The Dark Apprentice Chapter 80

Chapter 80

On the day before Yule, Harry had decided on a pilgrimage to Gaunt Manor. He knew a conversation needed to be had with Tom face-to-face before his plans went any further. Too much was at stake to merely act on his own, which meant the morning after Harry and Daphne’s late-night talk, the teen told his girlfriend to make excuses for him with her family. He had suggested that she imply he was going to visit his family in Surrey, but doubted they would even ask.

When Harry apparated onto the front lawn of Gaunt Manor, he released a deep, measured breath of satisfaction that misted slightly in the crisp winter air. He was, undeniably, home. He knew that not every memory forged within these grounds alongside Tom had been pleasant, or even benign; it was here, amidst the shadows and the intense tutelage, that he had been fundamentally reshaped. On these very grounds, Harry had been molded into the formidable wizard he was today, and he was grateful to be back.

Stepping into the ancestral home, he was greeted by Tom at the stairs, who  radiated an unusual, yet welcoming, high spirit. A pleased, triumphant smile curved the corners of his mouth, clearly indicating his satisfaction that Harry had decided to return on his own accord. “Welcome home, apprentice. This is a welcome surprise.”

Offering the man a grin, Harry felt more at ease than he expected, when he said, “After persuading old Sluggy and Dumbledore to let me off on my own for the holidays, I couldn’t resist a visit home.”

Tom nodded approvingly, a subtle, satisfied smirk playing on his lips. "Well then, indulge me, Harry. The whispers and reports have not ceased since our victory at Gringotts. My followers," he emphasized the word, making it sound like a title of honor, "have spoken almost rabidly about your prowess. Your display of raw, unrestrained power during our heist has clearly left an impression."

He gestured vaguely with one hand, as if encompassing the vast, invisible network of their adherents. "Each and every one of them is as excited to greet you as the next. They hunger for a symbol, a testament to the might we wield." Tom’s eyes narrowed slightly, a spark of pure strategic calculation igniting within them. "I think a nice show of power today would be… beneficial. A true demonstration of your growing skill. It would really raise our slippery friends' spirits. A little spectacle to solidify their conviction and remind them of the new order rising."

Harry offered the man a grin, and a slight bow of his head, “If that is your wish, master.”

Tom cackled, making a grand, sweeping gesture for Harry to follow. It was not long before Harry was being paraded through the heart of Nott Manor, a place steeped in dark magic and centuries of pure-blood history. This was the acceptance, the validation, Harry had craved since the day he had become the Dark Lord's apprentice. The air thrummed with a raw, undeniable expectation and admiration, leaving Harry to feel a surge of exhilaration wash over him.

This was everything Harry had ever hoped for, a reality far surpassing the furtive, cloak-and-dagger meetings of the past. There was no need to hide from the Inner Circle now; their gazes were not ones of suspicion or veiled contempt, but of fierce curiosity and  budding respect. Soon, the formal, almost processional atmosphere of the parade through the Manor's expansive, opulent rooms turned into something far more engaging and exhilarating: an exciting, impromptu competition. The Inner Circle, bored with their political machinations, saw a new, powerful plaything, a prodigy to test their own skills against.

Harry had tangled with most of the Inner Circle before, pitting his skill against the most formidable of the Dark Lords’ lieutenants, but this felt different. The duels were relentless, a grueling series of competitive and hard-fought contests that tested the limits of his stamina and magical prowess. From the savage, unpredictable attacks of Bellatrix Lestrange to the cold, calculating precision of Augustus Rookwood, Harry faced them all, adapting his strategy with each confrontation. 

He was becoming quicker, cleverer, and more ruthless than his opponents, relying on a potent mix of wand-work, powerful curses, and sheer will to survive. Despite the difficulty, each victory and defeat was earned with a near-fatal exchange of spells. Unlike before, however, Harry felt that all of the Dark Lord's followers respected him, and some even seemed in awe of him. Something that made Tom look exceedingly pleased by, and a rare, chilling expression of pride crossed his countenance, making Harry fight harder than ever before.

When the day was over, Tom’s high spirits remained, and the two had returned to Gaunt Manor to celebrate the remainder of the holiday in peace. In honor of their triumphant day, Tom had opened a bottle of Firewhiskey, and poured a generous measure into two crystal tumblers, the amber liquid catching the candlelight of his office. Holding his glass aloft, his eyes gleamed. "To our coming victories," Tom murmured, the phrase less a hope and more a solemn declaration, an echo of the countless, greater conquests he knew would lie ahead.

The glasses clinked softly, a delicate, ringing sound that sealed the vow. They took a long, slow draught of the fiery spirit in unison, causing Harry to cough slightly, making Tom smirk, “It’s not for overindulgence; it dulls the senses, but a celebratory toast is appropriate when given the right occasion. Considering we never had the chance to celebrate our historic victory at Gringotts properly, this seems appropriate.”

“When Dumbledore falls, we can share another.” Harry suggested, feeling a bit of his nerves coming to play as the words left his lips.

Tom acknowledged the observation, lifting his glass to the teenager, remarking, "That will certainly be an occasion worth celebrating.”

Harry matched the raised glass, and then took a long, steady pull, the warmth of the Firewhisky doing little to settle the nervous tremor in his hands, but enough to fortify his resolve. He needed to speak the words, to lay out the audacity of his thought.

"Speaking of Dumbledore," Harry began, setting the empty glass down with a decisive  thud on the table. He met his mentor's sharp, expectant gaze. "I have an idea I would like to propose. It’s risky, and unconventional, but I've turned it over and over in my mind, and I genuinely believe it could work.”

Tom frowned at the teen.  A long moment passed, before the man sighed, “Go on.”

Harry didn’t get far into his plan before he realized he was on rocky ground. The air in the study, already thick with unspoken tension, seemed to congeal, making every word he uttered feel like an agonizing, slow-motion gamble. Spoken aloud, under the unwavering, disconcerting gaze of the dark wizard, the whole idea—his convoluted plan—sounded utterly foolish, mad even.

He wasn't merely presenting a plan; he was attempting a precarious high-level act of manipulation, a house of cards built upon another. It was a strategy so layered, so reliant on Tom's dark ambition and Harry's own carefully constructed plan, that a single misstep would send the whole thing crashing down.

Clearly, Tom was not sold on the idea. As Harry’s voice trailed into the charged silence, the atmosphere in the room shifted. It was a subtle change. Yet, every nerve ending screamed a warning. Harry felt, with terrifying certainty, that he was balancing on a knife's-edge, one careless twitch away from being irrevocably judged, and possibly, lethally punished.

At last the man stood up from behind the desk, and Lord Voldemort assumed his full height, while Harry bowed his head. The teen wasn’t sure if he was embarrassed, ashamed, or terrified, of the words that would follow, but he waited for judgement with a now rapidly beating heart.

“I have warned you from a young age, countless times, and in no uncertain terms,” Tom began, his voice a low, cold rasp that seemed to brush against the very air in the chamber. He did not raise it, yet the authority it carried was absolute, a heavy weight pressing down on his apprentice. “That falling for the fleeting and ultimately trivial pleasures of the flesh, is a weakness—a perilous, soul-sapping indulgence that breeds nothing but distraction and ruin.

He allowed a moment of heavy silence to pass, letting the accusation settle. His gaze, sharp and relentless as a frozen blade, bored into his student. “And where has that lack of discipline brought you? Look at yourself now. Here you stand, at the very precipice of everything we have worked for, prepared to gamble away your future, your destiny, and the monumental chances of ultimate success—all for what? To help some insignificant, silly little girl with problems that are fundamentally not your own. Problems that are beneath your notice, and certainly beneath the destiny I have carved out for you.”

Tom took a slow step closer, the rhythmic tap of his leather boot echoing in the stillness. “You are agonizingly close, my apprentice. The power you crave, the station you deserve, the final victory—it is all within your grasp. Yet, at this pivotal moment, when all that is required is a final, unwavering resolve, you would hinge it all on this reckless, ill-conceived plan. A plan motivated not by strategy or ambition, but by a childish, sentimental impulse. You confuse pity with purpose, and that, above all else, could be your undoing.”

The way Tom said the word plan, sharp and laced with an undercurrent of skepticism, gave Harry a clear hint at the man's immediate disapproval of the idea. However, the critical fact that Tom had not yet outright refused, or, more dangerously, begun to curse Harry for his audacity, was a fragile sign that Harry needed to explain himself, and quickly.

“The plan could work, my master,” Harry began, his voice taking on a persuasive, though strained, edge.

He rose from his seat, his movement tentative, and leaned forward towards the massive, dark-wood desk that separated them, his palms flattening against the polished surface. He met Tom’s burning red eyes, attempting to project a confidence he absolutely did not feel—a desperate attempt to mask the nervous flutter in his stomach.

“Daphne will be successful in the ritual. I guarantee it. I designed the majority of the spellwork myself, meticulous in its detail, building upon your own invaluable teachings of the Dark Arts and blood magic. Her father will perish as a result of the ritual’s completion, the sacrifice providing the anchor she needs to save her sister. From there, the subsequent steps are a matter of carefully managed deception. I will alter the memories of her mother and her younger sister, ensuring that their recollection of the event aligns with the narrative we need Dumbledore and the rest to believe. They will be devastated, but utterly ignorant of the truth.”

Harry took a necessary, shallow breath, gathering his courage, “The plan is anything but simple, I know, but it could be devastatingly effective," Harry articulated, his voice a low, urgent rasp that nonetheless held a compelling edge. He spoke not just to convey information, but to fully assure his master that the plan was well thought out. "When Dumbledore learns that I barely escaped with my life, he will be desperate. He will think you are desperate and willing to do anything to get the prophecy in your hands.”

The way Tom watched him made an eruption of butterflies appear in his stomach, but he swallowed hard trying to keep his voice even, “Convincing the man that I need to get the prophecy, destroy the contents, and keep it out of your hands permanently will be easy. Lives will have been lost, and Dumbledore will know that for the ‘Greater Good’ he can’t let anyone else die to protect the prophecy. Not when removing it would be so simple.”

Grinning now, Harry banished the lingering shadows of doubt. Speaking softly, a note of dark satisfaction entered his conspiratorial whisper, "From there we will lure him to the Department of Mysteries, and together we reveal our true bond as master and apprentice, before we kill him.”

Harry paused, allowing the gravity of their imminent decision to settle. "And once he is gone, we will learn of the fate that was supposed to be destined for us, but it will hardly be more than a footnote in history.”

Tom held an even face, but Harry knew he was making progress, or the man would’ve already silenced him, so he gave his final thoughts, “With Dumbledore gone, the hope of the Ministry will collapse instantly. No one possesses the power to effectively oppose us. With Dumbledore gone, we can summon the rest of your followers, and take the Ministry. With Gringotts practically wiped out, the Ministry under your control, and Dumbledore gone, victory will be ours.”

Silence, thick and absolute, suffocated the air in the study. It was a stillness more profound than the absence of sound, a chasm carved out by the sheer weight of Harry's audacious plan. The teen knew he had made his grave; however, if the Dark Lord refused his plan, then he would have to lie in it. 

Harry knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that Tom was meticulously dissecting every word, every nuance of his argument. The heir of Slytherin, however, was a master of self-control; his expression remained a mask of cool, impenetrable calculation, offering no hint as to whether Harry’s proposal had been met with approval or outright fury.

Tom at last took a seat back in his chair, simply holding Harry’s emerald eyes with his own unnervingly red ones. It was a silent test of will, a protracted moment where Harry braced himself for the invasive probe of Legilimency—the brutal violation of his mind that he had become accustomed to. But the intrusion never came. Instead, the man seemed content to simply observe, to assess the mettle of his apprentice through sheer scrutiny.

When Tom finally spoke, his voice was low, resonating with a dangerous calm that somehow felt heavier than a shouted command. The words, when delivered, settled over Harry like a physical burden, a cloak woven from the enormity of the responsibility being granted.

“I gave you this task as a test, Harry,” Tom stated, the finality of a judgment ringing in his tone. He shifted slightly, leaning forward just enough to project an aura of focused intensity. “A test not merely of your tactical skill, but of your capacity for independent thought and ruthless execution. You may not have chosen a route I agree with—indeed, it is more brazen, more conspicuous than my own initial preference would have dictated.” A slow, almost predatory smile curved the corner of his lips, a chilling flicker of something akin to admiration. “However,” he continued, his eyes glittering with a sudden, sharp intensity, “if you truly believe, with every fiber of your being, that this end-game will secure your victory, our victory—that this method, however unorthodox, is the path to the desired result—then I will provide you with the means.”

He paused, letting the implication hang heavy between them. “You have my permission to use the Dark Mark,” he finally stated, the words an immense, almost unthinkable grant of authority. It was a symbol of his inner circle, his ultimate sanction. “Furthermore,” he added, a decisive nod concluding his internal debate, “you will have my full, unconditional support on the ambush. Gather the resources you need. Execute your plan. If you fail me, if you are exposed, and the old fool lives, the consequences will be dire for you, my apprentice.”

Harry offered a low bow, but a crippling anxiety washed over him briefly, before he found his voice again, “I will not fail you, my master.”

“Then you best return to your little…friend.” 

.o.

Christmas morning Harry woke up at Greengrass Manor, a grand, albeit currently unsettling, backdrop to the emotional storm brewing within him. A deep sense of uncertainty, a heavy, cold weight, settled in his chest the moment he opened his eyes. The intricate, and frankly audacious, plan he had detailed to Tom the previous night now dominated his every thought. It was a strategy born of cold, calculated necessity, and the sheer audacity of it now seemed daunting in the quiet morning light.

However, the agonizing tension of the impending scheme was momentarily overshadowed by the simple, inescapable fact that he was powerless to act for nearly a week. Six long days stretched ahead of him, a period of forced inaction before the first phase of his plan could even begin. This enforced patience was a torment in itself, a grating against his need for immediate control and decisive movement.

Downstairs, the atmosphere was one of forced, fragile joy, primarily orchestrated by Daphne. Her desire to give her younger sister, Astoria, one last unequivocally happy Yule—a perfect, untainted holiday before their world potentially crumbled around them—struck Harry as profoundly, tragically trivial. He watched her efforts with a detached, almost alien sense of observation. A 'happy Yule' was an utterly foreign concept to him; he had never experienced a single one, his childhood holidays having been a revolving cycle of neglect, starvation, and fear. The sentiment, while noble in Daphne’s intent, felt like a feather against the mountain of dread and high-stakes chaos that currently constituted Harry's reality. The small, glittering rituals of the Greengrass's Christmas morning felt hollow, a temporary curtain pulled over the terrifying drama he was about to unleash.

The feeling during Astoria’s gift opening that morning was thick with a palpable distress, something Harry could not help but notice, particularly emanating from Lord Greengrass. The Head of the House was a monument of cold, almost cruel, detachment. He sat regally in his emerald and golden high-backed chair, the rich colours clashing jarringly with the stark emptiness in his eyes. In his hand, a crystal tumbler held a generous measure of neat Firewhiskey, which he neither sipped with enjoyment nor held casually; it seemed to be a grim, solitary prop. His gaze was fixed on the proceedings, yet his attention was clearly elsewhere, lost in a private, suffocating cold that no amount of cheer or Yule magic could dispel.

Lady Greengrass, seated beside her husband, made a visible effort to maintain the illusion of festive joy. Her smile was a fragile, carefully constructed mask, a desperate social necessity, yet its forced nature was painfully obvious to anyone truly looking. The light in her eyes, usually so bright and warm when focused on her youngest daughter, seemed muted, a flicker against the encroaching darkness. It was a clear, terrible indication that the collective spirit of the family had fractured, succumbing to a hopelessness that overshadowed the lavish gifts and the joyous occasion.

The unspoken truth hanging in the air, heavier than the scent of pine and cinnamon, was that both Lord and Lady Greengrass appeared to have reached a grim conclusion. The coldness and the forced cheer were not mere signs of weariness; they were the outward manifestations of deep resignation. They watched their daughter open her presents with the hollow-eyed grief of people who believed this could, truly, be Astoria's last Yule, turning the morning's celebration into a poignant, final farewell disguised as a festive gathering. 

Harry didn’t need to see the look on Daphne’s face to sense her fury. Perhaps it was all the training they had done together over the past year that had forged a link between their magical cores, but his affinity to her magic thrummed with her barely contained rage. The air around her seemed to thicken, charged with a palpable tension that made the hairs on Harry’s arms stand on end. He knew, with an absolute certainty born of shared experience and intimate knowledge of her character, that Daphne was nearing her breaking point.

Even Harry, who was not privy to every confidential conversation between the Greengrass family and their Healers, knew that the doctors had been explicit: Astoria could look forward to, at worst, a few more Yules with her family. Her health would indeed deteriorate, and her magical reserves would eventually be irrevocably damaged, forcing her into a gentler, more restricted existence, but this was not the end. The prognosis had been clear; the disease was a fatal parasite, but her time should still be measured in years.

The sheer, gut-wrenching fact that her parents, Lord and Lady Greengrass, were acting as if the young girl was already lying on her deathbed clearly infuriated his girlfriend. Daphne saw their melodramatic sorrow and the excessive, almost performative pampering not as parental love, but as a form of surrender—a premature mourning that sucked the remaining joy and normalcy out of Astoria's life. It wasn't just the sadness that angered her; it was the lack of fight, the immediate resignation that treated her sister as a fragile, non-entity, rather than the sharp-witted, clever girl she was. Her silent, internal shout seemed to echo in the room: Stop treating her like she's already gone!

If Daphne had wanted to give her sister a final happy Yule with her family as a whole, she had failed spectacularly, and the weight of that failure was clearly pressing down on her shoulders. The well-intentioned, yet ultimately unsuccessful, attempt to orchestrate a perfect family gathering had only served to underscore the growing rift within the Greengrass family. It had never been clearer as to why Daphne was able to make the sacrifice to save her sister.

When the time arrived for the traditional family lunch, Astoria had quietly excused herself to change out of her silk pajamas, a clear sign that she was putting a deliberate distance between herself and the rest of the family. Lord and Lady Greengrass did the same, with Daphne following without further words.

Harry, who had been observing the quiet catastrophe unfold all morning, found himself compelled to intervene, sensing the deep distress radiating off Daphne. He genuinely hoped to offer some measure of comfort, or at the very least, a moment of levity to distract her from her evident gloom. He sought her out, timing his emergence from his room perfectly. He caught the young woman just as she stepped out of her own room at the end of the long, richly carpeted hallway that led to their quarters.

As she looked up, her expression a careful mask of composure that didn’t quite hide the lingering hurt in her eyes, Harry offered her a slightly crooked, sympathetic grin, leaning casually against the wall. His tone was light, yet carried a genuine note of understanding. “Well, that didn’t go as well as I am sure you hoped,” he murmured, his gaze steady. It was a blunt, perhaps even tactless, opening, but Harry knew Daphne well enough to know that she appreciated directness over saccharine platitudes. He waited, ready to offer a listening ear or a shoulder to cry on, whatever she needed to navigate the fallout of her disastrous Yule morning.

“I could strangle them both.” The girl hissed softly, “I can’t believe-”

“Hey,” Harry cut her off, “No more negatives. There will be enough of that later.”

Stepping closer to her, the dark robes he wore contrasting sharply with her pale French feather blue ones, Harry placed his hands gently on Daphne’s waist. The soft fabric of her robes was the only barrier between them. He maintained the confident, playful grin on his face, a mask he hoped was convincing enough to alleviate the lingering worry in her bright blue eyes. “You didn’t open my gift,” he said, his voice a low, teasing murmur.

Daphne’s eyes, a stunning shade of ice-blue, widened in genuine surprise, and she tilted her head slightly. “But, Harry, there wasn’t any under the-”

A low chuckle from Harry interrupted the young woman. "I preferred a more private setting for this one," he admitted, his smile softening into something more tender. As he spoke, a sleek, rectangular box, covered in deep emerald velvet, floated into the air from behind him. It hovered silently just over his shoulder, a silent testament to the magic he now wielded so effortlessly. The sight of the magical delivery made Daphne release a breathy, delighted laugh. She pushed him away gently, though her eyes were already fixed on the floating box, her hand reaching out to claim the mysterious, belated present.

Once it was in her hands, she opened it with shaking hands, and her eyes widened in delight.

“I’ve won a handful of galleons in my time…well, you probably wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Harry remarked cheekily, thinking of his time in the Underground dueling leagues.

Daphne giggled softly, pulling the pendant from its box. It was a beautiful golden pendant, catching the dim light and casting a warm glow. Attached to a delicate chain was a meticulously crafted snake charm, its body coiled elegantly, with tiny, perfectly set ruby red eyes. On the head of the snake was the smallest little tiara symbolising her status in Slytherin. She held it in her palm, turning it slowly, observing the intricate detail and the mesmerizing gleam of the gold with an expression of pure, unadulterated admiration. Her gaze drifted from the pendant to his face, a thoughtful smile playing on her lips. "I think," she confessed, her voice barely a breath above a whisper, the wonder evident in every syllable, "I would believe just about anything you told me at this point." The statement was laced with a sense of awe.

“I know it would’ve been easier and more traditional to pull something out of my family vault, but it wasn’t on my mind when we took Gringotts.” Harry offered sheepishly.

Daphne held out the pendant to Harry with a smile gracing her lips, “It’s perfect, put it on me?”

Harry nodded in agreement, a small, genuine smile gracing his lips. The moment felt intensely private, despite the cavernous space of the hallway they were in. He moved carefully, his fingers brushing against the silk of her hair as he placed the heavy, golden chain around her neck.

“It suits you," he murmured, his voice low, a husky approval that sent a visible shiver through her. " When he was finished, she leaned forward, her eyes, usually alight with sharp calculation, softened with a profound emotion he had grown to recognize as loyalty and burgeoning affection. She captured his lips on her own in a kiss that was both a tender thank you and a bold declaration of their united path. It was deep and consuming, a brief, fiery connection that sealed the unspoken pact between them.

Pulling back only slightly, her forehead resting against his, she breathed the words against his mouth, "Thank you, Harry. Truly. I couldn’t do all this without you. Every step we take, every risk we face—it all seems infinitely more possible with you beside me." Her hands rose to cup his face, her thumb gently tracing the line of his jaw, her gaze steady and full of fierce, dark ambition.

“Then let’s finish the job.” Harry whispered, “No more waiting. There’s no point.”

Daphne stilled at his words. The dark temptation was apparent by the way her eyes darkened. She still had the morning's fury on her mind, and Harry knew he was using it to his advantage, but also wanted to go forward with their plans.

“He gave me the go-ahead.” Harry whispered, gripping her sides with his hands, “We can use his mark. Set it all up in our favor. We save Astoria, and then set a trap. It can all be ours.”

“Yes.” Daphne whispered, “Let’s do it.”

“That’s my girl.” Harry said, kissing her one last time, “Let’s make history.”