to walk among the Wizarding World openly. If you were raised in our society, you'd know that claiming Wizengamot seats from a dormant house and renewing Lordship require a heritage test before the entire magical assembly in order to be accepted. I won't allow my legacy to be tainted by the stain of my inept father or my mother's folly. Few know the connection between Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort, and revealing it now doesn't serve my purposes. This ritual allows me to reclaim my heritage without the blemishes of my past."
Harry was taken aback by the honesty of the revelation. It made a twisted kind of sense, considering the ambitions and disposition of the formidable wizard before him. Especially when he thought of all the purebloods who had decided to follow him. Did they know he was a half-blood? That his line was not pure? Beyond that, the teen was surprised that the Dark Lord intended to follow the formal process to reclaim his titles, rather than seizing them by force, which seemed more characteristic of him. The last thought he voiced, truly curious.
Voldemort gave Harry a knowing look, a sinister smirk playing on his lips in response to the astute question. "I remain the Dark Lord you know me to be, yet I also possess a certain respect for magical traditions, much like my followers. This approach secures more legitimate power. My followers yearn for the restoration of ancient traditions. For me to lead them back to the old ways where magic was practiced freely, and the ministry wasn't led like sheep." He paused, his expression twisting into a sneer. "And haven't you expressed your own desire for me to reduce the torture and killings? By officially reclaiming my titles and maneuvering within the Ministry as a recognized and powerful Lord, I gain the liberty to act without relying on sheer force. You could say that my success in regaining my Lordship aligns with your own naïve hopes that I can achieve my ends while avoiding murder and torture. I seek power, I don't particularly care how I get it."
Harry absorbed each word, struggling to make sense of what he was ritual was more than a quest to shed his Muggle past; it was an aspiration to reinvent the Dark Lord's identity into something he could use to manipulate the ministry and the magical world. While he doubted it would erase the memories of the first war, he'd seen enough to know that the wizarding world was desperate not to recreate it. They might actually accept and embrace a new form of Lord Voldemort, one who was willing to work in the open in the hope that they could avoid the lawless blood-filled war that had ended fifteen years ago. It was ridiculous, and yet Harry could see the wizarding world succumbing, hoping beyond hope that the world would not become as bad if they accepted and thus appease a seemingly unstoppable Dark Lord who suddenly seemed willing to play by their ministry rules.
He looked at the Dark Lord as if truly seeing him for the first time. This was the Tom Riddle Dumbledore had told him about, the one who had everyone at Hogwarts, from purebloods to professors, eating out of his hand from the age of eleven. The worst part was Harry wasn't sure if Voldemort would actually continue a seemingly non-violent campaign to gain power or if he was just doing it to gain enough control so that no one could stop him once he decided to act out.
"Power isn't just about what you control, but also about how others perceive your control," Voldemort said softly, capturing Harry's full attention and interrupting his dark thoughts. "I must embody the powerful Dark Lord they fear, without any weaknesses, nothing that can be exploited. Only then can I ensure my rule remains unchallenged."
"Why are you revealing all this to me?" Harry asked, wary, confused… suspicious. He had always wanted to know Voldemort's plans and had asked him to reveal them multiple times. Now that he was hearing them, he wished he didn't know. Worse, it was clear the Dark Lord was not concerned with the teen knowing; he clearly did not fear Harry trying to circumvent or ruin them in some way.
Voldemort responded with a faint smile, his hand reaching out to rest on Harry's arm in a gesture that exuded possessiveness. "I need you to recognize the necessity of reclaiming my heritage and securing the wizarding world's acceptance of my return. I want you to desire the same thing, for them to accept me among them as a leader and lord in their wizarding body. It's their only alternative if they want to avoid a full-scale war imbued in unbridled violence and bloodshed—a war, to be clear, that I am more than capable of winning." His tone grew more forceful, his hand squeezing on the teen's arm. "There are two paths before us: one is laden with death, where everything you cherish is destroyed as I reshape the world to my liking. The other path is the one I propose, where the ministry comes to accept me, they submit, and we walk into this future together. All those you care for can live, can even thrive, if they choose wisely."
Scarlet met emerald eyes, unblinking. Suddenly, it dawned on the so-called Chosen One what was being demanded of him. "And you expect me to advocate for you in the Wizengamot?" Harry asked, his voice a blend of horror and realization. "You want me to persuade them to accept you, to give you the chance to seek power openly."
A hint of affirmation glinted in Voldemort's eyes, sending a chill down Harry's spine. It made Harry's heart sink "Precisely. It shouldn't be difficult for you; you've already aligned with my interests before them." He fixed his gaze intently on Harry. "You are my chosen apprentice, my heir. You've already openly allied yourself with my cause. And let's not forget that you hope to temper my ways, to reduce the violence I might otherwise unleash if you were not by my side. I am offering you a chance to do just that. Persuade them to accept my return.
Otherwise, I will have no choice but to ascend to power my own way."
As Voldemort's plan unraveled, Harry was struck with a deep sense of shock. The weight of Voldemort's demand felt overwhelming. The idea of openly supporting the very wizard responsible for his parents' deaths and advocating for his acceptance by a community still traumatized by the first war seemed ludicrous. This was a drastic shift from his initial, reluctant apprenticeship with Voldemort to protect his friends.
Harry wondered how he had become so entangled in such a web that this was his best chance of keeping a war from occurring. It was a slippery slope, an avalanche of choices; he felt utterly swept up within it and completely out of control. Was he even doing what was right anymore? He wasn't sure. He knew he wanted to avoid an all-out war and had unwillingly acknowledged Voldemort's highly probable victory. If this could prevent bloodshed, then perhaps it would be foolish not to seize the opportunity and support the Dark Lord's ambitious plan.
"And what about the ritual itself?" Harry asked cautiously. "When do you intend to perform it?"
Voldemort's gaze became reflective, his crimson eyes taking on a calculating look as he peered out the window at the moon, now past the third phase of its cycle. "Soon. The celestial alignment is nearing its peak. It will be completed at the beginning of the next moon cycle."
This was happening too quickly. In just a few days, the Dark Lord would be in a position to openly petition for power within the ministry. Soon, he would expect Harry to compromise everything, to actively fight for him to walk freely in the ministry.
Harry glanced back at the book, unwilling and unable to fully process this impending decision. He had some time. He needed to think about it. Seeking a diversion to steer the conversation away, he focused on the ritual. "The blood required for the rune markings, how do you plan to get it?" he asked, his voice tinged with discomfort. The underlying question hung in the air, unspoken yet palpable: Would this require the death of an innocent?
Voldemort turned back to Harry; frustration evident in his demeanor. "Your concern is a reflection of your biases and a lack of understanding, a common hypocrisy among those aligned with the light. It is this unfounded fear and misinterpretation of dark magic that blinds our world. Read the instructions carefully before jumping to conclusions," he scolded. "Death is not a required element for this ritual. The blood for the runes could just as easily be mine as it could be yours or an animal found in the woods. Nor do the ritual components related to my heritage necessitate killing. Wasn't your blood used for heritage confirmation at Gringotts?" Harry nodded, feeling uncomfortable and ignorant. "The requirements here are similar.
"Any reluctance to engage in such a ritual should stem not from the required ingredients but from the dark magic required to execute it. Like the Unforgivable Curses, this ritual is driven by intent and necessitates a mastery of dark arts for its success, for the caster to survive. If you want to be afraid of anything, it should be starting this ritual and not having the dark mastery required; in rituals such as this, there is either success or death. In truth, it is only banned to dissuade magicals from even trying to dabble that far into dark magic. Not because of any alleged violence or assault on another."
Harry nodded silently, at a loss for words. His knowledge of dark rituals was too limited to either contest or accept what he had been told. He was aware that Voldemort rarely lied outright, yet he was also adept at manipulating the truth to suit his purposes. Harry found himself in a muddle of thoughts, uncertain about what to think or believe. The sheer magnitude of the conversation, of the revelations revealed in such a short time, was overwhelming.
Voldemort, sensing that the conversation had reached its natural endpoint, fixed Harry with a final, penetrating look. "We have discussed enough for tonight," he stated, clearly the beginning of a dismissal. "We will continue your training tomorrow, you may return to picking spells that interest you. I will also require that you join me in the ritual. You will see firsthand that not all dark rituals are as terrifying as you've created in your mind. Until tomorrow, my apprentice."
Grateful for the dismissal, Harry nodded as expected of an apprentice to his master, quickly making his way out of the study, the door closing silently behind him.
As he walked back to his room, the corridors seemed eerily quiet, echoing his tumultuous thoughts. The reality of what was asked of him, the gravity of the situation, weighed heavily on his mind. Once inside his room, Harry closed the door behind him, the sound marking the end of a daunting and revealing encounter. In the solitude of his room, he finally had a moment to just breathe. His mind was scattered; it felt like it was everywhere all at once.
Falling into the pattern of clearing his mind to enter his mental landscape, Harry was slowly able to push his fears away long enough to fall into an uncomfortable sleep.
The following days were unremarkable. Voldemort made no further mention of the ritual, and Harry continued with his usual routine of study and practice. They engaged in only one practical training session in the afternoon, as Voldemort claimed other commitments prevented more. The session proceeded without incident; Harry neither suffered poisonous gas nor undue vicious beatings. It seemed Voldemort's anger over Harry's duel at the Order had dissipated.
On the evening of the new moon, Harry received instructions to meet Voldemort at the entrance of the manor at sunset. Seeing no feasible way to avoid this encounter, Harry, dressed in a thick outdoor cloak, arrived at the designated spot at the agreed time. Voldemort arrived shortly after, carrying a wooden box that likely contained the ritual's required supplies.
As they stepped outside, Harry followed Voldemort across the expansive grounds of the manor, which were unusually dark in the absence of moonlight. The air was crisp and cold, adding an eerie chill to the already tense atmosphere. They walked in silence, their footsteps muffled by the soft earth beneath them.
They approached a clearing near the edge of the nearby forest, a secluded spot that seemed deliberately chosen for its privacy. The area had been prepared for the ritual. In the center of the clearing, a circle of blood-red runes had been etched into the ground, their intricate patterns barely visible in the dim light. The symbols seemed to pulse with an ancient power, their significance palpable in the air. Here, Voldemort stopped and turned to Harry, his expression inscrutable in the darkness.
Voldemort began to instruct Harry on what the ritual would entail and what to expect. The process was complex, requiring precise movements and incantations that were perfectly aligned with the moon's transitions in phases. Harry listened intently, partly curious, partly anxious, more than a little scared if he were honest with himself.
Finishing his explanation, Voldemort glanced up into the clear night sky. "It is time," he said, shedding his cloak. To Harry's shock, he was wearing only beige shorts and no top. His toned body was etched in blood-red markings covering every part of him. Harry wondered where the blood came from but found himself unwilling to ask. It seemed forbidden to break the silence; the air felt heavy with magic near the ritual. The Dark Lord walked into the center of the circle and sank to his knees, glancing up at the sky. Harry could feel the magic in the air thicken.
As Voldemort began chanting complicated Latin, waving his wand in rhythm with the words, the forest around them seemed to grow still, as if nature itself was holding its breath. The runes glowed faintly as Voldemort chanted words that Harry did not understand, his voice steady and commanding. The ambient magic in the air intensified, beating in time with the Dark Lord's wand movements. The ritual reached its climax, and a surge of magical energy rippled through the air, the runes flashing brightly before fading away. Voldemort lifted a black cup to his lips and drank. The Dark Lord immediately began to glow, the runes on his body matching the luminescence of those that had just glowed on the ground, then everything went dark. The forest seemed to exhale, the tension dissipating into the night.
The Dark Lord released a shaky breath, dropping to his hands and knees, inhaling deeply. Harry had never seen him look so vulnerable, so human. Unsure what to do, the teen stood there silently, waiting for the Dark Lord to regain his composure, which happened more quickly than Harry would have anticipated. In what seemed like no time, he pushed himself up, leaving the circle to retrieve his cloak.
"Did it work?" Harry asked.
"Of course," was the confident reply. The Dark Lord didn't look any different—how did he know? Harry had so many questions he wanted to ask but held his tongue after a quick look at Voldemort. While the wizard was putting on airs that he was fine, it was clear the ritual had taken its toll. He looked magically exhausted, pale, not as strong as he usually appeared.
"What will happen now?" Harry asked instead, his voice soft.
"Tomorrow, you will meet with Lord Ambrose and Malfoy and begin planning my return to the Wizarding World in full."
Harry met Voldemort's calculating scarlet eyes. It was clear that Voldemort was expecting a response, either his acceptance or resistance. Having thought about little else over the last two days, Harry had made his decision. He'd committed to this path. This is why he returned, to try and stop this war, to protect others. This was the only path he knew of that seemed to avoid bloodshed. Perhaps Voldemort would even keep his word.
"Alright," he agreed quietly, but with resolve.
Voldemort continued to stare at him, as if checking his resolution. Finally, he seemed to accept what Harry said. "Good, my apprentice," he said, a touch of fondness seeping into his voice. "You have pleased me tonight." He turned and began walking back towards the manor. Harry followed quietly at his side.
As they walked, Harry was left to ponder the significance of what they had just done, what he had agreed to. The ritual was complete, but its effects were yet to be fully understood or felt. But one thing was clear: the events of this night would have far-reaching consequences, both for Harry and the wider wizarding world. With every step that brought him closer to Slytherin Manor, his new home, the young wizard wrestled with his decision, each stride a mix of determination and hope, a silent prayer that he had made the right choice.
AN: Thank for reading, please drop a review if you're enjoying the fic!