Embracing duty and destiny
The sky was a tumultuous canvas of dark, swirling clouds as Harry walked alongside Nagini through the expansive grounds of the Slytherin estate. The air was heavy, charged with the electric anticipation of a brewing storm. Despite the foreboding weather, Harry felt a compelling need to be outside, to clear his head after his tense discussion with Voldemort about Hermione's position.
He frowned deeply, his brows knitting together as he replayed the conversation in his mind. The grass beneath his feet was damp, giving slightly with each step. Every so often, a gust of wind would rustle through the trees, sending leaves swirling around him that felt like their own whispers of opposition.
"You know the implementation of this change is a priority for me. Do you honestly think I would trust your friend to carry out my intent without guarantees?" Voldemort's voice had been cold, devoid of compromise.
"What guarantees?" Harry had pressed, already dreading the answer.
"If she wants to be a part of my trusted inner circle, then she must take my mark."
At that moment, a distant rumble of thunder echoed, mirroring the turmoil inside Harry. His hand involuntarily clenched into a fist. Hermione would never agree to that. Or worse, what if she did? While he found himself trusting that Voldemort's control over himself would not end in ruin, he didn't have that same faith about what might happen to his friend if he marked her, and then she did something rebellious when the Dark Lord inevitably demanded something that went too far for logic imbued moral compass.
He could clearly see that it was a replay of his own entanglement—how Voldemort had cornered him into taking a mark, stripping away choice and binding him tightly to a destiny he hadn't fully understood. Though the rewards had been significant—the knowledge and power he had gained were unparalleled—he doubted Hermione would view the imposition the same way, that she would gain as much from selling her own soul to the devil that was the Dark Lord.
Harry had been beyond frustrated. Why was Voldemort so unyielding? Couldn't he, for once, let things go Harry's way without these traumatic conditions? Was he incapable of trust with out the backing of his own form of control?
The wind tugged at Harry's cloak, but he didn't notice, too absorbed in recalling what had occurred. "Will you require everyone to eventually get your mark? You would mark the entire world, wouldn't you?"
"Preferably, yes," Voldemort's eyes had gleaming with what could only be called ruthless ambition. " If she just wants to live her life, as long as she does not fight, then I would consider that adequate for now if she's unwilling to submit to her reigning Lord. But to achieve more, she must give more. That is the way of the world, surely you understand this by now, my heir?"
Harry really should have expected it. The Dark Lord truly was a controlling bastard when it came down to it. Harry had then questioned if that was always Voldemort's plan, to mark her when he asked her to help Harry with the laws and policies he was introducing.
He recalled the Dark Lord's considering look, how he'd paused, scrutinizing his heir. It had felt as cold and penetrating as the storm's windy caresse currently pressing against Harry. "You should be pleased I'm allowing her blood into my ranks," he had finally said, his voice smooth but carrying an undercurrent of severity. "Her taking my mark will do more for her kind than this 'Muggle relations' or whatever you're calling it, ever could." At least she had some time. Nothing needed to be decided until she graduated. That left them half a year to figure things out.
Harry stopped walking. The first drops of rain began to fall, each a cold sting against his face, a sharp reminder of what it meant to be alive. Harry shivered, the chill having little to do with the weather. This was the reality of his life—fraught, complex, and as unpredictable as the tempest that now broke over him.
As Harry glanced to the side, his eyes caught a swift, black blur of motion slicing through the stormy air. He narrowed his eyes, concentrating hard to see what it could be against the backdrop of the dark, swirling clouds. As it approached, he could see that it was a raven, its wings beating powerfully against the increasing gusts of wind.
"Dinner?" Nagini hissed, her tongue flickering in mild interest. He'd almost forgotten she was beside him.
"I think it's carrying a letter," Harry observed as the bird drew closer. True enough, the raven, its eyes seemingly unnaturally intelligent, landed on a branch at head level.
It ducked its head, feathers ruffling against the relentless weather as Harry approached, his own cloak flapping wildly behind him. "Bad time to make a delivery," Harry muttered, reaching out to grab the dispatch. The raven looked fierce, its feathers glossy and robust, unlike any typical bird. Its presence seemed almost supernatural, an anomaly in the natural world. Harry could almost sense an innate magic within it.
As soon as Harry secured the letter, the raven took flight, disappearing into the storm with a few powerful wingbeats. Harry cast a waterproof spell on the envelope, then ducked under the shelter of the dense trees nearby. Here, he conjured a protective dome that shielded him and Nagini from the now pelting rain and howling wind. Nagini, looking miserable in the dropping cold, curled at his feet.
"Why are we still out here?" She complained, her voice a low, grumbling hiss. Glancing down at her with a raised eyebrow, Harry cast another spell, this one to heat the ground beneath them, providing some comfort against the cold dampness.
With the immediate distractions of her discomfort handled, Harry opened the letter. He had already suspected who it would be from.
'Heir Slytherin,
I trust this letter finds you well. Since our last meeting, you have given me much to consider. I wish to speak with you again, this time in private, with no additional eyes and ears. I assure you of your safety should you accept. You may choose the time and place. I only ask for the same courtesy I am extending to you, that we both attend without any ulterior motives other than to speak candidly. I anticipate that we can depart this meeting with clarity and open minds about the future. You mentioned hope. I am curious how you envision that for my kind and what changes you could bring that were previously unattainable. I await your response,
Tullos.'
Harry tucked the letter into the folds of his cloak, a sigh escaping him as he looked up through the swaying branches. He knew he had to meet with the Dark Lord, to figure out what he could offer and negotiate to sway the Vampires to their side. However, this time, he was resolute—there would be no sacrifices, no offerings of magical or Muggles alike. He only hoped he could persuade both sides to agree.
S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S
The grand drawing room of Malfoy Manor was adorned with lavish decorations befitting the Christmas season. Glistening icicles hung from the silvery chandelier, and a large fireplace crackled warmly, casting flickering shadows across the ornate carpets and rich, dark wood paneling. Harry found Draco nestled in a deep, plush chair near the fire; his gaze lost in the dance of the flames that reflected off his thoughtful silver eyes.
Harry had just finished a meeting with Lord Ambrose, Lord Malfoy, and Barty. Shockingly, Draco had attended. Despite it being Christmas break, when Harry had arrived at Malfoy Manor expecting to see only one Malfoy in the actual meeting, he was shocked to see two pairs of steely silver eyes staring back at him. Both had stood in anticipation of arrival and deferred to him as Harry walked steadily to the head of the table to take his place.
He gave Draco a curious look as Lucius smoothly stated that it was time for Draco to start preparing for the future, implying that attending a meeting like this would be beneficial.
Although Lucius presented it as a statement, Harry sensed the unspoken question lingering in the words. It made him uneasy to think that Draco would witness him in a leadership role, directing a meeting involving wizards much older than him. However, Harry nodded nonetheless. He wanted Draco to feel included and valued within the Dark community. If Lucius aimed to reintegrate Draco into a better standing by using Harry as an entry point, Harry was willing to be used in such a way if it meant helping a friend.
The meeting proceeded smoothly. Draco remained silent, a fact that Harry chose not to press upon. They delved into policies aimed at relaxing restrictions on the import and export of materials typically associated with dark magic and often used as key ingredients in dark rituals. Harry found himself conflicted about these changes. On one hand, he had experienced a ritual that had significantly improved his life, enhancing his magical abilities. On the other hand, his first encounter with Voldemort's dark rituals, where his blood had been forcefully taken to fuel the Dark Lord's resurrection, had involved many of these banned ingredients. He was wary of these materials becoming commonplace, wanting to ensure that legalizing their transportation didn't automatically imply he was endorsing harmful rituals.
About halfway through the meeting, Harry realized he would also need a strategy to regulate the more malevolent dark rituals. He would need to prevent the worse rituals from proliferating among Voldemort's more sadistic followers once the restrictions on dark magic were inevitably eased or eliminated altogether.
The meeting had ended, and Harry had followed Draco to a less formal and more cozy receiving room. The silence wasn't necessarily uncomfortable, but it was clear there was tension. Harry couldn't help but feel acutely aware that for the last few hours it was clear Harry had been acting in a position of authority over the four dark wizards. While it had been a discussion, it had also been very one-sided at times, Harry almost dictating exactly what needed to be done.
Harry broke the quiet that had settled, asking, "Do you want to go out and get dinner?" "Definitely not," Draco responded without a moment's hesitation.
Harry leaned back, surprised by the response. "Oh, are you busy?" he asked sarcastically, observing Draco's lounging posture in the chair.
Draco snoted softly. "Harry, you are cursed. Not spell-cursed, but fate-cursed," Draco declared, turning to face him. His expression was solemn. "We have not had one outing where something awful did not happen. I'm never leaving the manor with you again!"
Harry shot a glare back at the blonde, who seemed dead serious. "Draco, nothing will happen," he reassured. "No one from the light would dare attack me, and I've already met with the vampires to sort it all out."
This was a slight exaggeration, but he had at least given them something to think about that didn't involve them killing the Slytherin heir over a grudge match. His meeting with Tullos was set for next week, shortly after the new year. Voldemort had said that agreeing to anything too quickly would seem eager and desperate on their end. He determined that they, too, should play the waiting game the vampires had employed by waiting months to give their initial response.
Draco's look of utter disbelief would have been comical if Harry hadn't perceived he was serious. "Harry, I like you, I really do. But you have the worst luck of anyone I have ever met. Just look at the past year and a half. You left your aunt and uncle's house and were captured and tortured by the Dark Lord. You finally leave the Dark Lord's manor only to be captured by the Light. You go out with your friends, and you get attacked by vampires. You go out with me, and again, you get attacked by vampires! I'm not even the common denominator here; it's you. You're the problem!"
"Stop being melodramatic," Harry huffed, striding over to one of the fancy tables adorned with figurines of magical dragons. They were exquisite, likely costing more than the Weasleys' home. He picked one up and cast "Portus," a skill he had recently learned from
Voldemort. Draco frowned at the probably priceless dragon being held so carelessly in Harry's hand but remained silent,
"Here, this will take us somewhere outside of where anyone will expect us. Trust me, we'll be safe." He then flicked his wand at Draco, casting a disguise charm he'd found in one of the books in the Slytherin Manor library.
Frowning, Draco conjured a mirror, his face falling as he examined his new appearance. Draco literally moaned. "Change me back!" he cried. Harry stifled a laugh; he'd given him Weasley red hair, light brown eyes, and so many freckles it almost looked like a tan.
"No one will recognize you," Harry argued, still smiling.
"It's not me I'm worried about, it's you!" Draco reiterated, clearly exasperated yet somewhat distracted by his new look. "I'm not the Dark Lord's heir and apprentice. I'm not the fated hope of the Light and the wizarding world at large. No one cares if they see me. No one is out to get me." He looked at Harry pointedly.
Harry couldn't mask his chuckle this time. He flicked his wand against himself, changing his hair to a shade almost Malfoy blonde and giving himself striking blue eyes. "There, we're disguised. Please? It's the holiday. Do you really want to stay cooped up here the whole time? Your ball isn't for a few days and I know attending meetings like the one we just left isn't either of our ideas of a good time."
Moreover, Harry felt a genuine desire to alleviate any potential complex Draco might develop from the meeting. Witnessing his father and Lord Ambrose cater to Harry, the Potter Lord noticed the subtle shifts in his friend's demeanor—the jaw clenching, the silver eyes darting between Harry and the others, calculating the extent of Harry's ascendance over the Malfoys. While Harry suspected Draco would remain his friend, he knew Draco was a proud and prissy thing. Going out together would be good for both of them both, reaffirming Harry's regard for Draco as a friend rather than a follower, someone to be valued and respected, not manipulated as the Dark Lord did.
Draco sighed, his resistance finally crumbling under the weight of Harry's persistent charm and the promise of an escape from the manor's oppressive elegance. "Fine," he grumbled, "but if anything happens, I'm blaming you and using you as a shield."
Harry's grin widened. "Deal," he agreed, a mischievous sparkle lighting up his now blue eyes.
"And can we please change how I look? I look like a Weasel, though one that finally has good fashion sense."
Harry snickered and shook his head, "No one would ever suspect a descendent from Weasley and Malfoy out together, it makes our disguisers all the cleverer! Plus, once cast, it takes some time to wear off, I'm not great at the cancelling effect yet," that was a lie, but Malfoy didn't need to know that.
Sighing with a hint of longsuffering, Harry nearly snorted as Draco stood and walked over. Together, they activated the Portkey, and with the familiar sensation of a hook behind their navels, they were whisked away. Moments later, they landed gracefully in a narrow, cobblestone alley illuminated by flickering lanterns that cast playful shadows on the walls. They adjusted their cloaks against the cold and snow before heading towards the sounds of laughter and music.
The bar they entered was tucked away in a less frequented part of magical London, known only to those who sought the peculiar charm of underground magical music scenes. Barty Crouch had taken Harry here once after they'd gone out to buy some magical ingredients for a potion Harry wanted to make. He was less familiar with the darker shops, where many of the ingredients he needed could be found. Harry didn't want to rely on the Dark Lord each time he needed something; Voldemort was busy, and Harry yearned for more independence. So, he had asked Barty for recommendations, which the dark wizard had happily obliged and even offered to show him around. It had been an enjoyable evening spent with Barty, whom Harry found himself liking more and more. It was also Barty who had suggested Harry start learning disguise spells so he could go out without risking being seen or and constantly accosted.
Harry led Draco over to a tavern called "The Wandering Wyvern," it was renowned for its live performances and an eclectic mix of clienteles from all corners of the wizarding world. Harry had loved it the first time he went with Barty.
Inside, the bar buzzed with energy. Multi-colored lights enchanted to mimic the aurora borealis danced across the ceiling, casting a mesmerizing glow over the patrons. The decor blended the antique with the mystical, featuring old potion bottles converted into light fixtures and paintings that moved and interacted with the viewers. The furniture, an assortment of mismatched tables and chairs, added to the charm rather than detracting from it.
A band was playing at the far end of the room, their music a lively blend of jazz and magical folk tunes that made it impossible not to tap one's foot along with the beat. The lead singer, a witch with shockingly bright purple hair, wielded her wand as a microphone, enchanting her voice to fill the space with a sonorous depth that was exhilarating. Draco looked around wide-eyed, it was clearly not the type of place someone such as he frequented making Harry all the more smug that he'd picked it as their night out spot.
Harry and Draco found a secluded booth in the corner of the bar, their disguises holding up under the scrutiny of the other patrons, who paid them no mind. They ordered a couple of magically inspired cocktails and a plate of spicy dragon wings, a house specialty.
"What did you think of the meeting?" Harry asked, smoke escaping his lips from the after- effects of the hot sauce.
Draco looked thoughtfully at his drink, a blend of electric blue and neon yellow swirling together in a mesmerizing display. "It was interesting to be a part of. I've always heard my father discuss his role in political maneuvering, but rarely get to witness it." He glanced up, meeting Harry's eyes. "I hadn't realized how much you've changed," he admitted after a pause. "You were right there with them, discussing the laws and the members who would be voting, like it was second nature."
Harry shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. "I've been working with both of them on this one for a long time," he said almost sheepishly. And it was true. That particular law had been schemed over for months, he was more than familiar with the background and the players. It wasn't that he'd suddenly become a political savant, but he had picked up a thing or two from being absolutely inundated in it. "We're almost ready to introduce it, you were just brought in. I think it makes sense you felt behind."
Draco eyed him pensively, appearing almost ready to argue before deciding against it. "Perhaps you're coming to our ball, right?" he asked instead.
Harry nodded. "Yes, I'm looking forward to it," and he genuinely meant it. While big social gatherings weren't his favorite, he was starting to appreciate them more. They offered a chance for quick conversations without making a whole scene or production. Besides, the Malfoys knew how to throw a party.
They ordered another round of drinks, and Draco delved into all the juicy school gossip, from Pansy getting her hair hexed Gryffindor red for an entire week to the new Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor who had the Hufflepuffs terrified and the Gryffindors clearly on edge. It was amusing to hear Draco's take on events after Harry had already heard most of it from Ron and Hermione through their journal.
The evening's carefree atmosphere shifted slightly as a group of boisterous, clearly magical and unmistakably tipsy men and women stumbled towards Harry and Draco's secluded booth. With loud laughs and an air of uninhibited revelry, they squeezed themselves into the booth, cozying up beside the disguised pair.
"Hey, you two look like you could use some more fun! Let's do shots!" one of the witches declared, her eyes twinkling with mischief as she signaled the bartender for another round.
As the shots were lined up on the table, one of the wizards, his cheeks flushed from drink, leaned forward with a grin. "So, what are the names of our new drinking buddies?"
Harry pounced with a smirk, "I'm with my friend Danerius Weasley." Draco sent Harry a look of scandalized affront, a mix of being somewhat amused yet clearly annoyed by the inventive pseudonym linking him to the hated family. Evidently the drinks had made him more tolerable to jokes and jest. Or just age and maturity was making the pureblooded elitist heir begin to lighten up. Perhaps spending some time at the bottom of the Dark supremacist food chain was actually good for the Malfoy heir, teaching him a dash of humility.
Not missing a beat, Draco turned to the group and introduced Harry as "Scorpios Malfoy, a distant cousin from the esteemed Malfoy lineage." He then launched into a somewhat exaggerated account of the Malfoy family's illustrious history and their significant influence in the magical world. "And he's been spending some time with me. I'm beginning to learn the right way of things," Draco added, puffing up with pride that was only partially feigned.
The group nodded enthusiastically, more interested in the prospect of sharing drinks than in verifying the details. They raised their glasses in a toast. "To new friends and unforgettable nights!" one of the wizards exclaimed, and they all downed their shots in unison. The strong, fiery liquid burned its way down their throats, leaving a trail of warmth that seemed to enhance the glow of the enchanted lights above. Draco let out a bit of an undignified cough at the sensation that Harry felt burning in his own stomach. Smiling largely, he patted the now- red-head on the back and they ordered another round.
As the evening progressed, the conversation flowed as freely as the drinks. The newcomers shared wildly embellished tales of their own magical misadventures, each story more outrageous than the last, prompting laughter and disbelief in equal measure. They were a few years older than Harry and Draco, and none had attended Hogwarts; they had either studied abroad or been homeschooled. Harry enjoyed hearing about other aspects of magical upbringing, once again reminded of his own ignorance. However, because Draco seemed equally curious, for once, Harry didn't feel inferior due to his lack of knowledge.
Harry and Draco, for their part, maintained their charade, with Draco embellishing the mythical achievements of "Scorpios Malfoy" and Harry occasionally nodding and humbly acknowledging, deepening the group's fascination. The best part was that most of it was rooted in seeds of truth, like Harry's escapades out-flying a dragon on a broomstick, which had indeed occurred in their fourth year.
Despite the initial intrusion, Harry found himself enjoying the interaction, the light-hearted banter a stark contrast to the often grave and dangerous conversations he was used to. Draco, too, seemed to revel in the role of the boastful host, his usual reservations drowned out by the night's mirth and the liberating anonymity of their disguises. He took great joy in boasting about Harry, mostly because it seemed to reflect back on the supposed Malfoy name, which Harry found increasingly amusing.
As the night wore on, the laughter grew louder, the stories more fantastic, and for a fleeting moment, the worries of the wizarding world were forgotten, replaced by the simple, universal joy of shared stories and spirited camaraderie.
As the night wound down, the group of newfound friends eventually decided to call it an evening. They stumbled out of The Wandering Wyvern, still chuckling and leaning on each other for support. The night had deepened around them, leaving the alley bathed in the soft, uncertain glow of the lanterns that flickered with each passing breeze. Snow fell softly around them.
Draco's senses suddenly heightened despite the alcohol, he looked around with a palpable sense of dread. His eyes darted to every shadow and every noise,as if half-expecting an ambush at any moment. The way he glanced from Harry to the shadows, it was almost as if he thought Harry were literally a magnet for trouble.
Harry, considerably more inebriated and far less concerned, snorted in laughter at Draco's vigilance. "We're fine," he slurred, his words sloshing around with mirth as he clapped Draco on the back.
Draco, sighed, decidedly less amused. "Unlikely" he muttered, then he stepped forward and literally hit Harry on the arm. It didn't hurt much. The blonde really wasn't all that strong, relying more on his wand than muscles of any kind.
"Ouch," Harry cried, rubbing his arm and looking at Draco reproachfully. "What was that for?"
"Don't ever call me a Weasley again," the blonde grumbled, his voice stern despite the buzz of alcohol, "or I'll hex off your private parts!" Harry suspected the threat might actually be real, but the slight slurring of his words undercut the menace.
Harry burst out laughing, the sound echoing down the empty alley as they made their way outside. "Come on, let's get out of here before we actually attract attention. Got your portkey?"
Draco nodded, still looking a bit cross but more so relieved to leave before anything bad happened.
"You really are getting paranoid," Harry chuckled, grabbing the red jewel from within his cloak.
Both wizards raised their portkeys. Harry gave a fake salute, which seemed to confuse Draco all the more about what the gesture meant. But before Draco could ask, Harry hissed, "Safety." With that, he was whisked away to the comfort of the Slytherin Manor, eager for a sobriety potion and sleep.
S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S
Yule morning arrived, and Harry was not surprised when Tipsy greeted him with promises of mounds of presents. As he made his way to breakfast to meet Voldemort, he paused by the spare room where the gifts were stored. By sheer number and size, it seemed to be double that of the previous year. Harry sighed, his enthusiasm dampened by the prospect of sorting through them. He almost wished he could simply hand the entire lot over to Ron and wash his hands of it.
He arrived at breakfast shortly thereafter, nodding in greeting as the Dark Lord entered simultaneously. "Happy Yule," Harry murmured softly as he sat down, carefully masking the unease that prickled at his nerves.
Voldemort regarded him for a moment before replying, "Happy Yule," and took his seat.
A heavy silence hung between them for several minutes. Harry's gaze was fixed on his plate, resisting the urge to fidget.
"Do you have something on your mind?" Voldemort finally asked, his voice probing.
Harry steeled himself and nodded. Reaching into the folds of his cloak, he retrieved a worn leather-bound book and handed it over.
"What's this?" Voldemort inquired, accepting the book with a curious tilt of his head. "Happy Yule," Harry repeated, his eyes dropping to the table. He had wrestled with the decision to give the Dark Lord a gift over the last month. His feelings were conflicted. On the one hand, he remembered the previous year when he had been gifted Hedwig. Although receiving something that already belonged to him might seem trivial, Hedwig represented something far more significant—she was his familiar, a symbol of access and trust within the wizarding community. Receiving her had meant a lot.
On the other hand, this was Voldemort—a fact that made the notion of giving a gift feel almost ludicrous. Yet, disturbingly, Harry found himself wanting to do just that. Over the past year, their relationship had morphed into something almost normal, even comfortable.
Voldemort had even given him a watch upon his coming of age. As bizarre as it sounded, Voldemort was as close to family as Harry had. The Potter Lord's very nature drove him to want to give the present, to continue solidifying the tentative resemblance to a normal life worth living, even one under the Dark Lord's control, that Harry still desperately sought.
The Dark Lord studied the book intently. It was a rare manuscript that Harry had discovered in the Black vault, seemingly a one-of-a-kind document about the founders. It contained spells each of them had created, including several by Slytherin himself—new spells that Harry had never encountered in the Slytherin Grimoire. Harry knew it was a priceless tome, holding secrets of magic that had not ventured beyond the Black family's guarded inheritance.
"Is this from the Black vaults?" Voldemort asked, his eyes alight with unmistakable interest. Harry nodded.
"Did Bellatrix recommend you offer me this?"
Harry's brow furrowed, puzzled by the question. "No, I doubt she even knows the family vault held this. It was buried quite deep, it seemed untouched and unread for decades."
Voldemort looked up from the book, his thumb absently caressing the spine. "Have you read through it?"
Feeling increasingly uneasy, Harry shook his head. He had thought the Dark Lord would be pleased to receive it; he couldn't fathom the reason behind the inquiries. "I've glanced through it, enough to recognize that it contains spells crafted by the Hogwarts founders. But I haven't attempted to learn any," he paused, his eyes lingering on the book with a mix of reverence and desire. "Though there are several that seemed fascinating... ones that I wouldn't mind learning," he added, trying not to sound too eager. It felt somewhat inappropriate to covet the very gift he had just given away as if it negated the gesture of presenting it in the first place.
"Then why are you giving it to me?" Voldemort's tone was sharp, probing deeper.
Harry's frown deepened. Was he missing something, or was the typically astute Dark Lord being deliberately dense? "I thought you would appreciate it," he replied, his voice lowering. The discomfort of giving Voldemort a gift was already unmistakable; couldn't he simply accept it and express gratitude like a normal person?
Crimson eyes regarded him curiously. "I have not read this before," Voldemort admitted at last. "And the content looks intriguing." He tilted his head, considering his heir. "I will keep it in the library so you may also access it."
Harry nodded, "Thank you," he said, immediately feeling foolish. Shouldn't Voldemort be the one saying that? He sighed and returned his focus to his meal. While the exchange had not been the simplest of gift-givings, Voldemort seemed genuinely pleased with the book.
Although unsure of what to expect, Harry supposed it was less awkward than it might have been.
As they neared the end of the meal, Voldemort broke the lingering silence—a silence that had gradually shifted from awkward to mostly comfortable.
"Tipsy will deliver a new set of robes for you to wear to the Malfoy ball," the Dark Lord announced. Harry nodded, unsurprised. It must have been about maintaining prestige or something equally vain, but he had never been allowed to wear the same robes twice to a formal event. He knew it was all for show, a way of flaunting wealth. He found it rather dramatic and wasteful, but at least it wasn't his money being spent.
Feeling Voldemort's curious gaze upon him, Harry looked up from his coffee, wondering if the Dark Lord was finally ready to discuss the gift.
"You seem less anxious about attending the ball. These functions do not bother you as much as they once did?" It was both a question and a statement.
Harry shrugged. "I suppose I understand their purpose more than I did before. While I still don't enjoy the attention and all the pandering, it's a good opportunity to circulate and have conversations without the usual scrutiny that occurs at the Ministry."
Voldemort nodded, seemingly satisfied with the response. "Well said," he lauded. He pushed back his chair, and Harry stood as well. "I will see you this evening, my heir."
Harry spent the rest of the day immersed in mostly solitary pursuits. He finished a book on ancient ruins, a subject he found increasingly fascinating, and later took a walk with Nagini through the manor's inner garden. The chilly outdoor temperatures made it impractical to venture outside with the snow blanketing the ground, but he discovered that the garden's climate could be magically regulated. Activating the manor wards, he adjusted the temperature to a comfortable warmth, encouraging Nagini to join him. After their walk, he showered and began preparing for the evening ball. While drying his damp hair with a towel, he felt a subtle pulse of magic. Turning his attention to his desk, he saw it emanating from the journal. Curiously, he walked over and opened it.
'Harry, did you hear?!' was scribbled hastily across the page.
'Hear what,' he wrote back, both anxious and irritated by the lack of details. 'The Aurors captured Wormtail!'
Harry leaned back, shocked. 'What?' he scrawled. 'Are you sure? What's going to happen to him?'
'We don't know, Kingsley just told us,' Hermione's writing appeared swiftly. Harry took a deep breath, trying to quell the turmoil inside him. Wormtail had managed to fake his own death, leading to Sirius's imprisonment after betraying his parents' home to Voldemort. He'd also been the one to steal Harry's blood during Voldemort's resurrection. To say Harry hated him was an understatement. The rat deserved anything and everything the ministry could throw at him for punishment. But, although he despised Wormtail, he had resigned himself, much like with Bellatrix, that there was little he could do at the moment to seek justice.
Hermione wrote again, urgency evident in her hurried script. 'You didn't know?' she pressed.
'No,' Harry replied honestly, feeling a sinking dread in his stomach. Would the Ministry administer the Dementor's Kiss to someone so clearly aligned with the Dark Lord, who was guilty of crimes supporting Voldemort's initial rise? The Death Eaters had been relatively silent during his second rise, and no one had been apprehended to account for those past crimes. Could this arrest be the catalyst that disrupted the fragile peace that existed between the Light and the Dark?
'What do you think He will do?' Hermione asked.
Harry stared at the journal, his mind racing as he considered the ramifications of Wormtail's capture, not just for himself but for the tenuous stability that had been maintained. His fingers hovered over the page, uncertain of what to write next.
Just as he was about to answer, Harry hesitated, the weight of suspicion heavy in his words. 'Is this you asking, or are you asking for the Order?' he wrote. The question pained him, the implied lack of trust stark, but Hermione had already approached him once at Dumbledore's urging the last time she had come to the manor.
There was a lengthy pause before her response came. 'Honestly, no one asked me to reach out to you,' she wrote finally. 'I'm a little hurt, but I guess I also understand.' Another pause lingered. 'If you don't want me to share what you tell me, I won't. But it's chaos here.
Everyone is concerned and confused. They're not sure how to handle it. I guess he seems cursed, and isn't making much sense with anything that he has said. Obviously people are afraid of what it might mean and what it might lead to…'
Harry wasn't surprised. His initial elation that Wormtail would finally face justice was quickly overshadowed by fear. What if Voldemort demanded his release? Wormtail had killed twelve Muggles while framing Sirius and had betrayed Harry's own parents. If anyone deserved the Dementor's Kiss, it was him. The entire wizarding world knew he was guilty.
And him standing trial would clear Sirius. If the Dark Lord refused to comply with justice, would this mark the first real test of his influence? Harry felt his stomach tighten. The situation could spiral out of control so quickly that it almost left him dizzy.
'I don't know anything,' he wrote back, his hand shaky. 'This is news to me. If I can offer any help, I will. I have to go soon, but I promise I'll write more tomorrow.'
'Alright, be careful. XOXO,' Hermione replied.
Harry shut the journal, his mind reeling. He finished dressing almost mechanically. His thoughts were tumultuous, caught between hope and apprehension.
The hour finally arrived to meet the Dark Lord and flow to the Malfoys'. Harry arrived unusually early. Dressed in elegant emerald green robes accented with dark black flourishes, and a stag and serpent pendant intricately etched into his collar, he stood near the fire feeling restless. When Voldemort finally appeared, he looked impeccable as ever. His robes were a mirror inverse of Harry's—predominantly black with touches of green, adorned with a similar serpent motif. Their attire subtly signified their alliance yet preserved their distinct identities.
The Dark Lord moved toward Harry as though they would part immediately.
"Wormtail was taken into custody by the Ministry," Harry blurted out, his eyes fixed on Voldemort, gauging his reaction.
The Dark Lord glanced towards him. "I know," he murmured softly, his demeanor unfazed as if the event were all part of a plan.
"Will you free him?" Harry asked, his stomach literally twisting in upon itself. "Do you want me to?"
Harry frowned, his brows knitting together as he stared at Voldemort. Of course, he didn't; he loathed Wormtail. He yearned for justice—for Sirius' name to be cleared and for all to know who had betrayed his parents, who had betrayed him.
"No," Harry said, his voice uncertain as if he feared this might be a test, questioning whether he was failing by not choosing the Dark Lord's follower over his own parents' memory. "I want him to rot in jail. Or to get the kiss."
Voldemort's gaze swept over his heir, sensing the intensity of his emotions. After a moment, he nodded once. "Then he shall. Happy Yule, my heir." He turned, scooped up a handful of Floo powder, and vanished into the flames.
With his mouth agape, Harry quickly grasped a pinch of the powder and followed after him, his mind racing with the implications of their exchange and the realization that his wishes had been respected. That this might actually be a gift.
He wished they had spent more time talking, but upon arrival, he was immediately thrust into the limelight. It was clearly not the right time to bring it up, which Harry suspected was the Dark Lord's intent.
Fortunately, the Malfoy ball unfolded without any hitches. Arriving fashionably late alongside Voldemort, Harry noted how their entrance commanded the attention of everyone present. He had come to understand that it was customary for the guest of honor or the highest-ranking attendees to arrive about an hour after the event began. This timing allowed the host to finalize preparations and ensured that the arrival of esteemed guests was noticed and appreciated. Harry found the whole affair rather pompous, but he knew the Dark Lord reveled in such pomp and circumstance. Over time, Harry had grown accustomed to it, no longer blushing or feeling uncomfortable under the constant gaze of the attendees, who tracked his every movement and interaction. What had once been a source of great discomfort had now become something he barely noticed.
After the initial ceremonial greetings, Harry excused himself from Voldemort's side and sought out his peers. Draco greeted him eagerly, his face lighting up with a genuine smile as he approached. "Harry!" Draco greeted warmly, handing him a drink. As always, the Malfoy scion looked pristine, dressed in mostly silver and black with subtle light blue embellishments. Harry was relieved his own wardrobe was less ostentatious, even though he felt he looked equally distinguished. At least the Dark Lord's fashion choices were less melodramatic.
Harry greeted the other peers over whom Malfoy seemed to hold court: Theodore Nott, Daphne Greengrass, Tracey Davis, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, Marcus Flint, Blaise Zabini, and Pansy Parkinson. He also thought he recognized two older Slytherins, Miles Bletchley and Adrian Pucey, both former members of the Slytherin Quidditch team who had graduated, along with a few others he didn't recognize beyond perhaps seeing them in passing. Despite the Malfoys' tenuous hold on the Dark side, it seemed they still held enough weight for the Dark Lord and his heir to join their party, which was good enough for Draco to resume his position as the center of attention, at least for one night while in his own home.
Surveying the large group of Slytherins, Harry tried to conceal his unease at being so outnumbered. He liked Zabini and Greengrass, even Davis, from having them at his birthday party, but he was uncertain about the rest, especially the older ones.
"Potter," Zabini greeted, nodding. Greengrass and Davis also nodded in acknowledgment.
Pansy scowled and huffed loudly. "Draco, I don't get why you're letting anyone in these days," she complained, her expression one of exaggerated suffering.
"You really mean to insult Lord Slytherin's heir here of all places?" To Harry's surprise, it was Nott who spoke up in his defense, his intervention preempting Draco's. Harry wasn't sure he had ever exchanged more than a few words with the Nott scion, even though his father often cornered Harry to ask for favors.
Harry glanced at him thoughtfully. "Theodore Nott," he said, extending his hand. "Obviously, we've spent years at school together, but I don't think we've ever been formally introduced."
Harry took Nott's hand slowly and shook it. "Harry, as you well know," Harry replied, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
"Doesn't even know how to do a formal greeting," Pansy simpered.
Harry turned sharply, his glare fixated on her, then his eyes quickly scanned the room; it was clear the Slytherins were watching keenly to see his reaction, waiting to see if he would assert himself.
Harry stepped forward confidently and extended his hand, adopting a formal tone that echoed the weight of his titles. "Lord Potter-Black, Heir of House Slytherin and the Dark Lord's apprentice," he announced, his voice carrying through the gathered crowd. It was clear to everyone his titles were more impressive than her own.
"If you have a problem with me, Heir Parkinson," Harry continued, his gaze fixed on Pansy. "I'm sure I can clear the air with your father. I work with him regularly in the Wizengamot and during other 'extracurricular' activities at Slytherin Manor. I'm certain we can quickly resolve any misconceptions you have about me, if that's truly what you need."
Pansy's face drained of color, and she scowled, caught off-guard by Harry's assertive stance and the reminder of his influential connections. The rest of the group watched their expressions a mix of surprise and a newfound respect for Harry's demonstration of authority and poise.
"Panys, shut up," Flint interjected, stepping forward and placing a hand on Harry's shoulder. "You're either a fool or an idiot. We were all there at his duel. If you want to play with fire, then I hope you get burned."
The other older-looking teens and young adults all nodded in agreement, their faces serious.
"Where did you learn that type of magic?" a tall, lanky wizard who Harry thought was called Pucey asked.
"Do you really have to ask?" Draco cut in, stepping forward haughtily. "Harry, have you seen the ice sculptures out back? They're truly breathtaking."
Harry cast him a grateful look. "No, I'd love for you to show me."
Draco draped an arm around his shoulder. "Come, they are one of a kind. I know you'll be impressed" he said with a pretentious air.
Harry glanced back at the almost crestfallen faces of most of the others that he was leaving so quickly. More than a few glares were directed toward Pansy for likely being the reason why. "Blaise, Daphne, Tracey, want to come?" he asked, feeling a soft spot for them since they had made his birthday special. The three eagerly stepped forward. Nott looked strangely disappointed as well, and since he had been kind when Harry entered, Harry decided to include him. "Theo, I don't know you all that well. Want to come so we can be properly introduced?"
The boy's face instantly brightened as he stepped forward and joined the group of now five who followed Draco to a side exit and stepped outside. The cold didn't even touch Harry as they walked through the gardens. He had to admit, the magic was impressive.
As the group wandered through the expansive gardens of the Malfoy estate, the earlier tension dissipated, giving way to a more relaxed atmosphere. Intricate ice sculptures lined the pathway, each glowing under the soft light of enchanted lanterns. These masterpieces, depicting various magical creatures and iconic scenes from wizarding history, sparkled exquisitely in the crisp night air.
As they rounded a corner, a breathtaking display of an ice phoenix caught mid-flight captured everyone's attention. The conversation shifted from lighthearted school tales to more serious discussions about the future. Tracey expressed her fervor for magical fashion, Daphne shared her fascination with potion innovations, and Blaise humorously lamented about his dreams of globetrotting—conditional on his mother's approval, which drew laughter from the group.
"What about you, Theo?" Harry inquired, turning to Nott.
Theo shrugged, his voice carrying a hint of resignation. "I think my father wants me to go into politics, or become an Unspeakable," he murmured. Draco offered him a sympathetic glance, understanding the weight of family expectations.
Harry was becoming increasingly aware that many pure-blooded heirs had their futures scripted by their parents, leaving little room for personal choice.
It was amidst this exchange that Voldemort approached, his presence casting a palpable shift in the atmosphere. The laughter quickly faded as his tall, imposing figure loomed, casting long shadows on the frosted ground. Harry's friends and peers subtly tensed, the unease palpable as they found themselves in close proximity to the Dark Lord. Trailing behind him was a small entourage of followers, each seemingly eager to capture his attention.
"Enjoying the evening, my heir?" Voldemort's voice was smooth, laced with a mix of curiosity and command as he addressed Harry.
"Yes, the sculptures are quite impressive. Draco has been giving us a tour," Harry responded, managing to keep his tone even.
Voldemort's gaze swept over the group, pausing to study each face with a fleeting but intense scrutiny. "I trust you are all finding the evening fruitful?" he asked, his voice tinged with almost genuine interest as he surveyed the young wizards and witches.
His question hung in the air, prompting nods and murmurs of agreement from the group, each member acutely aware of the importance of their responses in the presence of such a formidable figure. "Yes, my Lord," Daphne responded, her voice steady despite the intensity of Voldemort's scrutiny. "We were just discussing our future roles within the wizarding community."
"And what, Miss Greengrass, do you anticipate pursuing after you graduate?" Voldemort inquired, a hint of amusement flickering in his crimson gaze as he noted their discomfort.
Daphne hesitated, swallowing hard under his piercing look. "I aspire to serve you, my lord," she replied, her voice lowering almost to a whisper.
Harry observed the exchange, noticing the unease among the teens.
"That is hardly a precise answer," Voldemort remarked, his tone light but carrying a subtle edge, though Harry sensed it lacked genuine severity.
"You're scaring them," Harry hissed under his breath, a trace of amusement in his voice, mostly convinced that the Dark Lord was in a playful mood, teasing them in his own formidable way.
"They must learn to articulate their worth in my presence if they are to be of any use," Voldemort countered, his voice a soft hiss in kind.
"They are smart and want to serve you," Harry asserted, feeling compelled to defend them. Were they his friends now? It suddenly felt like it. "They have worth. They're just unsure how to show you. You intimidate them."
"But I do not intimidate you," Voldemort observed, shifting his full attention to Harry.
Harry managed to keep his expression neutral. "Because you taught me well," he responded with a hint of indulgence.
Voldemort smiled slightly. "So I have," he acknowledged, shifting to English as he turned back to the group who were watching their conversation with unveiled surprise, even envy at their use of their house's coveted serpentine gift. "My heir speaks highly of you. Do not disappoint him—or me," he advised them. His gaze lingered on Draco for a moment, prompting all of them to nod and murmur promises of their commitment.
As Voldemort departed, followed closely by the procession of Death Eaters, many of whom cast resentful glances at the young wizards and witches, the teens surrounding Harry released a breath of relief once the dark wizard was out of earshot. Harry clapped Theo on the shoulder, grinning. "See, not so terrifying once you get past the whole Dark Lord persona, right?"
Theo looked pale. "No," he muttered. "I don't think I'll ever get past that…"
The remainder of the night unfolded with a lighter, more festive atmosphere. The intricate ice sculptures continued to shimmer under the enchanted lights, casting a magical glow that seemed to lift the spirits of everyone present.
Harry found himself more relaxed now, engaging in conversations that meandered from trivial Hogwarts memories to more significant discussions about the future of the wizarding world. As they strolled back towards the main venue, a server passed by with a tray of sparkling drinks. Harry grabbed a glass for himself and one for Zabini, who was recounting a particularly embarrassing yet humorous incident involving a misfired spell in class. The group chuckled and winced in sympathy as Zabini described how Professor McGonagall ended up with transfigured crab claw hands for a few moments before she managed to revert them back to normal before docking him ten points for, as he quoted an awful imitation of the Scottish witch, 'gross negligence and overall incompetence.'
"Then you had the nerve to ask her for points back for creating your own spell!" Nott added, chuckling at his own recollection of the events.
Zabini shrugged, smiling. "It was impressive magic," he argued, laughing.
The rest of the night ended well. Harry broke away for about an hour to make the expected rounds. Draco had accompanied him, but Harry felt more confident than at previous events when he'd relied upon the Malfoy heir for introductions and help in making small talk. Now, Harry knew most of the participants present and even felt certain he knew what they wanted, what their angles were. Few promises were made, but many hints at the future were dropped. Harry just wished more neutrals and those aligned with the Light were present so that it wasn't so one-sided. But that was a problem for the future. As the night finally drew to a close, Harry caught the expectant crimson gaze of the Dark Lord. It was late, nearing 1 a.m.
"I think it's time to head out," Harry announced, nodding to Nott, Greengrass, Davis, Zabini, and especially to Draco, who had been by his side for most of the evening.
"It was good to chat with you, mate," Theo said, clasping Harry's shoulder warmly. Tracey nodded in agreement while Daphne stepped forward and gave Harry a quick peck on the cheek.
"Take care, Harry," she murmured softly.
Harry blushed, turning to Draco to conceal his embarrassment. "I'll try to drop by before the break is over," he told Draco, nodding. Draco patted him on the shoulder. Then Harry turned, seeing the Dark Lord finish his own farewells. Reaching the Dark Lord, they both turned to the entryway and returned to the manor.
At the intersection where their paths diverged—Harry to his room and the Dark Lord to his wing—Harry hesitated. "Did you mean it?" he asked softly.
"Mean what?" the Dark Lord responded, his gaze intensifying. "That Wormtail's fate is my decision?"
The Dark Lord studied Harry for a few moments before nodding affirmatively. "Yes."
A wave of relief swept through Harry, lightening the burdensome weight he had carried all night. Despite the festive atmosphere of the ball, a tension had nagged at him, which he had struggled to suppress.
"Thank you," Harry whispered, his voice barely a murmur. The Dark Lord gave one final nod before turning away to retreat for the night.
Harry had just fallen into a light sleep when a sudden noise startled him awake. His eyes snapped open to find Hedwig, his usually composed owl, visibly agitated. A brown owl had landed beside her with a brash flap of its wings, disturbing the peace. The room was dimly illuminated by the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the window, casting elongated shadows that flickered across the walls with each movement of the owls.
Blinking away his grogginess, Harry squinted at the unexpected visitors. Why was he being disturbed at such an ungodly hour? With a heavy sigh, he shuffled out of his warm bed. His feet touched the cold wooden floor, sending a shiver up his spine. As he approached the newcomer, he noticed a letter attached to its leg, the handwriting unmistakably Snape's, familiar from years of receiving Dreadful and Troll markings on his assignments.
The note was brief and urgent:
'Potter, I need you now. Take this portkey. The activation word is "potions." This is a matter of life and death.
Snape.'
Harry's brow furrowed in confusion and mild annoyance at the brevity of such dire words. "What in Merlin's name..." he murmured, his whisper barely audible in the quiet room. The brown owl hooted urgently, its feathers ruffled as if emphasizing the seriousness of the message.
With a resigned sigh, Harry walked over to his wardrobe and quickly threw on a pair of pants and a shirt, decidedly more suitable than his sleepwear. He then snatched his cloak and the needle wrapped in the letter, which he sensed was a portkey. "Potions," he muttered, half- wondering if he was a fool for blindly following these cryptic instructions, yet there was a strange trust in Snape's urgency that he couldn't dismiss.
Instantly, he felt the familiar tug behind his navel, and moments later, he landed harshly on the ground in complete darkness. Stumbling slightly, he unholstered his wand and held it aloft, the soft blue light illuminating his surroundings. He found himself in the woods under a dense canopy of trees, where no moonlight could snake its way through. "Snape?" he called out into the enveloping darkness.
Snape's urgent voice cut through the stillness. "Harry, good you came. Come. There is no time," he insisted, his tone laden with an uncharacteristic edge of desperation. Extending his hand in a gesture of urgency, Snape's pale face was ghostly in the wandlight.
Harry hesitated for a brief moment as he studied Snape's intense gaze, taking in the lines of anxiety etched deeply into the dour man's unusually colorless features. The gravity of the situation was palpable, compelling Harry to reluctantly grasp Snape's outstretched hand, allowing himself to be pulled into a side-along Apparition. The night air whisked past him as they disappeared, leaving behind the whispering trees and the silent witnesses of the night.
They found themselves in a vast field, where the remnants of a destroyed shack stood starkly against the lush greenery, silhouetted hauntingly in the moonlight. Harry's senses tingled from the potent raw magic that permeated the air, wisps of magical residue lingered around them, casting an eerie glow that danced within the faded light. He had never felt anything this powerful before. I t was unmistakably clear whose magic it was; he would recognize that dark signature anywhere.
"Where are we?" Harry asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty as he glanced around; the hair on the nape of his neck stood on edge.
"The Gaunt's land," Snape replied tersely. Harry caught the potion master's eye, the significance of his statement not lost on the Potter Lord.
"Why are we here?" Harry pressed, his eyes scanning for answers, seeking some clue in the surrounding unknown unfolding around him.
"Look," Snape directed, pointing towards the heart of the devastation.
Harry's heart hitched as he beheld the scene before him. The once-standing Gaunt shack now lay in ruins, succumbing more to time and neglect than to any recent calamity he could discern. The structure's remnants were overgrown with wild vegetation; weathered wood and crumbling stones told stories of decades of abandonment. A palpable aura of darkness sent shivers down Harry's spine as he focused on what was likely once a proud, albeit foreboding, house. Moss and creeping ivy clung to the remains, and the air was thick with the musty scent of decay. Even as the moonlight cast eerie shadows across the broken walls, it seemed to avoid penetrating the deeper darkness within, as if the very light was wary of uncovering what lay hidden in the shack's heart.
Amidst the debris, Dumbledore's form lay shrouded in darkness, a stark contrast to his usual lively demeanor. He was still, unmoving. Harry's magical senses could sense pure darkness radiating from his area—not from the wizard himself but from something nearby.
Dumbledore felt cursed.
"Is he dead?" Harry asked, his voice barely above a whisper as he stepped cautiously towards the elderly wizard, each footfall crunching on the gravel and dry leaves underfoot.
Snape shook his head gravely. "No, but he's dying. I did what I could to hold the curse at bay. But it's a type of magic unlike any I've ever seen—his magic," he said, casting Harry a meaningful look, making it clear who 'he' was. "I thought you would be the best one to contact. He will die if this is not reversed. At best, he has months, or less. The ring is now tied to his life source; if removed, he won't survive the night."
Harry glanced at the damaged headmaster, who finally looked up as if noticing them for the first time. Dumbledore's eyes met Harry's, filled with a mix of resignation and resolve. The cool night air seemed to grow even chillier as their gazes locked. Harry gripped his wand tighter, his knuckles turning white with tension. The dark residue on Dumbledore's hand felt ominously heavy, like a piece of Voldemort himself. It had to be a Horcrux.
"Severus, you need to leave now," Harry stated firmly, his voice echoing hollowly in the quiet night.
Snape gave him a disbelieving look. "You can't be serious."
Harry shook his head, steeling himself. "It's an order. If you've truly sworn yourself to me, you have to go. You can't be here for this."
"Will you kill him?" Snape asked, a shadow passing over his features.
Harry met Snape's gaze, his expression solemn, resolute. "That is not my intent. But what I must do might be dangerous. You know the risks if you're found here with me, especially by him. Trust me, I can handle this. I'll contact you when I can."
It was clear that their last encounter flickered in Snape's eyes, recalling how he had not trusted Harry's judgment with the vampire. After a moment of hesitation, Snape nodded slowly, his expression hardening as he prepared to leave. "Be careful," he said, his words heavy with unspoken worry. He then turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving Harry alone with the collapsed headmaster.
Alone now, Harry approached Dumbledore, his heart heavy, fearful of what the night might bring. He knelt beside the fallen wizard.
"Harry," Dumbledore whispered, his voice weak as he glanced up, his eyes reflecting the moonlight that barely pierced what felt like an unnatural darkness around them.
"What happened?" Harry asked, taking in the wizard's disheveled appearance. The man looked weak and pale, but it was his hand that drew the most concern. The appendage was blackened and shriveled, radiating dark magic that Harry could sense even from a distance. The actual curse seemed spent, yet a lingering malevolence remained, actively draining the headmaster, its presence ominous and debilitating.
"As I mentioned during your brief return to the Order, Tom severed his soul..." Dumbledore began, his voice faltering slightly as he coughed, overcome by breathlessness.
"That's one of them?" Harry asked, his gaze dropping to Dumbledore's withered hand.
Dumbledore closed his eyes, a grimace of pain fleeting across his features, and nodded. "Yes, I haven't destroyed it yet. The initial defensive magic was overwhelming. Tom has always been rather vindictive with his curses, and I seem to have fallen victim to yet another one that I doubt I will be able to rid myself of."
Harry thought 'vindictive' was a bit of an understatement; he'd never seen an appendage look so grotesque, twisted by dark magic into something barely recognizable as human.
"But I am recovering. I know how to destroy it. With your help, there will be one less tether ensuring his immortality by night's end," Dumbledore asserted, a spark of life flickering in his eyes despite his evident pain.
Harry jerked upright, feeling the unbreakable vow take hold. It felt like a chain wrapping around his chest, a heavy, unyielding pressure that made every breath a struggle. The sheer magnitude of the vow staggered him, eliciting a sharp flinch of pain. Instinctively, his hand sought his chest, as if to alleviate the unseen grip constricting around him.
Too focused on his task, the headmaster missed Harry's reaction. Dumbledore's elderly hand tightened on his own wand, and he made a motion to raise it. Harry wasn't sure if Dumbledore was attempting to destroy the soul shard or merely adjusting his position, but he felt as though magic itself were guiding—no, forcing him to act. Not wanting to take any chances with the Horcrux, and with his own magic on the line, Harry reacted.
"Expelliarmus!" The frail wizard's wand zipped from his weak grip into Harry's outstretched fingers. The sudden transfer sent a jolt through Harry, a mix of adrenaline and foreboding that made his heart race. He closed his fingers around the aged wand, feeling its weight and the heaviness of the moment. He'd just disarmed Dumbledore—worse, at a moment when the elder wizard clearly couldn't even properly defend himself. He truly had fallen.
Their gazes locked, Dumbledore's blue eyes bore into Harry's with a mix of recognition and chilling clarity. "What have you done?" he whispered sadly, his voice laden with years of wisdom that seemed heavy with regret. "You would protect them? Protect him? This is the only path to defeat the Dark Lord."
Harry closed his eyes briefly, as if shielding himself from Dumbledore's reproachful gaze. He couldn't bear to reveal the unbreakable vow, his ultimate betrayal of the trust Dumbledore had placed in him. "I made my choice," he said instead. "I can't let you destroy this."
Dumbledore shook his head sadly, disappointment and sorrow coloring his features. "My dear boy, what has become of you?" His voice was pleading, it was clear he sought a glimmer of hope, desperate to believe that his chosen one wasn't beyond the reach of the Light. "Have you truly fallen so complete to the Dark, to Tom?"
Harry took a step back, recoiling from the dismayed reprimand. The gap between him and his once-idol felt visible, a growing chasm widening with each passing moment. He could feel his own anger rising. "I did it to save them. I did what I had to do to survive."
He paused, scowling. "But that was never part of your plans, was it?" His tone turned bitter, filled with resentment and defiance. "Tell me honestly, is there a way to remove it from me? Was there ever a chance for me to live?" He glanced back at the ring on the withered hand, his gaze intense and searching.
Dumbledore closed his eyes tightly; weariness etched into his features. Harry sensed the answer even before it was spoken. "The only safe way to remove a Horcrux from its vessel is for the soul's owner to feel genuine remorse for the act that created it, to desire the soul's restoration," Dumbledore said softly. As his blue eyes reopened, they revealed a man as fragile as the moonlight brushing against the shadows etched onto his face.
"You and I know how challenging that task is for one seeped in such darkness as he. Though he favors you, I doubt it is enough to compensate for the loss of even a sliver of his immortality..." The unspoken conclusion hung in the air, clear to both. Voldemort would never value another over himself. Harry agreed; he was favored, but not to that extent.
"Then what? You summoned me here under the pretense of seeking my help to destroy it. Were you planning to kill me afterward?" Harry's question pierced the night air, his voice pulsing with sharpness.
"Never," Dumbledore's expression reflected genuine regret, lines of sorrow carved deeply into his familiar features. "I never intended for your death. I still hope it won't come to that. But I can't assist you if you refuse my help."
Harry caught the hidden implications in Dumbledore's words, his training under the Dark Lord honing his skill at deciphering underlying wordplay. "Intended," he echoed. "Perhaps. But don't lie; we both know the truth. The Dark Lord will never remove it from within me. It grants him too much power. You would still have me be a lamb, a sacrifice… You must think me a fool."
The elderly wizard flinched. "My dear boy… What happened to you, to the kind boy I met at Hogwarts?" Dumbledore's voice conveyed genuine confusion and sadness, as if truly mourning the loss of innocence and shattered ideals.
Harry scowled. "He died, just not in the way you were hoping," Harry's response was filled with raw emotion, his guard slipping in this moment of confrontation with someone he once regarded as a father figure and mentor. The pain he had long tried to keep at bay surged forward; the cruel realization that Voldemort, of all people, had become a better guide and protector than the supposed beacon of the Light was a bitter pill that he wanted the Headmaster to acknowledge and swallow. "This is your fault. You abandoned me to this fate. I had no other options, nowhere else to turn, no one to shield me from what I've become. No one came for me. So, I did what was necessary to survive. To ensure everyone else survived, too... I did what you couldn't."
The pain reflected in Dumbledore's eyes was undeniable. "I won't deny my role in this, but you cannot give up. Have you truly surrendered to the murderer of your parents? Would you play a part in him gaining uncontested control over the wizarding world? How can you not see who he is, what he is doing to you? This is not a path you should be on. You've become his chief enforcer," Dumbledore paused, taking a breath, clearly trying to gain control over his own emotions and thoughts. He sighed, looking at the youth before him as if truly saddened by the wizard Harry was becoming, and Harry hated how much it hurt. "You're becoming like him."
Emerald eyes glanced downward, a flicker of pain sweeping through them, revealing a brief glimpse of the inner turmoil Harry wrestled with daily. "I've never claimed that he's good or right. Just that your methods would never defeat him. I'm doing what I can to reshape the world the best I know how," Harry replied, his voice soft yet tinged with resolve and resignation.
"That sounds a lot like your master talking," Dumbledore observed sadly, his disappointment evident in every word.
Harry couldn't help but scoff, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "You should expect no less. I have learned everything I know from him." He gave Dumbledore a challenging look, the weight of Harry's silent accusation—because you never taught me—hanging heavy between them.
"I never wanted any of this," Harry said, growing weary of the conversation, his voice tinged with frustration. "I never wanted to be his soldier or yours. I never had a chance at a life. You took that from me first. It is because of you he was able to make me into what I have become."
Dumbledore met his gaze with profound sadness in his eyes. "Do you truly believe that?" he asked softly yet piercingly.
Harry nodded firmly. "Yes. I had no one to turn to, no power to fight him. I was always a lamb, a sacrifice he could take at will. And he did. He just didn't slaughter me as you expected. He made me into a wolf instead."
Dumbledore's blue eyes bore into Harry, their usual twinkle replaced by a deep sorrow that seemed to weigh down his entire being. His shoulders sagged slightly; he trembled on the barren earth that he rested upon.
"Yes," he said after a lengthy silence. "I realize now that my decisions meant to protect likely had the opposite effect," Dumbledore murmured, his voice carrying the weight of years of contemplation and remorse. "It seems I failed both you and Tom in your earliest years. But all is not lost. You have grown into a powerful wizard. You could fight him now. You truly are becoming his equal. You can do what I couldn't. Don't you still care for those who need you?"
Harry's jaw tensed, his eyes narrowing as he met Dumbledore's gaze head-on. A flicker of pain crossed his features, quickly masked by a steely resolve. "That you even ask that proves you don't know me at all," he retorted sharply, his disappointment evident in the slight furrow of his brow and the tightness in his voice. "I've only sought to protect. You have just become blinded by your own bias and belief in your own infallibility. I never changed. Not in the ways that matter. I have been fighting with everything I have for this world the entire time. It is you who lost his way."
Dumbledore sighed deeply, the weight of years of choice and regrets visible in the downturn of his mouth. "Perhaps you are correct," he conceded at last. "As I seemed to be reaching the end of my journey, I find myself at least hoping that you are." His voice carried a hint of resignation, bringing them both to the issue at hand. Harry's eyes shifted to the ring, the soul-shard responsible for this entire night. Harry bent down, extending his hand toward Dumbledore's limp, shriveled hand.
"Harry, you mustn't touch it," Dumbledore warned urgently, his voice thick with concern as he tried to pull his hand away. "This curse may be spent on me, but it is still a Horcrux, designed to ensnare those who touch it." He coughed again, his energy seemingly spent.
Harry snorted softly, a mix of defiance and contemplation flickering across his features as he disregarded the warning. He sensed that the ring would not harm him; the soul within seemed to recognize its own kindred spirit. "It recognizes its own. It knows I mean it no harm," he murmured, his gaze unwaveringly fixed on the ring. A magnetic pull drew him toward it, subtle yet insistent. While he didn't feel an immediate threat to himself, the palpable aura of death it exuded gave him pause. Could Dumbledore's life be so tightly bound to this artifact? Would retrieving it seal the wizard's death?
He paused and looked up at the moon, longing for inspiration, hoping that some other solution would reveal itself. He didn't want to bear the responsibility for Dumbledore's death, yet he couldn't leave the ring with him. It was an impossible choice, worsened by the vow that either forced his hand or would draw the Dark Lord's attention if he felt Harry resisting the oath. Harry was beyond certain Voldemort would show no mercy to the defenseless and dying headmaster. Harry dealing with him directly was at least a kinder end.
On the ground, Dumbledore's once vibrant presence was fading. His voice, strained and desperate, reflected the same agony Harry could see in his dulling eyes and weakening grip. "Harry, please, you mustn't return it. There's much more at stake than you realize. He must not gain this power," Dumbledore's words carried a sense of desperation, underscored by his fading strength.
Harry turned back to the fallen wizard, genuine sorrow creeping into his heart. "Even if I wanted to help you, I can't. He made me swear an unbreakable vow." He sighed, the weight of the matter pressing heavily upon him. "I can't let you have that ring, and I can't let you destroy it. On my life and magic, I have to protect his soul."
Dumbledore's eyes widened, first in shock, then in understanding, and finally in acceptance. "Then he knows you carry his soul as well?" the old, wise wizard deduced. It was the only way Voldemort's insistence on the vow made sense: that he knew everything.
The raven-haired young wizard nodded solemnly. "He knew from the beginning what I was. And it changed nothing. He still wanted me as his heir, his apprentice. If anything, it made him value me even more," Harry said, his voice tinged with sadness and bitter irony.
Harry's eyes hardened; he spoke the next words more for himself than for Dumbledore because they needed to be said, and he believed them to be true. "I may use dark magic now, but I haven't lost myself; I know who I am. I've just grown smarter and learned how to play his game. This is the best path for me. It's the only one I have left… And despite what you think, it has brought some good. His reign is tempered. We both know it could be much worse. He does listen to me. He has given me more concessions than any other. I truly believe what I am doing is right. I just wish you could see that I'm doing the best I can. I never betrayed who I am or what my parents stood for. It hurts that you think so low of me now." Harry swallowed, his words cutting off. He wasn't even sure why he said them. He hated that he still cared for the old man who had caused him so much pain.
Dumbledore's gaze bore into Harry as if searching the young man's soul for understanding, as if he had just discovered him anew. With determined movements, he reached for the ring with his free hand, a subtle tension seemingly easing from his bent posture. An aura of calm seemed to emanate from the older wizard; it was as if a weight was being lifted as he carefully grasped the ring on his finger and withdrew it.
"What are you doing?" Harry's voice shot up with alarm. His steps were cautious as he closed the distance. He held up both wands, his own and the other taken from Dumbledore.
Dumbledore's lips curved into a soft smile, his eyes reflecting a mix of admiration and regret. "I'm giving it to you. I won't burden you with the weight of my life. I can see now that I misjudged you; there's more strength in you than I ever imagined. You clearly are still fighting in ways that I could never have dreamed of."
"I fight for what I believe is right, not for your ideals," Harry stressed, his gaze flickering uncertainly to the ring in his hand.
A spark of light danced in Dumbledore's serene blue eyes, imbuing his expression with a touch of profound wisdom. "Perhaps it's time for a change," he began, his voice carrying a weight of contemplation. "Even an old man can find himself on a path he never intended to walk down. I thought you were gone; perhaps it was always me who had lost his way. While I never wished this for you, I certainly never anticipated that I might become one of your biggest impediments, another barrier for you to overcome—someone trying to control your fate just as much as the Dark Lord. I refuse to become like Tom." He sighed softly, his thumb stroking the ring gently, almost fondly. "I'm amazed by the person you're becoming, and I still have unwavering faith in the future you hold."
"I'm not the savior of the Light," Harry added cautiously, unwilling to be manipulated or coerced into a promise, especially during what could be the Light Lord's final moments.
Dumbledore nodded, a hint of warmth in his expression as he smiled fondly. "I know. You're so much more than that." He extended his hand, palm outstretched, offering Harry the ancient ring. Harry took it with trembling fingers, the cool metal feeling heavier than it looked.
"You will die," Harry uttered. He had never felt more certain of anything in his life as he stared down at the fragile body before him. The lingering curse from the Dark Lord's ring pulsed outward, a relentless cord that drained the headmaster's strength even faster now that it was no longer on his person.
Sage, dull, light blue eyes blinked at him; somehow, even shadowed by death and despair, they still managed to sparkle with a hint of mischief and delight. "Death is but the next great adventure." His voice was weakening, a frail whisper barely escaping his lips as Harry could see the pallor spreading across his face, the life slowly ebbing from him.
Gripping the ring tightly, unsure what to do, Harry whispered, "I hope you find peace."
Dumbledore looked at him serenely, his breath faint, the words escaping as mere threads of sound. "I wish that more for you than for me, my dear boy. I am so very proud of you." With that, he closed his eyes, a finality settling in the lines of his face. They did not open again.
Harry stared at Dumbledore's still form, clutching the ring—the Horcrux—in his hand. He ran his fingers softly over the cool, smooth stone. It resonated with a deep, almost imperceptible hum, calling to him on levels of mind, body, spirit, and magic. Harry felt a connection, inexplicable yet undeniable, as if the ring recognized him and he it.
He gazed at Dumbledore's old, fallen form, his face peaceful in its eternal rest, as if in a trance. The profound silence of the night was punctuated only by the faint, gentle breeze stirring blades of grass. Without realizing what he was doing, Harry slipped the ring onto his finger. A wave of unexpected peace washed over him, soothing the tumult in his heart and clearing the fog of the death he'd just witnessed from his mind.
Harry sighed, a sound more of resignation than relief. He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of fate settling firmly on his shoulders as he prepared to apparate. He had things to do—conversations with both Voldemort and Snape awaited him. He looked up; the first faint hints of dawn began to bleed across the horizon, the sky igniting in a muted blaze of red. Harry knew, with a sinking feeling, that despite the approaching daybreak, this was far from over. He steeled himself for what was to come, the weight of the life lost and the burden of the Horcrux heavy on his soul as he vanished with a faint pop, leaving the quiet and the dead behind.
AN: Wow! This was an intense one to write. Reviews, feedback, and thoughts are always welcomed. Thanks!