The Dark Apprentice Chapter 65

Chapter 65

Staring out over the water, Harry felt a thrilling sense of anticipation course through his veins.  Behind him were a dozen men in black robes and silver masks, the classic Death Eater attire.  Harry too wore the black robes, but in the crook of his arm rested his golden mask that Tom gifted him.

Tom, for his part, stood with his arms crossed behind his back, a silent sentinel surveying the vast, churning expanse of the North Sea from the crumbling battlements of Tantallon Castle. The ancient fortress, a testament to bygone eras of conflict and resilience, offered the closest viable land point for their assault on Azkaban. The journey ahead would be a formidable one, a long and arduous broomstick ride across the relentlessly rough and cool waters, where the wind would whip at their robes and the spray would sting their faces. Yet, despite the inherent challenges, Harry could discern a profound sense of purpose and anticipation emanating from the man beside him. Tom was in his element, a Lord poised on the precipice of battle, his eyes alight with an almost palpable excitement to embark on this perilous, yet ultimately crucial, journey. The salt-laden air, the cries of gulls, and the endless horizon seemed to invigorate him, preparing him for the trials that lay ahead.

“Tonight we bring back some of my most loyal followers. Some of our most gifted fighters.” Tom said as he turned to address his gathered Death Eaters. “The assault on Azkaban may just be a footnote in history in comparison to what lies ahead, but let us not downplay something that has never been done before. We will shatter the Ministry’s illusion of impenetrable security, proven that no stronghold is beyond our reach. Tonight, we transcend mere tactical victories. We reclaim our lost warriors, those who have endured the Dementors for years, their loyalty unbroken, their resolve hardened by suffering. Their return will send a tremor through the very foundations of the wizarding world, a clear declaration that the old order is crumbling, and a new era, under our power, is dawning.” He paused, letting his words sink in, the air thick with unspoken promises of power and retribution.

Cheers erupted from the assembled group, a roar of approval, that signified the groups readiness. Tom, his lips curving into a sinister smile that seemed to promise both victory and vengeance, addressed them with a booming voice that effortlessly cut through the din. "Follow my apprentice and I into battle," he declared, his gaze sweeping over the eager faces before him, "liberate our followers from the chains that bind them. We will handle the rest." His words hung in the air, a potent blend of command and promise, igniting a fervent excitement among his loyalists. The flickering torchlight danced across their determined faces, reflecting their shared conviction and the unspoken understanding of the perilous journey ahead.

Tom turned to Harry now, speaking with silky confidence, “Keep up if you can, young one.”

With a sudden surge of power, the man propelled himself into the air, his ascent aided by a swirling, vapory fog that enveloped his legs, seemingly defying gravity. Harry, watching the spectacle, shook his head in a mixture of disbelief and awe. He had never witnessed Tom employ such an unsupported method of flight, though he also had noted the absence of a broom, which typically facilitated aerial travel. A broad grin spread across Harry's face, a silent acknowledgment of his mentor's formidable power. Without a moment's hesitation, Harry summoned his own broomstick from its resting place at his side, mounted it with practiced ease, and launched himself into the sky, following closely behind the ascending Dark Lord. Below them, a chorus of jubilant cries erupted from the Death Eaters, who, invigorated by the display, swiftly took to the air to join their leader and his apprentice in their flight.

As Harry had predicted, the air grew increasingly frigid the further they ventured out to sea. The biting wind whipped around them, carrying the stinging spray of the waves, but after an hour of flying alongside Tom Riddle and his entourage of Death Eaters, Harry realized that the cold had taken on an unnatural, almost malevolent quality. It wasn't merely the chill of the ocean; there was an insidious, penetrating cold that seemed to sink into his very bones, far beyond what any natural weather phenomenon could explain. A shiver, unrelated to the biting wind, traced a path down his spine.

Dementors. The very thought sent a shiver down Harry’s spine, a cold dread that mirrored the oppressive chill he now felt seeping into his bones. He knew they must be getting close; the profound sense of despair and the inexplicable draining of all warmth and joy were undeniable signs of their proximity. Each labored breath felt colder than the last, as if the very air was being sucked dry of life and hope.

It wasn’t long before, in the distance, a formidable, jagged silhouette emerged from the murky, turbulent waters – the infamous Island of Azkaban. Even from afar, it exuded an aura of bleak desolation and despair, a fitting prison for criminals. The towering, black fortress, built on a craggy outcrop of rock, seemed to defy the natural world, its grim triangular architecture a testament to human cruelty and the bleakness of its purpose. Swirling around it, like a perpetual, malevolent storm, were the shadows that were Dementors, their tattered cloaks billowing in the unforgiving wind, their presence a palpable, chilling weight on the soul. The air grew heavier, thick with the silence of utter hopelessness, broken only by the mournful cry of the wind and the distant, unseen lapping of waves against the island's treacherous shores.

As they approached the island, Tom slowed his descent slightly, to fly beside Harry.  The man shouted over the wind, “Guard shack on the ground.  Take it, and give us a landing point.  We will break the wards from there.  I will deal with the dementors.”

In understanding, Harry nodded, a grim resolve settling over his features. He didn't waste a second, immediately diving towards the mentioned guard shack waving his hand over his shoulder as an urgent signal for the rest of the Death Eaters to follow. The air crackled with a sudden, oppressive tension, and the momentary lull was shattered by the piercing wail of alarms.

Harry could feel the almost physical jolt as he tripped a series of proximity wards, their magical energy radiating outwards, a silent scream announcing their presence. Each ward seemed to amplify the urgency of their situation, the metallic shriek of the alarms growing louder, more insistent. He closed the distance on what revealed itself to be a sprawling dock area, the air thick with the scent of salt and stagnant water. Harry could discern the silhouettes of half a dozen Aurors, already gathering, their wands drawn and held at the ready. Their movements were swift, practiced, a clear indication that they were not caught entirely unawares. The soft glow of their wands already shimmered in the gloom, painting the scene in an eerie, otherworldly light.

Knowing what would follow could only be decisive violence, Harry thought back to the Aurors that had taken him into custody after the death of Tracey. The memory ignited a cold fury within him. He recalled the harsh glare in their eyes, the callous way they had interrogated him, treating him not as a hero who had rid society of a menace, but as a common criminal. Their accusations had stung, branding him with the very same darkness that Barty Crouch Jr held. A fire, icy yet scorching, coursed through his veins at the injustice. He even remembered the long-haired Auror, Rufus Scrimgeour, the man who had attempted to arrest him after he had defeated Igor Karkaroff, a deed that should have earned him a commendation, not condemnation. The hypocrisy of it all, the way the Ministry twisted justice.  The way they had condemned his godfather to die was enough to give him the strength to do what must be done.

Before Harry could land on the ground he was forced to use his wand, and shield the descending broom riders and himself.  In swift retaliation however, Harry unleashed a massive gout of green fire with a hiss, scattering the Aurors, and giving him the needed time to touch ground.

As soon as his feet hit the dock, Harry completely disregarded his broomstick, allowing it to go sailing down the platform. His movements were swift and decisive, a stark contrast to the chaos erupting around him. Without a moment's hesitation, he whipped his wand towards three Aurors who were preparing to engage him, their expressions a mix of grim determination and surprise.

Animating the green fire he had created, Harry's will manifested as the vibrant ring of emerald flames surged into the air around the three Aurors. The fiery emerald circlet rose, thick and shimmering, creating an impassable barrier that crackled with a sinister energy. With a flick of his wrist, the wooden planks that held their unsteady footing ripped free, contorting and weaving into a living shield that danced before Harry, effortlessly deflecting the barrage of curses and hexes the Aurors desperately flung his way.

The ring of fire, a hypnotic display of vibrant green, began its slow, inexorable closure, a vibrant snare drawing ever tighter around the trapped figures. Panic began to set in on his opponents as the oppressive heat intensified, and the air within their fiery prison grew thin and acrid. Desperate, ragged wails of pain, sharp and piercing, erupted from the Aurors as the encroaching flames seared their robes and licked at their skin. Their frantic attempts to Apparate were met with a silent, unseen resistance, a magical dampening field emanating from one of Augustus Rookwoods traps that held them firmly in his fiery grasp.

Another Auror attempted to engage with him, his wand already raised, but before he could utter a single incantation, he was enveloped by a sickly green light. The Auror's face contorted in a silent scream as the unnatural glow consumed him, leaving only a shimmering emerald outline that quickly faded into nothingness. Harry offered a brief, almost imperceptible nod to a masked Death Eater who stood nearby, his own wand still glowing from the spell.

In a matter of seconds, the horrifying screams that had echoed through the chaotic scene had ceased. The three unfortunate Aurors, caught in the relentless emerald fire, were gone, leaving behind no trace but the lingering stench of ozone, burnt flesh, and fear.  Harry’s head tilted sideways as he surveyed the damage he had done, but with a casual flick and swish of his wand, Harry dispelled all the lingering flames around the area, extinguishing the macabre glow and plunging that section of the battlefield back into a more ominous darkness. The air, though no longer visibly burning, still crackled with the residual magic of his devastating display.

The biting chill of the dementors clung to the air, a pervasive cold that seeped into Harry's very bones, even as Tom landed with a thud beside him. Clearly, Tom had already engaged in a short-lived battle against the spectral beings; the panicked shrieks of the dementors, rapidly fading into the distance, served as grim testament to his effectiveness. Harry's gaze instinctively lifted to the tumultuous sky above. There, amidst the swirling darkness, a sinister shadowy creature, eerily similar in its spectral form to his own manifestation, moved with destructive grace. It tore through the ranks of any remaining dementors, a whirlwind of destruction that sent them scattering like leaves in a gale, their forms dissipating into the oppressive gloom. Death’s Shadow, Harry recognized. The entity was Tom’s, an extension of his will, and its presence on the battlefield promised a swift and brutal end to the dementor threat.

.o.

Tom observed from his vantage point high above, the scene unfolding on the dock below. Harry, a figure of deadly grace, had landed with the swiftness of a predator, immediately engaging the Aurors. The dock became a canvas for destruction, painted with the vibrant, searing emerald flames that had erupted from Harry's wand. The air, even from his distant position hundreds of meters away, was thick with the visceral sounds of battle – the crackle of magic, the shouts of men, and the chilling screams of pain that pierced the night.

What truly struck Tom was the sheer absence of hesitation in Harry’s movements. There was no flicker of doubt, no pause for reflection; only an unwavering focus on the task at hand: the ruthless dispatching of his opponents. This unflinching resolve spoke volumes, telling Tom precisely what he needed to understand about his young apprentice. Harry was not merely growing stronger; he was evolving. The shackles of mercy, once a guiding principle in his actions, had been cast aside, replaced by a cold, efficient determination. As the emerald flames danced and illuminated the golden mask that concealed Harry’s face, Tom felt a profound certainty. Bringing Harry along had been, without a shadow of a doubt, the right choice. The transformation before him was a testament to his own foresight, a confirmation that he was forging not just an ally, but a weapon of power that could only be dwarfed by his own.

Deciding his own demonstration of power was practical Tom hissed out his spell to submit the Dementors to his will, “Mortis Umbra.”

The oppressive chill that had permeated the air dissipated as Tom's shadowy beast, a creature of pure, unadulterated darkness, unfurled its immense wings and began its terrifying rampage across the sky. Its very presence seemed to devour the light, leaving only deeper shadows in its wake. The dementors, those cloaked arbiters of despair, scattered like ash in a tempest, their guttural moans replaced by shrieks of terror. They, who fed on human happiness and hope, now found themselves facing a tidal wave of force far more ancient and formidable than their own.

When Tom, the architect of this monstrous apparition, eventually returned to the desolate island, the dementors would grovel at his feet, their immaterial forms trembling with a fear they typically inflicted upon others. They would beg for mercy, for a cessation of the terrifying onslaught that threatened to consume their very essence. And Tom, ever the manipulator, would grant it to them, but not without a price. Their allegiance would be demanded, a fealty sworn to him, just as it had been in the harrowing days of the first war, when he had first bent them to his will and unleashed them upon a terrified world. Their desperation would be his ultimate tool, securing their unwavering loyalty to his burgeoning empire of darkness.

Allowing Death's Shadow to do its work, Tom descended abruptly towards the docks where his apprentice had gathered his followers. The air grew heavy with an oppressive chill as Tom, cloaked in an aura of dark magic, plummeted through the sky. Below, the flickering lights of the docks cast long shadows, illuminating a throng of figures huddled together. His apprentice, Harry, stood at the epicenter of the gathering, a looming presence in a golden mask that obscured his identity. His voice, magically amplified and deepened, reverberated across the water, a chilling, guttural sound that was far removed from his natural tenor. "Bored, yet?" Harry's words hung in the air, a cheeky challenge set forth from the young man.

Tom grinned at the boy as he flourished his wand forward, “Now we only have the wards.  Augustus?”

.o.

Harry watched as Roookwood moved forward to address the group, his voice a low, urgent rasp, stepped forward. "Thirteen followers of the Dark Lord are here," he announced, his gaze sweeping over the gathered members of the Inner Circle. "Each of us will make small incisions on our hands. Then, we will place our bleeding palms upon the shimmering barrier that stands before us. The Dark Lord and his Apprentice will do the rest." A chilling silence descended upon the group, punctuated only by the faint, rhythmic thrumming of the wards.

Several nods of understanding followed, their collective agreement a silent affirmation of Tom's unspoken authority. Harry watched as Tom began pacing around the weathered wooden dock, his movements precise and deliberate. A palpable magical buildup hummed around the area, a low thrum that vibrated in the air and sent shivers down Harry's spine. The very planks beneath their feet seemed to absorb the burgeoning power, the air growing thick with magical saturation.

Glancing at his hand, Harry took his wand, its familiar weight a small comfort amidst the escalating tension. He slid it across his palm, the polished wood cool against his skin, just as the former Unspeakable had commanded. Then, with a deep breath and a surge of determination, he placed it on the shimmering magical barrier that pulsed before them.

A searing shock of pain ripped through his arm the moment his hand made contact with the barrier. It was a sharp, electrifying jolt that coursed through every nerve ending, forcing a yelp of pure agony from his lips. His hand instinctively ripped back, clutching at the throbbing limb, a phantom burning sensation lingering long after the initial impact.

Augustus, now stood firmly at his side. His movements were precise, imbued with a practiced grace that spoke of countless hours of study and preparation. In a swift, fluid motion, he drew his wand, its polished surface gleaming faintly in the light. Without hesitation, he began to trace intricate, luminous runes in the air before them, each one pulsing with an ancient, arcane energy. These weren't mere symbols, but conduits of raw power, carefully woven into a complex tapestry of magic. With a final, decisive push, he propelled the newly formed matrix of glowing script into the shimmering barrier that stood between them.  A tilt of his head seemed to show his consideration, before he nodded, “Everyone get back…my lord, it is ready.”

Tom merely nodded to the man, a silent acknowledgment of the weighty moment. Harry moved to stand at his master's side, his gaze fixed on Tom with a curious intensity. The magical saturation was now nearly suffocating, a prelude to the monumental act about to unfold. Tom's chest rose and fell in slow, deliberate breaths, each one a measured pulse against the thrumming anticipation. His wand, an extension of his very will, began its slow, deliberate ascent, rising to about shoulder level, a beacon of power poised for its unleash. A faint, almost imperceptible hum emanated from the polished wood, resonating with the growing magical energy gathering within him. "Watch and learn, Harry," Tom's voice, though low, carried an undeniable resonance, a profound certainty that echoed in the quiet space, "as we make history." The words hung in the air, a declaration and a promise.

A short, almost imperceptible pause, as the man closed his eyes briefly, a flicker of something ancient and terrible passing across his features. When they shot open, they were no longer the deep, shadowed pools they had been, but solid, unholy red. With a sudden, whip-like motion of his shoulders, his wand shot backwards, a dark, gnarled piece of yew, already humming with malevolent energy. Tom surged forward, his every muscle tensed, unleashing a mighty bellow that tore from his throat – a sound less human and more beast, filled with primal rage and dark intent. As the sound echoed, a jet of black magic, thick and viscous as tar, erupted from the tip of his wand, striking with devastating force precisely where the intricate, glowing runes had been carved into the stone floor. The impact was not merely physical; it vibrated through the very air, a testament to the raw, untamed power he wielded.

Harry watched with wide eyes, a primal fear coiling in his gut, as the dark spell, a swirling vortex of inky blackness, collided with the shimmering barrier. It wasn't just a simple impact; the spell seemed to possess a malevolent will, pushing with a ferocious, live-like tenacity, like a beast attempting to breach a cage. The entire prison's dome, a vast expanse of wards, was illuminated now, casting an eerie, pulsating glow over the desolate landscape.

A low grunt of strained effort escaped Tom's lips, his face contorted in a mask of intense concentration as he broke the spell and spoke sharply, “Harry!”

Knowing precisely what the man desired, Harry didn't hesitate. With a surge of intent, he thrust his wand forward, a focused beam of magic lashing out.  Before it struck the wards however, Tom’s own spell collided with his own, striking the very same weakened point on the ancient wards. Their spells, distinct in origin but united in purpose, connected with a visible ripple of energy. Now, as one, the two convergent spells poured into the wards, not with a gentle seep, but with a raw, concussive force that vibrated through the very air, threatening to shatter the silence of the space. The magical barrier shuddered under the relentless, combined assault, groaning like a living entity in its death throes.

Harry was waning quickly under the onslaught of power he was releasing.  His arm was shaking under the intensity of the spell he was releasing.  To his right he could see the veins throbbing in Tom’s neck as he poured every ounce of his immense magical power into the wards, reinforcing them against the relentless assault. The air was becoming thick with raw energy, growing heavier and denser with each passing second. 

Then, with a deafening roar that vibrated through Harry's very bones, an explosive, concussive force ripped through the magic surrounding the prison. The barrier didn't just break; it shattered into a million glittering fragments of pure energy, dissipating into the oppressive darkness as if it had never existed.

Jaw dropping Harry just stared in awe at what they had accomplished.  A long moment passed where no one said a word, and then cheers began in the group!  Harry could tell Tom was exhausted from the bout of magic, but he did well in disguising it, as he grinned, “You all know what to do.  Liberate our old friends.  My apprentice and I have one last task.”

Harry looked questioningly at the Dark Lord, but didn’t dare voice his thoughts as the twelve masked men surged forward with evident glee.  When it was just the two of them, Harry removed his mask and spoke in a low voice, offering a bow of his head, “I am in awe, master.”

Tom placed a hand on his apprentice’s shoulder, “Now you see what we are capable of together.  I told you that our wands being brothers would serve a purpose one day.  That is just a fraction of what we could be capable of.”

Nodding his head, Harry said nothing, as Tom patted his shoulder roughly, “Now, follow me.”

The air still shimmered faintly where the man had vanished, a whisper of displaced magic. Harry’s gaze, sharp and assessing, flicked upward, immediately pinpointing the ominous silhouette of the prison’s highest tower. There, at its very apex, stood Tom, a dark, motionless figure peering over the precipice. A jolt, not of surprise but of grim determination, shot through Harry.

With a barely perceptible twist of his body, a practiced economy of motion, Harry apparated. The world blurred for a fraction of a second, the familiar disorienting pull and release of magic, before he solidified. He landed lightly, silently, on the wind-swept rooftop, the rough stone biting at the soles of his shoes. The transition was so swift, so seamless, that it felt as if he had simply willed himself across the space, arriving in the span of a single, drawn-out heartbeat. The biting wind whipped at his clothes, carrying the faint, metallic scent of distant storms and the heavy, oppressive aura of the defenseless fortress.

“Enemies fell by our hand tonight. The blood of our oppressors stains the very ground we stand upon,” Tom said softly, his voice a low rumble that nonetheless carried through the wind. “But the true war begins now. We must show the world who it was that liberated Azkaban prison. We must stand tall, united in our purpose, and let the echoes of this night reverberate across every corner of the country. Let them know what happens to those who stand against us. This is but the first step on a long journey, but it is a step taken with unwavering resolve and the promise of a new dawn.”

Harry glanced down below as the first signs of prisoners were beginning to reach the dock unopposed, joyous celebrations and cackles of delight were heard even from the top of the prison.

“You know the spell, Harry.” Tom said in a tone of anticipation, “Leave my calling card in the sky, and leave no doubts that Lord Voldemort has returned.”

Swallowing hard, a tremor running through his hand, Harry glanced at the wand he held, a familiar yet alien weight in his palm. He slowly raised it to the sky, the inky blackness above mirroring the dread in his heart. Never in his wildest dreams , had he envisioned himself casting this spell.

Yet, a grim, undeniable truth settled in his soul: he was with Tom now. The boy who lived, the one who was meant to defeat the darkness, was the apprentice of Lord Voldemort. A cold, hard resolve began to solidify within him, pushing aside the fear and revulsion that still occasionally crept through his bones at the thought of what the man had once done to his family. While the world might never truly know who had raised this terrifying mark into the night sky, they would all know one thing with chilling certainty: his master had been here. Voldemort had arrived. And with him, a new era of terror had dawned.

“Morsmodre.” Harry spat as a blast of dark green light, thick and viscous as venom, shot forth from his wand. It surged upwards, piercing the swirling clouds, and then, with an almost agonizing slowness, began to unfurl. First, the outline of a monstrous skull, its eye sockets hollow and menacing, appeared against the backdrop of the stormy sky. Then, from its gaping maw, a serpent, long and serpentine, uncoiled itself, its body twisting and weaving, slithering out to form the tongue of the skull. The entire gruesome emblem, vast and horrifying, hung suspended above Azkaban, a terrible beacon of dark magic. Its emerald glow pulsed with an unnatural life, casting a sickly, unsettling pallor over the churning sea and the grim fortress below. It was the Dark Mark, a chilling signature of Lord Voldemort, now emblazoned upon the very heavens, a defiant declaration of his terrifying return.

Tom seemed to nod in satisfaction as he placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder, “Happy birthday, my apprentice.”