The Dark Apprentice Chapter 83

Chapter 83

“The old fool has fallen for my trap at every step of the way.” Harry bragged, a smug, satisfied smirk twisting his lips as he addressed the man seated across from him. The older figure—Tom—was an image of impassive stillness, his eyes, cold and deep, fixed unblinkingly on his confident apprentice. Harry barely noticed the lack of reciprocal emotion, too caught up in the triumph of his own machinations.

“He has no idea that it was Daphne and I who struck down that fool of a so-called Lord,” Harry continued, leaning back in his chair, a glass of expensive amber liquid swirling neglected in his hand. “The entire plan was seamless. The ritual worked like a charm.  Lord Greengrass was bled dry, and her sister was cured.  The mark was left in the sky, and no one was even remotely wiser.” He paused, letting the scope of his ingenuity hang in the tense silence of the dimly lit room.

“The Aurors had their suspicions, of course,” Harry conceded with a careless wave of his hand. “Roland Davis is sharp, I'll give him that. He knew our escape was too convenient, too neat to be a simple matter of breaking through wards. But suspicions are meaningless when there wasn’t a single shred of evidence to back them. No trace of a Dark Magic signature, no witnesses, and the alibis we concocted through my own use of legillmency making it airtight, interlocking perfectly. Daphne was a masterpiece in feigned shock and grief; she's proving to be an invaluable asset, Tom.”

Harry’s chest swelled with pride, his youthful face alight with the thrill of successful deception. “We are so close, Tom. Greengrass’s political influence is now ours, his seat on the Wizengamot secured through Daphne's soon-to-be inherited title. The Ministry is fracturing, the public is terrified, and the resistance is decentralized and demoralized. A few more moves, a few more carefully executed eliminations, and the path will be clear for your rise. They truly think I can be brought to their side, that I might stand against you given the right incentives. They are watching shadows, but the true weapon has been walking among them, unnoticed, for years, all thanks to your own brilliance.” He did a slow triumphant bow of his head towards his master, the fire in his eyes showing the ambition that burned within the teen for the man he sought so desperately to impress. “It’s all coming together.”

“You have done well.” Tom said simply.

That's it? Harry thought, his heart sinking.  Masterful manipulations, the greatest wizards of the previous generation fooled, and that was all the compliment he would get from his master?

The sounds of the Shrieking Shack had never seemed louder than they did in that silent moment that passed between Master and Apprentice.  Deciding to break that silence, Harry dropped to a knee for the first time in a long time, “I did all this to make you proud, master.  I will lead the old man into our trap, and together we will strike him down, and end the last vestiges of resistance together.  None will stand in your way when Dumbledore is dead.”

Silence, and then a scoff from Tom, “You think it will be that simple?”

“T-T- Tom?” Harry asked, his eyes looking up, his heart in his stomach at the man's cold tone.

“Albus Dumbledore is no idiot.” Tom roared, rising to his feet, “You think you have him completely fooled?  You think you have manipulated a man that has forgotten more in his life than you will likely ever know, my young, naive, apprentice?”

Harry didn’t know what to say, but he bowed his head in shame, as Tom stood over him, the young man hissing in parseltongue, “The man is a fool, but this is all too simple.  He is on to you, Harry.”

“He can’t be.” Harry hissed back before going back to English, “Of course he may have his doubts, but what good will they be?  What can he do to stop us?  If he leads me to the prophecy. If he gives me the truth, the rest will be child's play when we stand together against him.”

“You underestimate the man.” Tom said with clear disapproval in your voice, “You sound like a Death Eater, not a master of the Dark Arts I raised you to be.”

Tom had never struck Harry with anything other than magic, but in that moment, his words stung him as bad as some of his curses did, “I-I I’m sorry, master.  I will not disappoint you.  I am ready to end the old man.  I will fight with everything I have and then some.  For what he did to Sirius, for the lack of protection he gave my parents, for all the transgressions he committed against us.”

“Do not let your pride stand in the way of the principle of what we are trying to achieve here.” Tom chastised, “Yes, Dumbledore has wronged us.  Yes, he ruined both of our lives in one way or another, but as the battle for this country comes to a head that is not why we will kill the man.”

Harry lifted his head, glancing at the furious eyes of his mentor, who did not leave him waiting in suspense, “We will end him for everything he represents.  A so-called unbreakable Titan of good.  A man that cannot be beaten.  A fundamental light that shuts out all magic he chooses not to understand.  Only through his death will we submit this country to my will. Only through his death can we bring about victory.”

Considering the man’s words, Harry slowly rose to his feet, and spoke to the man he had been fighting beside for nearly three years, “And we will end him.  When he takes us to the Department of Mysteries I will retrieve the prophecy, learn of the fate that once awaited us, and then lead him to his own slaughter.  You will be able to confront the man in the Ministry, where he will not be able to run or hide, and together, we will end this.  Just as we always planned to.  I am ready to do this, master.  With you at my side.”

Tom moved inside Harry’s personal space, and hissed, “One last test, my young apprentice, do not fail me.”

With that the man shredded through the wards of the shrieking shack, and left Harry standing there feeling more puzzled than he had felt in a long time.  Was this the nerves of his mentor coming to play?  Or was there more happening behind the scenes he was unaware of.  Regardless of what it was, he felt confident in his plans, and only hoped that Tom was being on the overt side of caution.  They had been careful and thorough at every step of the way, sure Dumbledore could be suspicious, but it didn’t seem possible he suspected the truth in any way.  If that was the case Harry would not be allowed to wander the halls of Hogwarts on his own.

Taking a deep breath Harry steeled himself over for the days ahead, deciding it would not be wise to linger any longer the teen departed the Shrieking Shack hoping this would be the last time he had to meet his master in such a clandestine way.

When Harry returned to the Common Room his mood had truly soured.  He hoped that Tom was wrong for once.  All his planning, all the manipulations, it seemed impossible that Dumbledore could be onto him.

Harry sat ensconced in his usual spot, a large chair strategically positioned nearest the colossal glass pane that offered a mesmerizing, though often gloomy, view of the Black Lake in the Slytherin Common Room. It had become a kind of unspoken territory claim; his core group of associates, the inner circle of the King Snake, naturally gravitated to this alcove on most evenings. Tonight, however, felt different. It was the first night back after the winter holidays, a period of quiet and relative normalcy violently shattered by the return of every single one of his classmates, filling the echoing stone chamber with a sudden, suffocating press of bodies and noise.

Earlier, amidst the chaotic arrival and exchange of greetings, he had managed to slip away for a conversation with Tom, but now, settled back in his chair, Harry found himself regretting that he had not gone straight to bed. A profound sense of unease seemed to emanate from the Common Room, and it was beginning to annoy the teen.

The air was thick with the low, incessant murmur of conversation, yet it wasn't the noise itself that bothered him. It was the quality of it. The whispers were too hushed, the pauses too frequent. Every peripheral glance he caught, every hurried head-turn away, every subtle shift in posture among the surrounding students felt like a deliberate, focused action directed entirely at him. They were the silent, insidious marks of a hundred judging eyes, a relentless, non-verbal interrogation that was beginning to work its way under his skin like splinters. The post-holiday euphoria and casual reunion chatter seemed to bypass his corner completely, replaced by a constant, low-frequency hum of speculation and apprehension. The knowledge of what had happened at Greengras Manor sat heavily in the room, palpable to everyone, but spoken of only in those maddening, sibilant whispers that ground inexorably upon his nerves. He realized, with a weary slump of his shoulders against the worn velvet of the chair, that a simple, dreamless sleep would have been infinitely preferable to this quiet, psychological siege.

A glass vase on a nearby table began to fracture, and Harry released a deep calming breath attempting to calm his own irritation, and a soft hand on his own clenched fist made him deflate if only slightly.  A look towards Daphne who was listening to Hestia and Flora Carrow talk about their holidays gave him a lifeline in the storm that seemed to rage on in his mind.  Between Tom’s doubts, and now the quiet descent in the Common Room he was beginning to think his patience might finally snap.

As if his enemies sensed his edged silence—a predatory, taut quiet that wrapped around him like a shroud—a voice cut through the familiar, comforting din of the Common Room. It was a voice honed with deliberate malice, pitched to carry.

“Look how he sits there,” the voice sneered with performative disbelief. “As if things haven’t changed since we left for the holidays. He acts like nothing is different, but we all know that isn’t true.”

The silence that followed was immediate and total, a vacuum where tense whispers and soft chatter had been just a second before. Every eye in the Common Room snapped toward the source of the provocation. Harry did not move a muscle, but the air around him grew heavy, thick with barely restrained power. The chair he occupied suddenly felt like a throne carved from shadow.

Slowly, deliberately, Harry’s eyes lifted and moved across the room until they settled on the smirking blonde figure who had dared to break the fragile peace. Draco Malfoy. A pest, an irritant, who had somehow managed to keep his simmering hatred and arrogance contained for the better part of the school year. Harry had almost forgotten the boy existed, which, in itself, was a small victory.

But now, Malfoy stood in the center of a small, sycophantic cluster of his cronies—Crabbe and Goyle, naturally, looking like a pair of enormous, unintelligent bookends—and wore an expression of triumphant, malicious glee. He had clearly spent the holidays nursing his resentments and now believed he had returned to a world where Harry Potter was vulnerable.

Harry watched the curl of Malfoy’s lip, the slight, nervous tremor in his hands despite the bravado of his posture, and concluded that the spoiled boy was about to make a critical, painful error in judgment. Malfoy had just chosen the absolute worst possible moment, the wrong night entirely, to attempt to irritate Harry. He was about to find out that while things had changed over the holidays, they had not changed in the way he so desperately hoped. They had changed for the worse, at least for anyone foolish enough to provoke the Dark Lord’s Apprentice.

“We all know what happened at Greengrass Manor, Potter.  We all know the Dark Lord came for you.” Draco taunted.

Instead of saying a word in response, Harry merely stood, staring blankly at Draco, but internally his hatred burned.  In this moment however Draco didn’t look concerned, despite the small step backwards he took.  Before Harry could advance, Daphne stood as well, and placed a hand on his shoulder, as if she thought her interference might stop him from murdering the idiot in cold blood.

Had Draco been intelligent he might’ve stopped there, and maybe Harry would’ve sat down, but of course the taunts continued, “Look at him.  Whipped by the first Pureblood heiress that dropped her knickers for him.  We called him King Snake for what?  The Dark Lord clearly wants his head-”

Before another word could be murmured, Harry swept past Daphne so fast that she had no chance of stopping him, and with inhuman speed Harry’s hand was around Draco’s throat, “Wants my head where, Malfoy?  On a spike?  What good would that do you right now?  Do you think he is going to magically appear in this room and stop me from tearing your throat out and ending the future of the Malfoy line right here?”

To his left he saw Crabbe go for his wand, but with his spare hand, Harry reached out and used his magic to wrap an invisible hand around the behemoth of a fifth years throat, causing him to gasp for breath, while Harry continued to choke Draco until he turned purple, “What was your goal here?  Did you think I would relent my title, just because of what happened over the holidays?  Did you think I was going to run scared of anyone that thinks they have a chance to curry favor with the Dark Lord?  How exactly do you think I rose to this position?  Did you forget what I did to those seventh years when I was just thirteen years old?  Did you think I won a popularity contest to get here?”

Harry released Draco to the floor, dark red marks left on his throat as a reminder of Harry’s grip, while he also released Crabbe in a single motion letting them both gasp for air.  He then turned to address the Common Room, “Despite what some of you may believe, the Dark Lord was not at Greengrass Manor for me.  He came for Daphne’s father, Lord Greengrass, and in doing so he sent a clear message.”

Shifting his eyes back to the fallen Draco he hissed, “Pick a side.  There is a storm coming, and there will be no neutrality.  Everyone is going to have to choose whether they are against the Dark Lord or with him.  Lord Greengrass had his chance, and he chose the side that led to his death.”

“Then why did you run?” Adrian Pucey asked from a nearby corner, wand in hand, as if he was considering having a go at Harry.

“Because my priority was Daphne.” Harry answered simply, “Historically the Dark Lord has not ever been amiable to sparing the women and children of a family that has already chosen to defy him.  I am proof of that, and I was not going to risk her life for a parlay at that time.”

“Whose side will you choose?” Montague asked, the question coming from his own circle of sixth years that usually pledged to his side, “If we all have to choose, which side will you choose?”

“The winning side.” Harry said, “Which ever side that may be when my time comes to make a decision.  I am a Slytherin.  We are supposed to be cunning and ambitious.  What good are either of those things when you are looking death in the face.  Being brave sounds great when the words are carved onto your tombstone, but you never get to see it for yourself.  My advice to all of you, choose the side of the living.”

Glaring back down at Draco Harry growled out, “And antagonizing me, trying to stir up discourse in the house, would be the opposite.  Test me, any of you, and you will be reminded exactly how I came to the title of King Snake, and just exactly how far I have come from that day.  Pureblood, Half-Blood, Muggleborn, none of that will matter if I find out anyone is attempting to spread discourse among our house.”

Glancing back at his own group, his closest allies, Harry finished with, “The truth is often ugly.  Sometimes what defines you, is how you react to it.  Don’t forget that.”

Silence followed his declaration, and Harry bent down to be just above eye level with Draco when he said, “Malfoy, if you ever try something like this again…I don’t need to tell you what will happen, do I?”

Draco stared defiantly, but it only lasted for a brief second, before he cast his eyes down and nodded his head, his eyes filled with shame.  Harry reached out and tapped the boy on the face roughly, “Good boy.”

With that Harry stood, stepped over the down teen, flattened out his cloak, and stormed to his Common Room leaving nothing but silence in his wake.

.o.

“I can’t believe it!” Astoria exclaimed, “Do you think our family's curse was somehow tied into the wards, and when he-who-must-not-be-named, destroyed them the curse broke?”

Harry watched in amusement as Daphne held her sister tightly, faking wonder, “I don’t know Tori…I don’t even know what to say.  I am just so happy you are going to be okay.  A bright spot in everything that has happened.”

It had taken almost an entire month before Astoria had realized something was different. No longer was she plagued by the exhaustion of the blood curse that had once coursed through her veins.  No longer did the aches and pains follow her every step, and when Madame Pomfrey did her diagnosis the truth of her health came to light.  To say the girl was ecstatic was an understatement, and Daphne was clearly fighting back tears as the long awaited moment finally arrived that she could celebrate her sister's health.

“It’s a miracle.” Astoria said, burying her face into Daphne’s robe and letting out a long sob.

As Daphne held her sister, a profound wave of relief washed over her features, making her legs look momentarily weak. The sight of Astoria, no longer wracked by the debilitating tremors and fever that the blood curse had inflicted, was a miracle the duo had scarcely dared to hope for. Her slender frame, so fragile just weeks ago, now seemed to possess a delicate, renewed vitality. Harry watched as Daphne tightened her embrace, burying her face in Astoria's freshly washed hair, inhaling the faint, familiar scent of lavender and the hospital's antiseptic.

The witch then offered Harry a look of deep, unspeakable gratitude that transcended mere words. It was a silent acknowledgment of the terrifying risks they had taken, the morally dark paths they had trod, and the desperate, forbidden magic they had employed in the dead of night. They both knew the extraordinary, perhaps even unforgivable, lengths they had gone to heal Astoria, but in the face of victory it seemed worth it.

Since Madame Pomfrey required more time to conduct checks on Astoria, Harry and Daphne used the opportunity to leave her to further observations, ensuring the girl was given a clean bill of health. Arm in arm, Harry and Daphne left the confines of the hospital wing. The corridor, usually a bustling thoroughfare, seemed strangely quiet, offering a brief moment of privacy. They hadn't taken more than a dozen steps before the young witch's grip on his arm tightened. With a sudden, decisive move, Daphne shoved her boyfriend right into the narrow, dark sanctuary of an unused broom closet.

Harry would have certainly raised a questioning eyebrow at her when the latch clicked shut, plunging them into near-total darkness save for the sliver of light beneath the door. However, the question died on his lips, replaced by a sharp inhale of surprise as her mouth found his. Her lips were soft yet urgent, a demand and a thank-you rolled into one fierce, immediate kiss. The unexpected contact, the close proximity in the confined space, sent a jolt of heat and adrenaline through him. The smell of dust, old wood, and Daphne's faint, familiar scent of spring flowers and parchment filled his senses.

He didn't hesitate. His arms instinctively wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him, deepening the kiss with a matching intensity. The kiss was a silent, passionate declaration, a release of tension after the worrying events that had kept them apart. It was messy and desperate, full of unspoken emotions—relief, lingering fear, and undeniable, pent-up affection. They broke apart only when the desperate need for air became too great.

Panting slightly, Harry's forehead rested against hers in the darkness, his hands still gripping her hips. A small, amused smile played on his lips. "What was all that for, Daph?" he whispered, his voice rough and laced with residual passion.

“For everything.” Daphne whispered, “It all seemed so impossible a year ago, and here we are.  My sister is free, healthy, and it’s because of you.”

“Us.” Harry corrected, “We did the research together.”

“It would’ve been impossible without you. Your research, your training, your books.  None of this was possible without you, Harry.  Thank you.” Daphne said softly, gripping the front of his lapel.

“We both had a lot to gain.” Harry promised, “We are both Slytherins and we both found advantages in the path we chose.  Your loyalty is the only thanks I will ever need.”

“You have it.” Daphne promised.

Hearing Tom’s words echo through his head, Harry's grip on the girl tightened slightly as his hand slid up her back slowly, and gripped the end of her long blonde hair, “Good, don’t let it ever waver.  We will accomplish much together, Daph, but only if we can trust each other.”

“After everything,” Daphne began, “You can trust me.”

“I believe you.” Harry said softly, “Big changes are coming.  Everything has worked out for you and your sister Daph, but a day may come when I need your help.  That could be today or tomorrow or-”

“In a year, or ten.” Daphne finished for him, “It doesn’t matter.  I owe you, Harry.  My thanks will never be enough for what you did for my sister.”

Harry nodded, a slow, thoughtful dip of his head as he pulled back just slightly from the kiss, though their foreheads still touched. He gazed into the girl's eyes, a faint, contented smile playing on his lips, feeling the lingering warmth of their embrace. 

As Daphne pressed her lips forward again, Harry tried to push the doubts and thoughts of what was to come away.  With Valentine’s day around the corner, and his final plans with Dumbledore coming to fruition the teen tried to immerse himself in the moment and gave into his desire of spending quality time with his girlfriend.