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The Dark Apprentice Chapter 68
🕑 Added 2026-01-13 06:00:00 +0000 UTCChapter 68
“Come on Ickle Potter, dance with me!” The crazy haired witch crackled.
Harry was gasping, each breath a searing agony that tore through his chest. His right collarbone, shattered and displaced, throbbed with a relentless, fiery pain. Early in the brutal duel, Bellatrix Lestrange, her face a mask of deranged glee, had struck him with a bone-breaking curse. The spell had not only fractured the bone but also sent a shockwave of agony through his entire upper body. Unrelenting, she had immediately followed up with another vicious assault on the same side, deliberately aiming to exacerbate his injury and force him to fight through the excruciating pain. His vision swam with black spots, and a cold sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, but he knew he couldn't yield. She would only make him pay for it, in blood, depending on her mood.
Instead, Harry fought with a desperate ferocity, his wand a blur in his hand, moving as fast as he could possibly manage. Each spell was imbued with a raw, unyielding determination, a refusal to concede even an inch. Yet, no matter how relentlessly he pushed the witch back, no matter the power he poured into his attacks, he simply could not land a clean hit. It was as if she moved with an unnatural grace, anticipating his every move, deflecting or dodging with an effortless precision that bordered on the supernatural.
Beyond the very first week of their duels, a period that had served more as an initial assessment than a true challenge, the witch had been practically invincible. Her defenses were impenetrable, her counter-attacks swift and precise, and her ability to read the flow of battle utterly unparalleled to all except Tom. It had taken no time at all, just a few more punishing sessions on the grounds of Gaunt Manor, to truly see and understand how the witch had gained her formidable reputation. It wasn't just skill; it was an innate talent honed to a razor's edge, a chilling mastery of magic that left Harry feeling, for the first time in a long while, truly outmatched by someone other than his master. Every duel became a brutal lesson in humility, a stark reminder of the vast chasm that still existed between his own burgeoning power and her seasoned prowess.
Harry was constantly torn between admiration and apprehension when it came to his master's inner circle. His primary tutor over the last few weeks, Augustus Rookwood, was a prime example of this internal conflict. Rookwood, while perhaps not possessing the raw, untamed charisma of Tom or the furious, almost predatory grace of Bellatrix, held a different, equally formidable kind of power. His intelligence was truly remarkable, a mind so sharp and incisive that it was second only to the Dark Lord himself. Harry found their sessions both intellectually stimulating and subtly unsettling; Rookwood's lessons often delved into the intricacies of dark magic and political machination with a cold, almost surgical precision that left Harry feeling both enlightened and slightly unnerved by the man's profound lack of conventional morality. Their duels were long, drawn out, and back and forth due to Harry’s prodigious dueling ability. In a fight to the death Harry truly believed it would be a coin toss between the pair.
On the complete opposite end of the spectrum was Rudolphus Lestrange, Bellatrix’s husband. Rudolphus was a weapon, forged in the crucible of dark magic and fanaticism. His power was undeniably destructive, a raw, untamed force that, while formidable, often manifested as an uncontrolled explosion of magic. He fought with a brutal, visceral intensity, his spells matching Bellatrix's in sheer power, yet lacking entirely in the speed, the elegant finesse, and the strategic foresight that made his wife such a terrifyingly effective duelist. Where Bellatrix danced through battle, her movements fluid and deadly, Rudolphus merely charged, a relentless, unthinking battering ram of dark energy. Harry had witnessed him in practice, a whirlwind of curses and hexes, often leaving a trail of devastation in his wake, but with a noticeable absence of the calculated precision that defined the more subtle, and perhaps more dangerous, members of the inner circle. It was a stark contrast that served to highlight the diverse, yet equally menacing, talents within Lord Voldemort's closest confidantes. When Harry dueled with the man the teen often took the better of the man, but each of his losses left their mark, and his heart skipped several beats each time the man went berserk.
Focusing back on his duel with Bellatrix, he heard the firm voice of Augustus cut through the blasts of spellfire, “Focus, Potter. She is going to take your head off.”
Harry’s eyes widened as a severing spell went towards his head, and he ducked under it in a panic, before snapping his wand back up ferociously with an eviscerating curse, making the witch howl with delight.
The other gathered Death Eaters, chuckled amongst themselves, their amusement a counterpoint to Harry's desperate struggle. Each deflected curse, each frantic dodge, fueled their merriment. As Harry's head whipped around to evade another stinging hex, his gaze flickered towards the ornate entrance of the porch. There, framed against the deepening twilight, stood Tom. His arms were crossed over his chest, a posture of casual observation that belied the tension in the air. Harry's heart sank. The man's face, usually so expressive, was utterly devoid of emotion. To Harry, who had come to understand the subtle nuances of his master's displeasure, this blankness was a stark and unmistakable sign of profound disapproval. It was worse than a shouted reprimand, more chilling than a direct threat; it was the cold, silent judgment of a mentor disappointed in his apprentice, a message that spoke volumes without a single word being uttered. The very air around Tom seemed to hum with a quiet, menacing stillness, a silent verdict that weighed heavily on Harry's already burdened shoulders.
Deciding to unleash the full extent of his power, Harry thrust his open hand forward, intercepting Bellatrix’s incoming gouging spell. A searing agony shot through his palm, but he ruthlessly suppressed it, his eyes fixed on his opponent. With a guttural hiss, he thrust his wand, incanting a spell that ripped the blades of grass from beneath Bellatrix’s feet. Through an intricate act of transfiguration, the verdant blades sharpened into razor-thin projectiles, launching into the air and striking the witch in multiple places. A sharp yelp of surprise escaped her lips as the unexpected assault caught her off guard. Harry, ever the opportunist, capitalized on her momentary disorientation. With a swift, precise movement, he unleashed a powerful banishing charm. The force of the spell sent Bellatrix sprawling backward, her body tumbling unceremoniously to the ground.
Harry had aimed to press his advantage, to solidify his victory with a swift, decisive follow-up. But Bellatrix, with a feral grace born of desperation, somehow managed to right herself. She didn't merely stand; she sprang back into a crouch, a sprawled, predatory posture that radiated menace. Her face, contorted with a mixture of rage and something akin to a primal, bloodthirsty glee, was a mask of pure murder. Her wand, gripped white-knuckled in her hand, crackled with malevolent green sparks, a clear precursor to another deadly curse. The air itself seemed to crackle with the volatile magic she was preparing to unleash. However, before she could utter the incantation or direct the full force of her fury at Harry, a sharp, authoritative voice cut through the tension. It was Tom's, ringing out with undeniable command: "Enough!" The single word, delivered with a force that brooked no argument, instantly halted the impending magical assault.
Bellatrix nearly dropped her wand, and Harry dropped to a knee, his wand going into the ground forming a shield in case the witch did not listen to his mentor. Tom for his part began clapping his hands together, “Now that was a show worthy of most faithful, and my apprentice. 15 and he dances with the best of you.”
The other Death Eaters gathered applauded politely at his master's words, and Tom moved to Harry’s side, tapping his shoulder with his wand causing the bone to knit itself back together, and snap into place. Harry grunted in pain, but rose back to his feet, “You were distracted.”
Tom’s accusation was hardly unfair. Today Harry would be returning to Hogwarts and the last few weeks of Summer had been hectic. Between delving into ritualistic magic with Daphne on cures for her sister, and planning an assault on Gringotts the teen had been very preoccupied.
Initially, Harry had envisioned a straightforward assault. He believed Tom, ever the pragmatist and strategist, would greenlight an immediate siege on the Gringotts goblins, those "greedy little creatures" who, in their estimation, hoarded far too much power and wealth. Harry imagined a swift, decisive strike, relying on their combined magical prowess to overcome whatever defenses the bank might possess.
However, the voice of reason, as unexpected as it was unwelcome in Harry's initial thoughts, came from Augustus, the former Unspeakable. Rookwood, ever the meticulous researcher and cautious planner, had advised against such a rash move. He argued for patience, emphasizing the need for a comprehensive understanding of Gringotts' legendary defenses. He requested a fair amount of time to delve into the labyrinthine history of the bank, to unearth every known detail of its wards, its magical traps, its guardian creatures, and its ancient protections that were known to wizardkind.
Harry braced himself for Tom's inevitable fury. He fully expected his mentor to scoff at the suggestion of delay, perhaps even to hex Rookwood for daring to propose such a deviation from his anticipated plan of immediate action. Tom, in Harry's experience, preferred swift and overwhelming force, not measured contemplation. Yet, to Harry's profound surprise, his mentor was unopposed to listening to the former Unspeakable. Tom merely steepled his fingers, a thoughtful expression on his face, and granted Rookwood the time he needed, a silent acknowledgment of the wisdom in his counsel. This unexpected acquiescence only served to deepen Harry's understanding of Tom's complex and often unpredictable nature.
Whispers, at first faint and disbelieving, were now solidifying into alarming headlines splashed across the Daily Prophet. A new Dark Lord was not just a rumor, but an undeniable truth, scrawled in bold, terrifying letters for all the wizarding world to see. The events at Azkaban prison defied all logical explanation; the impenetrable fortress, designed to hold the most dangerous criminals, had been breached with an inexplicable ease. More disturbing still were the disappearances, a growing plague that snatched witches and wizards from their homes without a trace, leaving behind only an agonizing silence and a deepening fear.
Amidst the chaos and mainstream media’s frantic, yet ultimately bewildered, attempts to make sense of it all, only the Quibbler, often dismissed as a purveyor of crackpot theories, seemed to grasp the true, terrifying scope of what was unfolding. Their latest editions, filled with outlandish yet oddly prescient articles, hinted at a deeper, more insidious power at play. According to the Quibbler the Dark Lord, he-who-must-not-be-named, had returned. He saw the Quibbler's uncanny accuracy not as a nuisance, but as a dangerous insight that threatened the last semblance of secrecy. An immediate order was issued: Xenophilius Lovegood, the eccentric publisher of the Quibbler, was to be brought before Tom without delay for questioning. However, locating the elusive Lovegood proved to be a task surprisingly difficult, as if the very air refused to reveal his whereabouts, adding another layer of frustrating mystery to an already volatile situation.
“I am just dreading my return to Hogwarts, master.” Harry explained half-heartedly, his mind on the conversation they had the night before.
“You have your assignment.” Tom said dismissively.
.o.
“They don’t trust me, Tom!” Harry said with irritation.
The air in the Gaunt library was thick with the scent of old parchment and the unspoken tension that clung to Harry like a second skin. He paced, a restless shadow amidst the towering shelves, the day's rigorous training sessions with the inner circle replaying in his mind. While some, like the shrewd Rookwood and the fanatical Lestranges, had shown acceptance, almost an eager anticipation of his presence, the vast majority of the Death Eaters treated him as if he were a contagion.
He couldn't fault them for outright disrespect – Lord Voldemort's presence, even when not physically there, was enough to ensure a semblance of order. But the whispers, those insidious currents of sound that followed him through the halls, were undeniable. They spoke of the boy-who-lived, the enemy turned prodigal son, a constant reminder of his bizarre and precarious position within their ranks. Each hushed syllable was a prickle on his skin, a confirmation of the deep-seated mistrust that festered beneath the veneer of obedience. He was a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit, a discordant note in the dark symphony of their allegiance, and he felt it in every wary glance, every hastily averted gaze.
“What would you have me do?” Tom asked in a tone that indicated amusement, with a slight tinge of annoyance. “Give each of them a bout of the torture curse until they smile at you everytime you pass in the halls of their manors?”
“I just want them to see my loyalty. I helped you tear down the wards of Azkaban!” Harry said in frustration.
“I am glad you want the approval of my followers.” Tom said with a grin.
Sighing Harry began to protest, “I just want to be treated as an equ-”
“If you say equal, I will curse you.” Tom threatened. The man was now on his feet, after watching his apprentice wear a hole in the rug of the library, “You are not their equal. You are their superior. With the exception of a few, most can not even stand against you.”
Harry knew the man was right, but the looks still grated on him over the last month. The whispers, the hushed conversations that ceased abruptly when he entered a room, the sidelong glances filled with a mixture of fear and curiosity—they were a constant, unwelcome companion. He had tried to ignore them, to focus on his training and the grander vision Tom had laid out, but the human part of him, the part that craved acceptance and respect, found it increasingly difficult. He clenched his jaw, a muscle twitching in his cheek. He had proven himself, hadn't he? He had performed the tasks, no matter how grim, and had followed Tom's commands without question. Why did they still look at him as if he were a monster in the making, rather than an essential part of a new world order?
Instead of offering further words, Tom came and placed a hand on his shoulder, a rare gesture of comfort from the usually detached leader. The touch, though brief, was firm and reassuring. Harry felt a flicker of the old loyalty surge through him, a reminder of why he had chosen this path. Tom's voice, when he spoke, was low and resonant, cutting through Harry's internal turmoil. "I am glad you are so anxious to make the whispers stop," he said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, a smile that never quite reached his eyes. "Because I have one final assignment for you. One that will cement your place at my side not just in my rise to power, but in history. This will be the act that silences all doubts, that quells all fears, and that forces every single soul to acknowledge your undeniable strength and loyalty to me. You will no longer be merely my apprentice; you will be my architect of destiny, a name whispered not in fear, but in awe."
Harry’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs, a silent testament to the gravity of the moment. He knew, with an unsettling certainty that settled deep in his bones, that whatever Tom was about to unveil would irrevocably alter the trajectory of his existence. There was no need to voice the question; the unspoken weight of the impending revelation hung heavy in the air, a tangible presence between them. So, Harry remained silent, his gaze fixed on Tom, a silent sentinel awaiting the pronouncement that would reshape his future.
Instead of offering an immediate answer, a slow, knowing smile spread across Tom’s lips, a gesture that was both reassuring and deeply unsettling. "This last assignment," Tom finally began, his voice a low, resonant murmur that seemed to fill the quiet space, "will not merely challenge you, Harry, but redefine you. It will allow you to surpass Bella, to transcend the limitations that have bound those who came before. It will give you an edge, an undeniable advantage over any who might seek to stand in your way."
A subtle shift in Tom’s demeanor, a flicker of something akin to a past regret, passed through his eyes before he continued, "It is something I myself even failed to accomplish. A task that, despite my own considerable abilities and unwavering ambition, eluded my grasp. Yet, with the unparalleled guidance you have been given, the meticulous instruction that has honed your burgeoning talents, and the unwavering help I am prepared to provide, I have no doubt, Harry, that you will succeed where I once faltered." The promise in Tom's voice was absolute, a declaration of faith in Harry's potential that simultaneously thrilled and terrified him. The weight of such an expectation, a legacy that even Tom Riddle had not achieved, settled upon Harry's shoulders, a burden and a beacon all at once.
“With your guidance…anything is possible. We have proved that. Together.” Harry said with a hint of reverence, but still his stomach churned with anticipation of what was to come.
“I am glad you feel that way, because on top of our plan to assault Gringotts there will be a task more specifically curated to you.” Tom said looking pleased, before placing his other hand on his shoulder, not looking his apprentice in the eye, “Because your final task, one we will accomplish together, will be …to kill Albus Dumbledore.”
.o.
Harry’s mind reeled as he replayed his master’s chilling declaration. The words, spoken with a casual cruelty that belied their weight, echoed in the silent chambers of his memory: "Dumbledore must die." Harry hadn't dared to protest, knowing such defiance would only invite pain. Instead, a somber quiet had settled over him, a heavy cloak of contemplation as he grappled with the enormity of the task. The assassination of Albus Dumbledore, a wizard of great power, seemed not just difficult, but near impossible. The very thought sent a cold dread through him, a stark reminder of the dark path he had been forced to walk. He knew Dumbledore would be protected by layers of magic that Hogwarts provided, loyal allies, and an intellect that could anticipate almost any threat. How could a mere apprentice, albeit one trained in the dark arts, ever hope to penetrate such defenses? The question hung heavy in the air, a burden he was now expected to carry.
The teen was not without support however. Soon he would confide in Daphne of what he faced. The girl would be deeply in his debt soon after they returned to school. The young woman had convinced him to wait until they returned to Hogwarts before examining Astoria, and soon he would have a good understanding of the girl's affliction, and only then would he be able to take steps forward to eliminate the blood curse. Only then would he have the young woman’s unwavering loyalty, a loyalty that would be tested when he would tell her of his newest goals.
Assaulting Gringotts, starting another war, and even assassinating the Headmaster of their school. It was a lot. Too much even, but Harry held faith in his own abilities, and the faith of his few followers. He was the Kingsnake after all. Even if he could not confide all his plans to the others, there were a select few he could trust with bits of information.
Theodore Nott Jr for example, was a teen he had not colluded with in the past, but now he was well aware of Harry’s existence after he had been seen wandering about Nott Manor in his gold mask. His fellow fifth year Slytherin had been mostly neutral regarding him before, but now it was full of deference, and Harry suspected Nott Jr wouldn't be the only one in the coming year. Despite Tom’s threats, Harry believed more knew his identity than would be let on, but under the threat of death most would keep their mouths shut.
“Of course, Master.” Harry offered the man a bow.
“Clean yourself up, and prepare for departure. You have a big year ahead of you.” Tom commanded with ease.
Harry said nothing further as he nodded in acknowledgement, and avoided the eyes of the surrounding Death Eaters. None dared whisper in the presence of Tom, but he knew they all had their own thoughts about him. Thoughts that would be silenced if he were successful in his final assignment.
Assaulting Azkaban, robbing Gringotts, and killing Dumbledore. These three monumental acts will undoubtedly solidify his position as Tom's worthy apprentice. Each deed, in its own right, is a testament to his growing power, cunning, and ruthless ambition.
The assault on Azkaban, a fortress thought to be impenetrable, sent shockwaves through the wizarding world. It demonstrated not only his immense magical prowess but also his ability to rally forces and orchestrate a complex operation against the Ministry's most secure institution. This act of defiance was a clear declaration of war, a direct challenge to the established order. The very act of freeing its most dangerous inhabitants will sow chaos and fear, weakening the Ministry's grip and providing Tom with a formidable army of loyal, desperate followers.
The robbery of Gringotts, the wizarding bank, will be an even more audacious display of his cleverness and audacity. To breach the defenses of the goblins, renowned for their intricate security measures and unwavering greed, will require a level of strategic planning and magical skill that few possess. This will not merely be an act of theft; it will be a symbolic blow against the very foundations of the wizarding economy, a demonstration that no institution, no matter how powerful or ancient, is beyond his reach. The treasures he will pilfer, the secrets he will uncover, will further empower Tom and cripple his adversaries.
And finally, the killing of Dumbledore. This act, above all others, will be the ultimate affirmation of his loyalty and his complete immersion into Tom's dark ideology. Dumbledore, the beacon of light, the symbol of hope, the greatest wizard of his age – his demise will be an irreversible turning point. It will shatter the morale of the resistance, leaving them leaderless and vulnerable. It will prove, unequivocally, that he is willing to commit the most heinous of acts to further Tom's agenda, and that he possesses the raw power and determination to succeed where others have failed. This will be the act that fully cements his status, confirming his place as the rightful heir to Tom's dark legacy, one way or another.
After he gathered his things and returned to the front lawn only Tom remained. The rest of the Death Eaters had dispersed. The Dark Lord awaited his departure however with a smile, and threw an arm around the teens shoulders, “This is the last year you will have to hide under false pretenses. By the time you return to me we will have changed the world.”
Harry nodded his understanding trying to offer his mentor a confident smile, “First Gringotts. When I return for the holidays. Then I will truly turn my attention to Dumbledore. By the end of this year, we will have it all.”
“I knew you would be strong enough to have it all.” Tom said proudly.
“Only because you have made me strong enough to take it.” Harry said, trying to raise his confidence.
“I know it won’t be easy, Harry.” Tom consoled, “But I didn’t choose you as my apprentice, because I thought you were incapable of rising to every challenge I presented to you. I also removed as many obstacles in your path…as you deemed necessary.”
The man didn’t need to elaborate for Harry to understand his meaning. At last Tom placed an arm over Harry’s shoulder as they walked to the apparition point, “You have never failed me in any task I assigned you. I have every faith, somehow in the end, you will accomplish your task.”
Tom stopped right at the ward line and smiled at his apprentice, “Kill the old fool…kill the old fool, and we will all be free.”
With his trunk in tow, Harry swallowed heavily and offered his mentor a nod after much thought, “I will not fail you, my master.”
