The Dark Apprentice Chapter 62

Chapter 62

Harry had been questioned by more Aurors than he would ever care to remember.  Each one had come in and asked for his story.  Some did it kindly, and pretended to be a sympathetic ear, while others demanded it, as if the loss had been as personal to them as it had been Harry.  They didn’t understand.  None of them did.

A searing flash of emerald light erupted from the tip of Barty’s. It struck Tracey squarely in the chest, not with the concussive force of a physical blow, but with an insidious, chilling energy that seemed to drain the very essence of life from her. Her eyes, wide with a moment of terror, glazed over, losing their vibrant spark. Her arms, which had been raised triumphantly, fell limply to her sides. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through her body, and then she reeled backward, a lifeless puppet cut from its strings, flying back onto the hard stone of the courtyard with a soft thud. The green light dissipated, leaving only the oppressive silence hanging heavy in the air.

Harry blinked, not hearing the question the Auror had just asked him.

“The others said you knew somehow that the Alastor Moody that pulled you out of the Slytherin Common Room was not who he was supposed to be.  What we all want to know is how?  You didn’t know Moody prior to the school year, and-”

“I spent enough detentions with the man to know he wasn’t who he said he was.” Harry snapped, “Dumbledore can attest to that.  I spent half of my weekends locked up with the lunatic.”

The Auror’s eyes hardened, a flicker of something close to accusation dancing within their depths. It was the same man from the Hospital Wing, Auror Scrimgeour, his long mane of brown hair, a shade of dark oak, was pushed back from his forehead, revealing a stern, unyielding expression. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze like a brand on Harry, his voice low and guttural, each word a stone dropped into a deep well, "Did he teach you dark magic?" The question hung in the air, thick and heavy, loaded with implications that went far beyond mere curiosity. It was an interrogation, a direct challenge, and Harry felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach.

“Yes.” Harry said unashamedly, “He told me that if I was going to beat the Dark Arts, I needed to know what I was up against.”

The man frowned heavily, “Our medical records indicate that you were struck by not one, but two bouts of the torture curse.  Hours apart.  Can you explain this?”

“As I explained to the other three Aurors,” Harry said with some heat, “During my duel with Delacour and Krum I was struck with a spell that hurt so bad it dropped me to my knees.  It’s why I hit them with the trauma hex.  I was desperate.”

It was a weak explanation, and Harry knew it. The foreign delegation had departed abruptly the night the tournament concluded, their absence a stark indicator of the diplomatic disaster that had unfolded. If the primary objective of the Tri-Wizard Tournament had been to strengthen international relations, then that goal had not only failed but had spectacularly backfired. With the Headmaster of Durmstrang having been tragically killed and the French champion having ended up in severe medical care not once but twice, the likelihood of another Tri-Wizard tournament gracing the magical world in the foreseeable future, if ever, was practically nonexistent. The very idea had become synonymous with tragedy and scandal.

Regardless of the official narrative or the underlying truths, neither champion was available to the Auror department for questioning. Viktor Krum, no doubt whisked away by the surviving members of the Durmstrang contingent, was likely already far beyond British borders, grieving his Headmaster and processing the traumatic events. Fleur Delacour, still recovering from her injuries, was undoubtedly under the protective watch of her family and the French Ministry of Magic. Even if they had been accessible, Harry highly doubted either champion would have admitted to anything untoward, even if they hadn’t been privy to the darker machinations at play. The instinct for self-preservation, coupled with the desire to protect their respective schools' reputations, would have ensured their silence. The official inquiry, Harry suspected, would be a carefully managed affair, designed to contain the damage rather than unearth the full truth.

The man just stared at Harry, clearly not believing a word he said, “It’s all very convenient.”

Harry wanted to throttle the man as red descended, “Convenient?  My best friend is dead, and you have the nerve to say it’s convenient?”

If Harry had his wand he would’ve shut the man’s mouth permanently.  Clearly the man realized he was getting nowhere with the teen however, as he abruptly stood up, and departed the room frustrated, and having no further knowledge on what occurred.

The teen wasn’t certain how long he had been questioned.  He barely even remembered the presence of the Hogwarts staff, or Dumbledore calling for the Aurors.  He couldn’t comprehend any of their questions for a while, but after a calming draught was given he began to settle, his grief heavy, but his mind functioning once again.

When the door opened again, it was Dumbledore, who looked every bit the hundred year old man he was, “Come Harry.”

Rising from his chair, in the dark room with only a single light illuminating the center, Harry followed the Headmaster out of the room, his own head bowed in a mixture of fury and exhaustion. Before he passed the threshold of the door, he spoke softly, but it carried an unspoken threat, “My wand, Headmaster.”

Dumbledore let out an audible sigh, reached into his pocket, and offered it to the teen.  Harry didn’t even look up at the man, took the wand, slipped it up his sleeve, and began walking down the long corridor.  He could feel the unblinking gaze of the old man, a weight on his back that seemed to pierce through his robes and into his very soul. Each step they took echoed in the oppressive silence of the corridor, a stark contrast to the cacophony of the Ministry just moments before.

As they walked the polished halls of the Ministry, the hushed whispers of those they passed became a low hum, a constant reminder of the previous night's events. It was undeniably clear that everyone they encountered was aware of what had transpired, or at the very least, they knew the carefully constructed version of events that Harry had painstakingly recounted. A wave of relief washed over him as he recalled the sheer luck that neither Blaise nor Daphne knew enough of the true story to incriminate him. Their limited knowledge, born of circumstance and careful omissions on Harry's part, was a shield against deeper scrutiny. Yet, despite this small victory, the pervasive stares of the Ministry employees were unavoidable. Their eyes, filled with a potent mix of curiosity, suspicion, and thinly veiled judgment, followed his every move, making the long walk feel even more arduous and the silence more suffocating.

The Death of Alastor Moody had shocked the Ministry, but not Harry.  When he found out during his questioning he had hardly reacted at all.  Harry knew that Barty had been preparing to tie up loose ends and run for his life.  Having known the game was up he merely needed to remove Harry from his path and go looking for more pieces of Voldemort.  Harry doubted there were any, not after Tom had already absorbed so many of his own Horcruxes.

The floo back to the Headmaster’s office was done in tense silence. The arrival brought the cry of Dumbledore's phoenix, and Harry’s eyes latched onto the creature that seemed to see through his soul.  

The teen hoped he would be able to escape the office without the inevitable conversation with Dumbledore, but it was clear the man would not allow it, “Have a seat, Harry.”

Giving no indication that he heard the man, Harry merely took the seat across from the Headmaster's desk, and kept his eyes glued to the mahogany top. The silence in the office was thick, broken only by the faint crackle of the magical instruments adorning the shelf. Harry’s jaw was set, a stubborn line that mirrored the turmoil churning within him. He refused to meet Dumbledore’s gaze, fearing what he might see there –pity, or perhaps, a knowing understanding that he didn’t want to face. The rich, dark wood of the desk seemed to absorb all light, becoming a focal point for his desperate need to avoid conversation. Every grain, every subtle imperfection in the polished surface, became a universe to study, anything to keep from acknowledging the man who sat patiently opposite him. The air was charged with unspoken expectations, and Harry could feel the weight of them pressing down, a familiar burden he was growing increasingly weary of carrying.

“Ms. Greengrass and Mr. Zabini have departed for the term.  Their families have pulled them out to give them time to grieve, and come to terms with what happened.” Dumbledore said softly, pulling Harry’s eyes up for the first time.  The man had a sad expression on his face, and he continued speaking, “Ms. Davis' death marks only the third one in a century to occur on Hogwarts grounds, but the second one to happen during my tenure at Headmaster.  I trust you remember the first?”

Ginny Weasley.  Harry remembered the day the girl lost her life like it was yesterday.  It had changed his own forever.  It was the day Tom had returned to the world of the living, and made Harry his apprentice.  Feeling discomfort from the question Harry lowered his eyes and enforced his occlumency, to ensure nothing was given away.

When Harry didn’t answer the question Dumbledore just sighed, “I think this would work best if we agreed not to lie to each other, Harry.”

“What do you want from me, Headmaster?” Harry asked softly.

“The truth.” Dumbledore said simply, “There have been so many lies, Harry, that all I want now is the truth.”

Harry’s mind swirled.  He tried to think of something, anything, that would give him reprieve from the man’s questioning, because he had the distinct feeling that if he did not come up with something, that Dumbledore might do something drastic.

“He’s back, sir. The Dark Lord is back.” Harry whispered, the words barely audible, yet heavy with a dread that settled in the very air around them. He braced himself, praying that Tom would not kill him for the confession. It was an inevitable truth, a dark tide that could no longer be held back. The Headmaster would learn, perhaps had already sensed it in the chilling shift of magical events.

Snape, with his ever-present scowl and the dark mark emblazoned upon his arm, would know when his own flesh burned with the familiar agony that Voldemort had indeed returned. Lying about it now, attempting to conceal the resurgence of such a formidable wizard, would do no good. The world was already shifting, groaning under the weight of a coming storm.

Dumbledore, for all his wisdom and power, could do all he wanted to; he could shout from the rooftops, he could weave intricate spells of protection, but no one, not truly, would believe the man. They would think him mad, a relic of a past war clinging to old fears. The Ministry, ever complacent, would dismiss his warnings as the ravings of a deluded old wizard. Tom would prevail regardless.  Harry knew, with a certainty, that Tom would defeat the old Headmaster regardless, that the true fight was only just beginning.

“You saw him last night, didn’t you?  Fought against him?” Dumbledore asked softly.

Without saying a word, Harry nodded, and realized that it wasn’t a lie.  He had battled with Voldemort.

Dumbledore waited a long time for him to speak, but when he realized he wasn’t going to, he asked, “How did you escape?”

 “He tortured me.” Harry said back in the same whisper, “Goaded me with information about an agent he had at Hogwarts that failed to kill me.  When we dueled, I had a chance to get back to the portkey…he underestimated me sir.”

“We all did, Harry.” Dumbledore said softly, clearly trying to wrap his head around the events, “This agent at Hogwarts, did you know it was Alastor?”

“I actually suspected Snape, sir.” Harry countered smoothly, trying to keep his tone even, “Until Moody showed up in the common room.”

“Why go with him?” Dumbledore asked.

“Fighting him in the Common Room would’ve led to more lives lost.” Harry said simply, “The thought crossed my mind for a brief moment, but I wasn’t absolutely sure, and I saw the younger students around me, and didn’t want to involve them.  I didn’t want my own friends involved, but they saw through me I think.”

“They did.” Dumbledore admitted, saying nothing further on the matter, “Why did you not bring these suspicions to me?”

It was clear that Dumbledore dreaded the answer, by the look on his face, and at first Harry didn’t answer.  He knew however, that he needed to get out of this conversation, so let the venom slip into his words as he said, “You let my Godfather die.  I will never trust you with my life after that.”

The accusation landed with the force of a physical blow to the old man's chest, and Harry knew it. When he finally looked up, Dumbledore appeared visibly struck, the lines etched on his face deepening as if years had suddenly been added to his already ancient countenance. Neither spoke a word for several tense minutes, the silence in the Headmaster's office becoming a heavy, suffocating blanket that pressed down on them both. The usual gentle hum of magical artifacts seemed to cease, and even Fawkes, perched quietly on his stand, seemed to hold his breath. Harry’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the stillness, as he waited for the inevitable outburst, the denial, the dismissal that usually followed such a blunt statement from him. But none came. Dumbledore merely stared at a point beyond Harry’s shoulder, his usually twinkling blue eyes clouded with an emotion Harry couldn't quite decipher—a mix of pain, regret, and perhaps, a faint flicker of recognition.

“Harry.” The man said with a near croak of his voice, “What happened to Sirius on these grounds will haunt me forever.  I should have done more, I should have-”

“You’re right you should have!” Harry spat.

Dumbledore shook his head saying, “But we need to stand together in the coming days.  You are a talented boy, but if the Dark Lord has marked you for death, then you will need my help to avoid him.”

Harry wanted to laugh at his words.  There was only one enemy left to defeat in his mind, and he was sitting right in front of him.  If not for the Phoenix, Harry might’ve taken his chances and cursed the man right then and there.  He was the only one in Tom’s way now.  The only wizard that could possibly stand up to him.

“Please Harry, I just want to help, there are things you don’t understand!” The headmaster pleaded.

“I don’t need your help, Headmaster. I have been on my own since the day my parents died.” Harry abruptly stood from his seat, the wooden chair scraping loudly against the stone floor, a sound that echoed the turmoil in his chest. His emerald eyes now hard and defiant, fixed on the old wizard across the desk. The unspoken grief of his childhood, a wound that had never truly healed, resonated in every syllable. He moved towards the exit, his movements jerky and determined, as if fleeing not just the office but the suffocating weight of unwanted pity. The heavy oak door seemed to beckon, a symbol of the freedom he so desperately craved.

Before he could reach it, he spun back, his voice rising in volume, laced with a raw, desperate challenge. “Don’t bother arranging a place for me to stay this Summer. I have learned to apparate, and will escape any place you try to place me.” A flicker of triumph, fleeting but fierce, crossed his features as he spoke of his newfound ability, a weapon against the perceived imprisonment. He was no longer a child to be easily confined. The threat, though thinly veiled, hung in the air between them, a testament to his burgeoning power and his deep-seated mistrust. “Expel me if you wish, I don’t care anymore.” The words were flung like a gauntlet, a final, desperate attempt to assert control over a life that had always felt dictated by the old man's choices.

.o.

Harry moved through the echoing halls of Hogwarts like a ghost, his presence unnoticed, his mind a tempest of turmoil. Each step on the worn flagstones was deliberate, a silent countdown to his liberation. He avoided eye contact, his gaze fixed on some distant, unseen point, a reflection of his singular focus.

His decision was firm, unyielding. He would gather his belongings, and then he would leave this place... maybe forever. The thought of returning to Tom, of rejoining the shadowy world he had come to accept as his true home, was the only beacon in the present gloom. He yearned for the stark, uncompromising clarity of that existence, a stark contrast to the deceptive warmth and pervasive hypocrisy he now perceived in Hogwarts. He could not endure another moment within these walls, not another breath of its stifling air. Every stone, every whisper, every familiar face was a reminder of a past he was desperate to erase. The castle, once a sanctuary, had become a prison, and he was desperate for escape.

The sun had risen some hours ago, and Harry was running on empty at this point.  He needed to escape, and get to a place he knew he could rest safely.   The teen was lucky enough to arrive while most of the house was at lunch, and while there were a few stragglers, none dared to approach him, clearly seeing his furious expression.  It took only a few flicks of his wand for all his things to be packed.  With his broomstick in hand, Harry departed the Common Room with haste.

Arriving in the courtyard where Tracey had met her tragic end the night before, Harry mounted his broom, his gaze fixed on the spot where Barty had stood, a phantom presence haunting the space. A bitter taste filled his mouth. He may have ended the man's life, but the swiftness of it offered no solace, no atonement for the profound misery that gnawed at his soul. There was no one left to pay for the agonizing emptiness that now consumed him. The hot summer air offered no comfort, only a stark reminder of the void Tracey's absence had created. He longed for retribution, a tangible release for the fury and despair that threatened to overwhelm him, but all that remained was the hollow ache of what could never be undone.

Kicking off the ground, Harry darted into the sky.  Harry had wanted to apparate away, but what he really needed was time.  Deciding to take the long way back to Gaunt Manor, he leaned forward into his broom, and allowed his thoughts to consume him.

.o.

Arriving at Gaunt Manor, Harry sagged, his entire being permeated by an overwhelming exhaustion. It wasn't merely physical weariness, though his limbs felt heavy and his muscles ached; it was a profound magical depletion, a mental and emotional drain that left him feeling utterly hollow. The weight of his recent loss, the agonizing death of Tracey, pressed down on him, a suffocating blanket of grief and guilt.

Every thought, every instinct, pushed him to find a scapegoat, to pinpoint the individual or circumstance responsible for such a devastating blow. He scoured his memories, replaying events, searching for external forces to blame. Yet, with each fruitless search, the accusatory finger inevitably swung back, pointing directly at himself. He had not been strong enough, not vigilant enough, not powerful enough to protect her. The bitter truth was a searing brand on his soul: Tracey was gone, and he felt unequivocally responsible. The opulent, yet desolate, grandeur of Gaunt Manor offered no comfort, only a stark backdrop to his internal torment.

Placing his broom gently up against the house he merely sat down hard on the front porch, and placed his hands in his face.  He was out of tears.  Most of those had been shed the night before.  He was grateful for that, he did not wish for Tom to see him that way.

Speaking of his mentor, he heard the door open behind him, and the presence he felt told him all he needed to know.  The triumphant Dark Lord took a seat beside him, and Harry dropped his hands, looking distantly towards the hillside.  In the distance Harry could see the graveyard where he fought with the monstrous form of Voldemort the night before.  That already felt like it had been days ago in the wake of what followed, but it had been mere hours.

“I know what happened at Hogwarts.” Tom said with surprising softness.

Harry was grateful the man knew what happened, he wasn’t sure he could form the words.

“You did as I asked, Harry.  For that you have my gratitude.” Placing a hand on his apprentice’s shoulder the man continued, “You corrected a wrong against me, and paid the price for it.  That will not be forgotten.”

The teen said nothing for a long moment, and considered the words of his mentor.  Before his heart sank, “I wasn’t strong enough to protect her, Tom.”

“No,” Tom agreed, “You weren’t.”

Harry's head whipped towards the man, a serious expression etched onto his mentor's face. The words spoken moments ago echoed in his mind, each syllable a blow to his already reeling senses. He could hardly believe what he had heard, a sense of profound shock leaving him utterly speechless, his own thoughts a tangled mess he couldn't untangle. He didn't have to wait long for further explanation, or perhaps, further condemnation. "You will have the rest of your life to brood over this defeat," his mentor's voice cut through the stunned silence, a chilling finality in his tone that left Harry feeling as though a cold, iron hand had closed around his heart. 

As the bone-chilling sensation began to recede, a flicker of indignation ignited within Harry. The man's chilling pronouncements had begun to grate, but a primal instinct, honed by countless perilous encounters, warned him against a rash outburst. Lashing out at Tom, he knew, would be an act of profound folly, a potentially fatal misstep in a game where the stakes were nothing less than his very existence. Before the words could even formulate on his tongue, before the impulse to flee could take root, Tom's voice, a silken thread of insidious persuasion, continued to weave its spell. "But when you lose everything…" he murmured, the words hanging in the air, heavy with unspoken implications, "...that's when you are finally free."

His eyes widened, as he considered the man's profound words. A chill, not entirely unpleasant, snaked down his spine as the weight of Tom's conviction settled upon him. Tom, sensing the nascent shift within Harry, offered him a straight, unwavering look, his gaze penetrating beyond the surface, directly into the turbulent depths of Harry's soul. With a deliberate motion, he placed a heavy, calloused hand on Harry's shoulder, a gesture that was both grounding and subtly assertive. The touch seemed to vibrate with a raw power, a silent transmission of understanding.

"What you're feeling right now," Tom began, his voice a low, resonant murmur that seemed to fill the very air around them, "This anger." He paused, allowing the words to hang in the air, a palpable force. "This pain." His grip on Harry's shoulder tightened almost imperceptibly, a silent emphasis. "This, Harry," he declared, his voice rising slightly, imbued with an almost hypnotic intensity, "This is who you are. It is the true essence of your being, forged in the fires of your trials." His eyes, dark and knowing, held Harry's, demanding absolute comprehension. "Do not suppress it. Do not attempt to deny it. Embrace it. Use it. Wield it like a weapon. A weapon honed by your experience, sharpened by your rage, and tempered by your sorrow. Let it be the force that propels you forward, that empowers you to conquer, to triumph, to claim what is yours."

Tom’s hand landed with a gentle, reassuring thud on Harry’s shoulder, a gesture that was both a commendation and a silent promise. The weight of it seemed to ground Harry, anchoring him in the present moment, away from the swirling anxieties and triumphs of the past few days. Tom then slowly rose to his feet, a figure of quiet authority. He paused, straightening his robes with a deliberate movement, as if aligning himself not just physically, but mentally, for the pronouncement he was about to make. His gaze, usually so intense, softened as he looked down at Harry.

“These are the moments that define us, my young apprentice,” Tom said, his voice a low, resonant murmur. There was a profound wisdom in his tone, a depth of experience that Harry could only begin to fathom. 

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Tom’s lips. “Get your rest, Harry. Allow your mind and your magic to settle. In a few days, we will begin the next stage of your training. Before that however we will conduct the ritual that will offer rewards beyond your current imagination.” The air around them seemed to hum with unspoken potential, with the promise of knowledge and formidable power. The sense of anticipation, both daunting and exhilarating, hung heavy in the air, as the man opened the door, to leave him to his thoughts, “You have shown me you are strong enough to crush our enemies, now I will give you the skills to ensure no witch or wizard can ever take from you again.”

Harry leaned against the ornate railing of the Gaunt Manor patio, the burning summer air doing little to dispel the lingering heat of his conversation with Tom. The man's words, sharp and insightful, echoed in his mind, each phrase meticulously dissecting his recent failures and vulnerabilities. He was right, Harry conceded, a weary sigh escaping him. Completely right. The exhaustion, a heavy cloak woven from grief and adrenaline, finally settled over him, demanding its due.

He gazed out at the sprawling hills where he had pushed himself day in and day out with Tom over the last two Summer and he thought of the one he had lost, a searing ache in his chest that no amount of time would ever dull. A silent promise formed on his lips. The world would pay in blood for what had happened to Tracey Davis.  That was a promise.