正文
力量的代价：
“移除魂器，”伏地魔重复道，他的声音如钢铁般冰冷。话语是经过衡量的，但围绕着他的魔法却讲述了一个不同的故事。它像一场活生生的风暴——脉动、噼啪作响、令人窒息。强大的力量缠绕着哈利，以一种令他难以思考、甚至难以呼吸的强度压迫着他。
哈利的魔法本能地响应起来，不是为了挑战，而是为了试探。他甚至通过灵魂链接去感受伏地魔的存在，试图解读从黑魔王身上散发出的情感的喧嚣。但这一次，就像是在试图读取汹涌海面的表面。愤怒、恐惧、不信任、不相信，还有某种东西——某种被严密守护到难以理解的东西——交织在一起，拒绝分离成任何他能抓住的东西。
“住手，”伏地魔命令道，他感觉到哈利的微妙侵入，猩红的眼睛眯了起来。他周围的魔力脉动着，锋利而不屈，像一堵尖锐的石墙猛然闭合。
哈利忍住了退缩的冲动。内心的烦恼紧绷如弦，皆因这一切的虚伪——总是对他要求良多，回报却少得可怜。此刻，这份失衡令他比任何事物都更加不安。
与伏地魔的目光相遇，他不知道该从何说起。这一年里，事情变得如此糟糕，他该如何表达？伏地魔又怎么可能理解他此刻内心的矛盾？哈利曾经依赖的联系，如今却成为了他们两人最大的弱点。
不安的哈利移开了视线，肩上承受的压力让他感到沉重。当他开口时，声音中带着一丝隐约的绝望，每一个字都像是从内心深处艰难地挤出来的。“这是唯一的办法，”他说，说话的力气几乎让他感到痛苦。这是一个他不情愿说出来的事实。“我不想让你冒着失去永生的风险。但如果我不去见死神，格林德沃就会得到权杖。如果他得到了……”他艰难地咽了咽口水，突然感到口干舌燥。“他要么控制我，要么我就得放弃死亡主宰的头衔。如果那样的话，你就不再是永生的了。”
哈利抬起头，与伏地魔那双深邃的猩红目光对视。“我不能让他控制我，”接下来的承认让他感到几乎要崩溃。“我也拒绝成为你的弱点——让我的失败成为你变成灵魂破碎时的那个巫师的原因。”
伏地魔盯着他，面无表情，但他的魔法却更加逼近，像一条准备出击的蛇一样盘旋着。哈利站在那里忍受着这一切，知道这一刻——他话语和伏地魔回应之间的空隙——可能会改变一切。
等待中的他情绪翻涌。愤怒在他心中沸腾，既针对伏地魔，也针对自己，还针对这他们深陷其中的不可能的处境。事情怎么会变成这样？
他回想起伏地魔为他所做的一切。黑魔王重建了他，将他塑造成更强、更锋利、更无情的存在。伏地魔给了他力量，向他展示了如何以一种无人能及的方式看待世界。在很多方面，伏地魔救了他，教会他生存，教会他茁壮成长。
但这种力量伴随着枷锁。期待、依赖、感恩是一种束缚，像任何咒语一样紧紧束缚着他。伏地魔的影响力确实保护了他，但也让他与一个不完全属于他自己的目的绑在一起，让他做出不再完全由自己决定的决策。
矛盾的情感在他内心翻腾。感恩与愤怒、钦佩与怨恨交织在一起。他憎恨这一切的矛盾——他欠伏地魔那么多，却感到如此被困。最重要的是，他憎恨自己在乎。他仍然寻求站在他对面、魔法像审判风暴一样压在他身上的黑魔王的认可。
然而……关心已经不重要了。不是现在。
哈利的下巴绷紧了，尽管思绪几欲失控，他的呼吸仍趋平稳。无论伏地魔接下来会说些什么，无论从这僵局中会作出什么决定，哈利明白这将留下伤痕。黑魔王不会造成更轻的后果。然而，他就那样坚定地站在那里——准备承受即将到来的一切，与此扭曲命运的枷锁同样禁锢着面前的那位巫师。
“请，”哈利轻声说道，沉默的时间拖得太长了。“我们必须这么做。这是我们取胜的方法。我不能成为你希望我成为的那个人——当这让我们两人都处于危险之中时。我的力量不是你的力量。我的方法不是你的方法。如果我们继续假装不是这样，我们都会失去一切。”
伏地魔的猩红眼睛燃烧着愤怒，火焰在他们眼中无情地燃烧。但在愤怒之下，有某种更冷、更尖锐的东西——一种哈利无法准确命名的情感。那不是不确定或恐惧，但它让一股寒意在他脊椎上窜动，使他感到不安，无法解释。
他们之间的沉默变得紧绷、令人窒息，空气中弥漫着沉重的气氛。最后，伏地魔开口了，他的声音低沉、致命，像是从深渊传来的低语。“我们会回到庄园。我需要思考一下。”
哈利僵住了，他的身体本能地反应，老魔杖重新出现，冰冷的木头抵在他的下巴上。他抬起头，翠绿的眼睛与伏地魔那锐利的猩红目光相遇，一股不安的感觉在他心中闪过。
一股熟悉的力量冲击着哈利的脑海，坚持不懈，毫不妥协，要求进入，探查任何反抗的痕迹。“你的承诺，哈利，”他低声咆哮，语气中带着警告，“你不会回到帷幔那里。”
哈利僵住了，思绪飞速运转。当他所有的本能都在尖叫着告诉他，他寻求的答案就在那闪烁的帷幕之后时，他怎么能做出这样的承诺？那帷幕在召唤他，它的吸引力不可抗拒，像海妖的低语，透露着他无法忽视的真相。
他的犹豫已经说明了一切。
伏地魔的魔杖缓缓地、故意地放低，表情难以捉摸。他后退了一步，动作既谨慎又控制，血红的目光紧盯着哈利，仿佛第一次看见他——或者也许是在重新评估他所认为自己知道的一切。
一阵剧烈的疼痛刺穿了哈利的伤疤，这是伏地魔愤怒的赤裸裸的表现。哈利踉跄后退了一步，无法阻止随之而来的急促呼吸。疼痛蔓延开来，强烈得像是一种责备，泪水不由自主地涌上他的眼眶，无声地回应着那压在他身上的黑暗力量。
伏地魔的魔法在他们周围涌动，充满暴烈和紧绷感，一种无形的力场似乎随着每一秒的过去而收紧，充满了几乎无法控制的愤怒。这感觉就像站在风暴的中心，那平静不过是脆弱的面具，掩盖着即将爆发的混乱。更糟糕的是，哈利知道这种痛苦与伏地魔真正想要施加的相比微不足道，这与他在最初几周被囚禁时所承受的残酷相比根本不算什么。然而，空气中弥漫着一种令人恐惧的确定感——这也是一种警告。
“你在考验我，哈利，”伏地魔最后说道，他的声音低沉而刺耳，像刀子一样划破了沉重的寂静。“不要把我的耐心误认为是宽容。我给你的自由比我的领地里的任何人都要多。但即使是我也有极限。”
哈利艰难地咽了咽口水，喉咙干得像砂纸。伏地魔的话语重重压在他身上，在那一瞬间，他的决心中闪过一丝怀疑。他知道自己正在挑战界限，已经让原本就脆弱的关系更加紧张。
“我不想对你撒谎，”哈利轻声说道，声音有些嘶哑。
伏地魔的目光变得锐利，他的魔法在他们周围仍然是一种不稳定的嗡鸣。他们之间的沉默紧绷着，像一个悬崖边缘，下一步可能会决定一切。
“而你同样也不打算兑现这个承诺，”伏地魔得出结论，他的语气混合着冷酷的确信和隐忍的愤怒。
哈利低下头，无法承受伏地魔的审视。黑暗领主一如既往地看穿了他。他们都知道伏地魔如果愿意，可以强迫服从——有办法，手段是哈利甚至不愿去想的。伏地魔可以利用他的朋友，他的盟友，将他们的安全变成套在哈利脖子上的绳索。他以前就做过，在那些早期，哈利不过是一个他不理解的游戏中的棋子。
但那已经是多年前的事了，在另一个生命里。很长一段时间以来，强迫并不是伏地魔对付他继承人的首选武器。现在，他们之间的一切都建立在权力和信任的脆弱平衡之上——这种信任正在一秒一秒地瓦解。
哈利不想回到那些黑暗的日子。他不能。这个想法让他感到一阵冰冷的恐惧。感受到伏地魔魔法中散发出的愤怒，哈利不安地意识到，他不知道当黑魔王真正被他继承人的不服从逼入绝境时会做什么。但他确信自己不想找到答案。
“我会和你一起回庄园，”哈利终于承诺道，提供了他唯一能想到的妥协。“我不会在没有先亲自通知你的情况下离开。”
这是一种拖延战术，一种脆弱的休战，无法维持太久。他们都知道这一点。这场对抗远未解决。但这会给他们争取时间——时间思考，冷静，重新调整。哈利希望这足够了。内心深处，他怀疑伏地魔也需要同样的喘息机会，即使他永远不会承认。
很长一段时间，伏地魔什么也没说，他那猩红的眼睛死死盯着哈利，那种强烈的目光仿佛是一种咒语。他的魔法那令人窒息的压力依然存在，沉重而压倒一切，直到最后，它开始退去，像退潮一般从被蹂躏的海岸上退去。
“我们会再讨论这件事，”伏地魔最后说道，他的声音中带着冰冷的控制。“相信我，哈利，你不想再激怒我。如果你再次食言，你不会喜欢后果的。”他语气中的承诺是显而易见的——尖锐、黑暗，充满了令人不寒而栗的终结感。很明显：这件事远未结束。
S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S
哈利回到自己的房间，倒在床边，双手捂住脸，缓缓呼出一口气。房间里一片漆黑，笼罩在寂静中，月光透过高高的窗户洒下微弱的光芒。时间应该接近凌晨 4 点，然而在这种压抑的静谧中，时间似乎变得无关紧要。
Raising his head, Harry stared out at the moonlit grounds of Slytherin Manor. The familiar view offered no comfort tonight. He needed to write to Severus, to let him know he wouldn’t be at the school for breakfast—perhaps not for the next few days. The timing couldn’t have been worse. Classes were resuming tomorrow, a step toward restoring some semblance of normalcy for the students. The faculty had convinced themselves that structure was better for the children’s sanity than idle dread.
Harry could already imagine the whispers that would ripple through the halls in his absence. The rumors. The quiet fear. And Severus—his annoyance would be unmistakable, his clipped tone carrying a sharp edge as he took on Harry’s classes alongside his own endless responsibilities. The headmaster already had too much to manage without this.
But it couldn’t be helped.
Harry dragged a hand down his face, his eyes drawn back to his room, the familiarity of it felt mocking. He couldn’t think about the students or the school right now. Not while this conflict with Voldemort loomed, unresolved and threatening to spiral further out of control. Until they found common ground, a path forward, everything else would have to remain a distant second.
This newly formed fractures in their alliance felt too wide, the unanswered questions too numerous. They weighed on him like stones, pulling him under. He let out another slow breath, rubbing his temples as the ache behind his eyes sharpened.
He hated leaving Severus to deal with the fallout at school, hated knowing that others would have to shoulder responsibilities he couldn’t bear right now. But what choice did he have? Until he could put this right—until he and Voldemort reached some kind of agreement—the rest of the world would just have to wait.
S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S
By the second day, the waiting had begun to gnaw at Harry, each passing hour dragging on with agonizing slowness. Desperate for an escape, he decided to step outside, hoping the crisp air beyond the manor’s walls would offer him some relief.
The forest on the manor property loomed around him, an endless labyrinth of towering trees casting skeletal shadows beneath the pale daylight. The air bit sharply at his skin, even through his thick cloak, and the usual woodland chatter was absent. No birdsong, no rustle of small creatures—only a silence that felt alive, deliberate, as though the forest itself held its breath. A faint hum of magic prickled at the edges of Harry’s senses, familiar yet alien, like a half-remembered song.
Beside him, Nagini slithered gracefully over the frosted ground, her dark scales catching faint glints of sunlight filtering through the canopy. Despite her resilience, the cold slowed her movements. Harry, unwilling to see her suffer, had cast a warming charm—an intricate bit of magic that enveloped her in a pocket of heated air. Unlike static objects, Nagini’s constant motion made the spell far more challenging to maintain. He’d perfected it years ago, knowing how much she loved walks through the Hogwarts grounds.
He glanced at her now, watching the shimmering, invisible boundary of the charm ripple faintly as it adjusted to her shifting form. She was an impressive creature—her sheer size and the deliberate grace of her movements a constant reminder of how dangerous she could be. And yet, here she was, a companion rather than a threat, her presence oddly comforting in the eerie stillness.
“The forest is quiet today,” Harry hissed. The sound felt intrusive, as though it might disrupt the fragile equilibrium of the woods.
“It is,” Nagini agreed, her words carrying their usual unsettling cadence. She shifted closer to him, her large, black eyes unblinking as they scanned their surroundings. “But not still. It stirs… restless.”
Harry nodded, resisting the urge to grab his wand as he cast a wary glance at the trees. The ancient woods had always thrummed with an undercurrent of power, but today it felt different. The energy was sharper, almost sentient, pressing against his senses and making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He reminded himself they were on Slytherin ground—no one could enter without the Manor Lord’s permission. Yet, the thought did little to ease his unease.
“I can’t place it,” he admitted contemplatively. “Something feels… off.”
Nagini’s coils shifted, her movements unhurried as she considered his words. “This land is tied to the Master,” she said after a few moments of thought. “He has been displeased. Perhaps it bleeds into the soil.”
Harry frowned, his gaze drifting to the gnarled roots and moss-covered stones that littered the path. He’d walked these grounds countless times, but today it felt as though the forest itself had changed, its usual vitality muted by something unseen.
“You think the forest is reflecting his mood?” he asked, glancing at her, surprised by the insight. He often took for granted just how intuitive she was, how her senses seemed to stretch far beyond his own. If what she said was true, it didn’t bode well for him. The idea that Voldemort’s will could seep into the land itself disturbed him deeply. If even the trees mirrored the Dark Lord’s temperament, it could only mean trouble.
Nagini’s tongue flicked again, her gaze narrowing. “You can’t feel him here?” she asked, a subtle challenge in her tone.
Harry’s lips pressed into a thin line. He couldn’t tell if her response was meant to doubt him or not. “No,” Harry admitted reluctantly. “I don’t.”
Black eyes focused on Harry. “You also taste different. You seem like a rabbit who only wants to flee,” she observed, her voice a soft hiss.
Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that the observations were an accusation. He shot her an irritated glance. “Can you blame me?” He gestured vaguely at their surroundings. “If this is what he’s feeling, it doesn’t exactly bode well for me. This magic—whatever it is—feels wrong.” It wasn’t just the forest—it was everything. The Dark Lord, the war, the Horcrux that was both a burden and a leash. The waiting…
Nagini let out a low, soft hiss. It could have been agreement, or derision, but it didn’t offer a response.
“Come on,” Harry hissed finally, his voice barely audible. “Let’s keep moving.”
He sighed, shaking his head as they continued on. The ground faintly crunched beneath his boots, the only sound breaking the oppressive silence. Nagini followed without a word, her sinuous body gliding effortlessly over the uneven ground.
They reached a river, its surface glistening faintly, reflecting back the sun. The water was fast-moving, its dark current swirling in a steady rhythm. Harry stopped, leaning against the rough bark of an oak as he stared at the river, his eyes tracing the way the water danced over rocks, glimmering like liquid silver. The sound of rushing water filled the air, but it still felt muted in the stillness of the forest.
Nearby, Nagini coiled herself on a large rock, her black scales gleaming faintly as the warmth from Harry’s charm radiated off the stone. She gave him a pointed look, clearly displeased by the chill in the air. Harry’s lips twitched in amusement as he cast a stronger warning charm on the rock, knowing that even with the warm pocket of air he’d created around her, the cold would still make Nagini uncomfortable.
“You’re nesting here again,” she remarked suddenly, coiling more comfortably onto the now-steaming stone. “Not tending to your snakelets.”
Her lilting voice always carried a weight that unsettled Harry, no matter how often they spoke. It wasn’t just the words but the primal awareness beneath them—a depth of perception that cut straight through him. Where humans danced around meaning, she always struck straight at the heart of things.
“I’m only here for a short time,” Harry replied, but even as the words left his mouth, doubt gnawed at him.
Nagini lifted her head slightly, the gleam in her black eyes sharp. “It is because Master is not happy,” she repeated, her words deliberate.
Harry glanced at her in surprise; rarely did she actively involve herself in matters concerning the Dark Lord’s displeasure, especially when it involved Harry.
I’m not happy either, Harry thought bitterly, but said nothing. Instead, he asked, “Why do you think he’s upset?” His curiosity was genuine; Nagini’s insights, though obscure, often exposed truths he’d missed when left to his own devices.
She briefly flickered her tongue tasting the air before she spoke. “You frustrate him,” she said simply, without judgment. “You always have. And yet…” She paused, her unblinking eyes studying him in a way that seemed almost invasive. “He keeps you.”
Harry frowned, her words heavier than he expected. “He keeps me because he needs me,” he said, though the certainty in his voice felt hollow. “I’m his tether to immortality.”
Nagini tilted her head, the darkness of her eyes narrowing. “You are more than that,” she hissed. “But you do not understand him.” She paused again, as though considering her next words carefully. “He does not understand you either.”
Her words sent an unwelcome shiver down Harry’s spine. His arms crossed defensively as his gaze shifted to the river, its surface shifting in the soft breeze.
“Then tell me what I’m missing,” he hissed, frustration creeping into his voice.
Nagini’s coils shifted on the warm rock, her head tilting as the sunlight kissed her dark scales. After a long pause, she continued as though she were carefully unraveling a hidden truth. “You unsettle him.”
Harry blinked, caught off guard. He frowned, feeling his pulse quicken. “He doesn’t get unsettled,” he replied firmly, shaking his head. The idea felt absurd, contradictory to the Voldemort he knew—unyielding, implacable, a force of nature.
Nagini’s tongue flicked the air, tasting something unseen, her gaze fixed on him with a quiet intensity that seemed to make the air heavier. “You doubt what I sense?” she asked, her voice edged with a challenge, as though irritated by his skepticism. “I can taste it. He has a new scent when it comes to you.”
Harry swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. A sense of foreboding swept through him. “What scent?” he asked, though he already dreaded the answer.
She stared at him. “Fear.”
Harry shook his head, a sharp, incredulous laugh escaping before he could stop it. “He doesn’t fear me,” he denied, his tone almost mocking, though part of him recoiled at the thought. The idea was ridiculous—Voldemort’s magic was unlike any that Harry had ever felt before. “His magic is stronger than mine.” It felt absurd to be having this conversation with her at all. “Even if my magic were close to his, he’s willing to use it in ways I never could. Ways I don’t want to. That’s the difference. That’s what makes him stronger.”
It was also why he was so worried about what the Dark Lord would decide regarding Harry and the Horcrux. If Voldemort refused to see things Harry’s way, Harry wasn’t sure what the consequences would be. He was afraid to find out.
Nagini’s head tilted further, her silent scrutiny pressing against him like a tangible force. “Not your magic,” she hissed softly. “But your defiance.”
The word struck Harry like a lash. He frowned, the casual certainty in her tone grating on him. “Defiance?” he echoed, his frustration rising. “I’ve done everything he’s demanded—more than anyone else would.”
“He’s given you more than anyone else,” Nagini countered evenly, her tone carrying the weight of an unspoken expectation—that naturally, more obedience would follow in return. “And yet, you still reject him.” There was a trace of irritation, even betrayal, in her voice, which took Harry by surprise. He knew she was protective of the Dark Lord, but he had never felt that protectiveness aimed at him before. “You resist, even when you do not speak it,” she hissed, her words laced with a dark intensity. “He feels it, snakelet. He always feels it. You are a part of him.”
Harry stilled, glancing away, staring into the shadows of the forest. Voldemort had taught him powerful magic, had given him a position of influence—but it had come at a cost. He’d always struggled with submission. Once he’d given it, his loyalty had never wavered. But completely yielding to the Dark Lord... that was different. It was so much harder for Harry, no matter how much he tried. How could he do so when it might put everything he cared about at risk? When at times, it contradicted who he was at his core?
He sighed, not wanting to argue with Nagini. “I just wish he could see what I see—about the Horcrux, about Death… That I’m trying to help. That this is still me being loyal.” He shook his head, as if trying to shake off the doubts clinging to him. “I’m not trying to anger him, to rebel. But moving the soul shard is our best option.”
If they moved it, then Harry’s mistakes, his resistance, wouldn’t be such an issue. Or at least, he had to believe that was the case. The alternatives was something he wasn’t willing to contemplate.
The eerie stillness of the forest seemed to press closer, amplifying the silence between them. Nagini stilled, tasting the air, and Harry waited, sensing that more was coming.
“You are his greatest creation, snakelet,” she said slowly, her voice heavy with an odd, unsettling weight. “And his greatest failure. You remind him of what he cannot control.”
“Control?” Harry repeated, his voice dripping with disdain, his lips curling in bitter amusement. He was his own person—at times, it felt less like Voldemort wanted submission and more like he wanted a mindless slave. Of course, Harry would resist that. “That’s all he cares about.”
Nagini’s tongue flicked again; she tilted her head slightly, her expression as unreadable as ever. Yet there was something in her movements—an almost imperceptible shift in the stillness—that caught Harry’s attention. She was rigid, her posture sharp as she studied him, as though waiting for something.
“Is it?” she asked, her voice almost amused, as though she knew something Harry didn’t.
Her words unsettled him. He looked at her, searching but not finding what he needed. “What else can I think?” he asked, shaking his head. “I don’t even know what to think anymore. This soul piece in me has made everything so complicated.”
A branch cracked in the distance, shattering the silence.
“It is strange,” Nagini hissed, her voice low and reflective, “I sometimes remember what it meant—what it felt like—to be what I was.”
Harry frowned, confused. “What you were?”
Her coils shifted subtly, the sunlight dancing off them. “When I too carried a piece of Master,” she clarified, her voice almost wistful. “It was… different.”
The realization hit Harry like a physical blow. He had never considered what it might have meant to Nagini—to have carried a part of Voldemort within her for so long. For him, removing the Horcrux had been a necessity, the only way to save either of them without destroying everything. But for her? He had never even thought to ask.
“Do you miss it?” Harry asked, his voice quieter now, tinged with disbelief. There was a sadness in his chest—a sorrow that he had never cared to ask, to understand.
Nagini tilted her head. “Miss it?” she echoed, tasting the words, as if weighing them. “It was not mine to miss. But it was… something.” She paused, and for the first time, Harry saw a flicker of something that might have been regret in her polished eyes. “It was not a piece of me. It was a piece of him. But it tied us together.”
The silence stretched, heavy and thick, as if the forest itself were holding its breath. Harry’s chest tightened. For so long, he had seen Nagini as nothing more than a tool—Voldemort’s weapon, his familiar used to instill fear and terror among his followers, a container to house one of his precious soul shards.
Over the years, however, he had never been more certain that his initial impressions were wrong. She was one of the few things the Dark Lord seemed to actually care about, even without a soul shard housed within her. Considering her now, it only painted a more complex picture—one that he wasn’t sure he was ready to face.
He swallowed hard, his voice careful. “What was it like?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer. “When I removed the soul shard, what did you feel?”
Nagini’s eyes drifted, her gaze distant, as if seeing something far beyond the present. “It was not like being me,” she said slowly, her words deep with thought. “It was… heavy to carry. But it also sang with life. Through it, I could feel him—his thoughts, his pain, his anger.” She paused, the air around them thickening. “And his need.”
Harry leaned forward, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Need?” he echoed.
Nagini’s eyes shifted, her voice softer now, almost reflective. “He needed it to survive. But he also needed… me. The shard made me more than a familiar. I was a part of him, as much as he was a part of me.”
The silence of the forest deepened, pressing against Harry’s ears. Guilt twisted in his gut. A knot of uncertainty tightened in his chest as he considered her words. He had always believed he understood Voldemort, that he knew the Dark Lord’s motives, his ruthlessness. But now, in the quiet of the forest, he found himself questioning everything—what he knew, what he thought he knew, and what he had been too afraid to consider.
Yet, despite the storm of uncertainty swirling within him, the facts remained undeniable. They were at war. And now, more than ever, Harry needed the freedom to fight it in the way he knew best. Whether he was right or wrong about Voldemort, or about how the Dark Lord viewed him, didn’t change the reality. Something had to change, he just hoped he could live with the consequences of what he’d set in motion.
S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S
They didn’t speak the following day, a silence that sadly came as no surprise to Harry. When Voldemort’s fury reached its peak with his heir, he’d come to learn it didn’t erupt in the explosive violence he reserved for others. Instead, it manifested in something far more unsettling: a quiet, chilling withdrawal.
For most, Voldemort’s wrath brought swift and brutal judgment—a merciless display of dominance designed to crush dissent. But with Harry, his anger became a void: cold, calculated, and laden with unspoken consequences.
Harry had come to realize the silence itself was a form of punishment. It wasn’t merely the absence of words but an oppressive weight, forcing Harry to confront his own uncertainty. Each passing moment gnawed at him, the waiting unbearable. Its sting was sharpened by the knowledge that Voldemort’s thoughts were methodical, implacable, and entirely beyond his control. Acting impulsively—choosing a path without the Dark Lord’s approval—risked escalating the situation into something far more destructive than Harry could manage. Yet doing nothing felt equally intolerable, the stasis pressing on his chest like a leaden hand.
Perhaps this is mercy, Harry tried to convince himself. Voldemort hadn’t imposed an ultimatum or crushed him under the force of his authority. Instead, he had retreated, his rage tempered by the colder precision of logic. And yet, this calculated restraint carried its own dread. Voldemort’s mind was relentless, ceaselessly grinding through every permutation, every consequence.
But, with each passing day, Harry felt unease settle over him like a shadow, every thought pulling him deeper into an internal labyrinth. The truth loomed over him: If Voldemort’s decision clashed with his desires, what then? Their perspectives were often fundamentally at odds. Voldemort’s logic, though brilliant, was forged in a worldview Harry struggled to inhabit.
Even though the Dark Lord had reshaped him at his weakest, refusing to destroy him when he could have, instead forging him into something worthy, something more--even after all of that, Harry hadn’t been strong enough. He had been captured. He had lost his two most precious possessions—the ring and his wand. He had shown Voldemort exactly what he was: a vulnerability.
And yet, even after everything, he wasn’t naïve enough to believe Voldemort would simply let him walk away. Their destinies were too deeply intertwined.
The truth was, Harry didn’t want to leave. What he needed was more control—the very thing that seemed to slip through his fingers whenever things took a darker turn.
What terrified him most was the uncertainty of how the Dark Lord would respond to his unexpected request to remove the Horcrux. Harry had spent years learning to endure, to adapt, to decipher Voldemort’s mercurial moods. But this—this was different.
Harry’s disobedience had never taken on such a blatant form before, nor had his desperation been so raw, so exposed. Now, all he could do was wait—to see how the Dark Lord, to whom he had sworn obedience and loyalty, would choose to respond.
When the summons came on the fourth day, relief and dread churned in equal measure. Harry walked with resigned apprehension toward the Dark Lord’s private study, his footsteps unnervingly loud in the stillness of the quiet halls. At the door, he hesitated for a fraction of a second before raising his hand to knock.
“Enter,” came the curt command.
Harry stepped inside, immediately catching the Dark Lord’s crimson stare from across the room. The firelight cast flickering shadows over Voldemort’s sharp features, his expression inscrutable but no less menacing. Before the seated Dark Lord was a single glass of amber liquid, the sharp scent of it bitter in the air. There wasn’t another glass waiting for Harry—nor any indication he was going to receive one. When Voldemort finally gestured to the chair opposite, it felt less an invitation and more an order. Harry sat, his pulse rising, his unease building.
“You lied to me and disobeyed me,” Voldemort spoke at last, his voice laced with a cold, unforgiving venom—beyond mere disappointment, it was as chilling as a threat. “You acted recklessly, defying me by walking straight into peril, endangering not only yourself but me as well. And even after all of that, you still refuse to submit.”
Harry straightened, inhaling sharply, words poised on his lips to argue that wasn’t what had happened, had never been his intent—but Voldemort cut him off with a searing pulse of pain that tore through his scar.
"Do you truly believe I’ve spent years refining your power, safeguarding your survival, only for you to waste it on reckless, senseless risks?" Voldemort's tone dripped with scorn, his irritation unmistakable. "You are my heir, yet you treat my authority as though it holds no value."
Harry forced himself to meet that piercing gaze, feeling Voldemort’s magic pressing down on him, searching for weaknesses, demanding answers. The searing pain in his scar finally eased enough to let him speak. “I wasn’t trying to undermine you,” he replied, the answer truthful though his voice betrayed the tension building within him. “I needed answers. We needed answers…”
"And you believed you could find them by courting Death?" Voldemort's lips twisted into a cruel, humorless smile. "Do you think yourself invincible, Harry? That you can break every boundary without facing the consequences?"
"I don’t believe that," Harry said quietly, though his words wavered under Voldemort’s intense scrutiny. "I didn’t enter the Veil." It was a flimsy excuse, one he knew wouldn't hold up.
"Semantics," Voldemort snarled, his voice thickening with disgust. "You betrayed my trust. You defied my orders. You have fallen beneath every standard I would expect of my heir."
The accusation hit harder than Harry had anticipated, tearing into insecurities he had desperately tried to keep hidden. He loathed how it landed, desperate to keep his emotions from betraying him.
"I know I disobeyed you," Harry confessed, his voice low. "But I wasn’t trying to defy you. I was trying to protect what we’ve built."
Voldemort’s crimson eyes narrowed, his magic coiling around the room. “Protect it?” he repeated contemptuously. “You call risking everything I’ve created all for shadows and whispers that lure you protection?”
"If Grindelwald gets the Scepter, everything we’ve done will be meaningless," Harry insisted, his fists clenching at his sides. "You taught me to seize power. I was trying to find the answers we need to win."
“And in doing so, you dismissed my authority and put everything at risk,” Voldemort countered, his voice dark with fury. “Do you truly believe your wisdom surpasses mine?”
Harry’s scar flared with an agonizing burn, a searing pain that built sharply between his eyes.
He recoiled, his breath faltering. He had never seen Voldemort this enraged, his magic crackling with such raw intensity, not since that night Voldemort had believed Harry destroyed his soul shards.
"I didn’t dismiss you," Harry ground out through clenched teeth. But then he hesitated, the retort dying in his throat. If he continued to clash, all that would result was deeper division. He needed to tread carefully, measured in his words, if he hoped to salvage what was left of this conversation. "I made a mistake," he admitted quietly.
The room plunged into a suffocating silence. Voldemort’s gaze pinned him down, the crimson of his eyes freezing Harry in place.
“A mistake?” Voldemort repeated, his voice chillingly devoid of emotion, the coldness more terrifying than the fury that had only moments before simmered beneath the surface. “You admit you were wrong? That stepping into the Veil was nothing but foolishness? Even so, do you believe such a confession will absolve you of my displeasure?”
Harry shook his head, at a loss for the right words. “I know it doesn’t,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. “But seeking answers, when we’re running out of time, wasn’t wrong. It was necessary.”
It was immediately clear that he had chosen the wrong words. A pulse of dark magic rippled outward, a tangible manifestation of Voldemort’s fury and frustration.
“I didn’t betray you,” Harry said, his voice firmer this time, willing himself to believe it. “I’ve stepped through the Viel before. I never intended to jeopardize your immortality. Why don’t you trust me with these powers?”
“Because you’ve spent years cowering from them!” Voldemort hissed, his magic crackling with malice, causing the flames in the hearth to writhe and twist. “We both know, Harry, that you’re fumbling through this, blind to the consequences. Worse still, you chose to disobey the few protections I’ve demanded, fully aware of the price. And in doing so, you’ve shattered the trust I once placed in you.”
Harry leaned back, turning his gaze away, unsure of what to say or how to respond. Was he wrong to seek the one action that might bring answers? Was he wrong to act when everything felt like it was unraveling? "I didn’t see another choice," he said hoarsely, swallowing the lump in his throat. "I should have spoken to you, but I thought—"
“You thought?” Voldemort interrupted coldly, the disappointment in his voice palpable, mingled with a simmering rage. On some level, Harry understood—he was the singular Horcrux. But he was also still immortal; he had proven that in his escape from Grindelwald.
“I don’t know how to make this right,” Harry admitted, genuinely torn. He was sick of feeling like a chastised child, yet on many levels, he could see how anything involving Voldemort’s soul shard would push him to volatility. Still, he wasn’t sure he regretted his actions—nor the stark realization of just how vulnerable both of them were, since the truth remained that he was Voldemort’s last link to immortality and had never felt more vulnerable to losing control of his life or his mastery over death.
Harry shook his head. “I can’t undo what I did. And it doesn’t change the fact that your immortality is at risk because of me,” he said, the admission heavy in his chest. “Whether it’s Grindelwald or my lack of mastery over these powers, you are the one in danger. I wasn’t trying to violate your trust.” He meant it—of all the things he had intended at the Ministry, betraying Voldemort’s trust and causing this rift had never been part of his plan. “But the truth remains that moving the shard would protect you while allowing me to master my powers before it’s too late.”
The tension in the room thickened, suffocating, as Voldemort’s magic coiled tighter around Harry, pressing in on him like an invisible weight. A subtle, invasive probe brushed against the soul link, seeking access to Harry’s emotions, searching for any trace of weakness or duplicity.
“Is this what you desire?” Voldemort finally asked, the question cold and sharp. “For me to remove the shard? To sever the tie that binds us?” His expression was unreadable, but the crimson of his eyes blazed with such intensity that Harry’s breath caught in his throat. “You would prefer to stand alone?”
Harry froze, the weight of the question sinking in, forcing him to confront the full consequences of his actions—and his desires. This wasn’t an idle threat or a rhetorical ploy. Voldemort was demanding a decision—a truth Harry wasn’t sure he could give.
Unable to bear the weight of Voldemort’s piercing gaze, Harry’s emerald eyes flicked to the fire, its flickering light offering no solace. The truth before him was a tangled mess, bound by fears he was unwilling to confront. He wondered if losing the shard would feel like losing a part of himself—an irreversible severing he wasn’t ready to face. But keeping it meant risking everything he had ever longed for. It meant Voldemort would always control his life, forever bound by the Dark Lord’s will. It meant Harry would never be free to discover what he was truly capable of, because any danger to him was a threat to the fragile life he had unintentionally become responsible for.
“I’m not trying to distance myself from you,” Harry said finally, his voice quiet. “But it’s a liability. To both of us.”
He hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal, wondering just how much he was walking into a trap. He had no idea what the Dark Lord was truly thinking. Voldemort had likely understood the full implications of this situation long before Harry had, and yet, it had been Harry who had suggested removing the soul shard.
“It’s affecting my ability to control and master my powers,” Harry continued, voice tight. “And if Grindelwald gets the Scepter, everything changes. I can’t guarantee I’ll remain your link to immortality.”
Voldemort’s eyes narrowed, his voice low, a clear warning in every syllable. “You believe I will fail against Grindelwald?”
Harry’s chest tightened, but he forced himself to respond, steadying his breath. “I’ve already been captured by him once,” he stated bitterly. “You’re not the problem. I am.”
It always came back to this, didn’t it? No matter how hard Harry tried, he never felt like he was enough. He hadn’t been strong enough to defeat the Dark Lord as a child, forced to make impossible choices and sacrifice everything to protect those he loved. Even now, in this twisted world he had helped create, he found himself just as protective of the soul shard, determined to give Voldemort no reason to fracture his soul again. But the problem remained Harry himself. He doubted his own strength, feared he wasn’t capable of resisting Grindelwald. He couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t become the liability that cost them everything.
Harry lifted his eyes to meet Voldemort's gaze, and the intensity in them was like a physical force, constricting his chest. “You know it’s true,” Harry said, his voice thickening with how uncomfortable this conversation had become. He wasn’t just faced with Voldemort’s disappointment, but more so, his own inadequacies. “You can’t protect me, lock me away. If Grindelwald gets the Scepter, he’ll control me wherever I go. And it would be foolish for me to hide. You’ve said it yourself—I’m powerful, too powerful to be sidelined. I need to fight this. By your side.”
Voldemort’s silence stretched, each passing moment tightening like the loop of a noose around Harry’s neck.
If Voldemort refused, the consequences would be unimaginable. Harry didn’t know how they could go on from here without something changing. “Do you have a better solution?” Harry asked, fighting down the fragile hope that hid in the recesses of the question.
The question lingered in the air. Voldemort always had a plan—but whether Harry could accept it was another matter entirely.
“You have not answered my question,” the Dark Lord said instead, his voice soft. His magic swirled around them, palpable and dangerous, crackling with barely contained control. “Do you want me to remove the soul shard?”
Harry swallowed hard. Want. The word gnawed at him, sharp and unforgiving. How many times had Voldemort asked him over the years: what did he want? Did he want the shard gone? It wasn’t an easy answer—he longed for freedom, for clarity.
But did he need it gone?
That was an entirely different question, one he wasn’t sure he could voice. The shard wasn’t just a tether—it was something deeper, something he’d never allowed himself to fully confront.
“I don’t want to be a liability,” Harry repeated, his voice faltering. The words felt hollow, as if they came from somewhere distant, some part of him he couldn't fully reach. Voldemort’s magic pressed in on him, invasive and unyielding, demanding the truth Harry was too terrified to face.
“Answer the question, my heir,” Voldemort demanded, his magic thickening. “Do you want the shard removed?”
Harry’s breath caught under the weight of the oppressive magic tightening around him like chains. The answer struggled to escape, raw and unsteady, a single word that felt both defiant and fragile.
“No.”
The admission hung in the air, thick with the truth Harry could no longer deny. He didn’t want to sever the connection. As much as he loathed what it symbolized—the violation of his autonomy, the constant reminder of Voldemort’s control—it had become something more. It was a lifeline to the Dark Lord’s mind, a thread that bound him to thoughts and emotions no one else could touch.
Through the shard, Harry had glimpsed pieces of Voldemort no one else ever would: flashes of frustration, ambition, and something deeper, darker, infinitely more dangerous. It was his way of understanding Voldemort, of seeing him in ways no one else could. Even now, as Voldemort’s magic crackled with fury, Harry could sense the undercurrent of chaos, the turmoil Voldemort kept so tightly bound within himself. That understanding was a power of its own—an exclusive power Harry alone possessed.
And wasn’t that what Voldemort had always taught him to value? Power.
Harry exhaled slowly, his hands unwinding from the tight fists they had been clenched in. The shard was a curse, yes—a constant reminder of everything Voldemort had stolen from him. But it was also a strange gift, a conduit to something no one else had ever touched. The Dark Lord trusted no one, relied on no one. Yet through the shard, Harry had seen the cracks in Voldemort’s armor, felt the flickers of vulnerability he would never admit aloud. It was a connection that defied reason—one Harry resented but also couldn’t bear to sever.
The confession hung between them. Harry’s mind churned, guilt and doubt swirling like a violent storm. Was this admission a sign of weakness? Selfishness? Foolishness? What did Voldemort see in him now?
Before he could stop himself, the question slipped out, raw and unguarded. "Do you wish the soul shard wasn’t in me?"
For the first time Harry could recall, Voldemort paused. His expression didn’t harden, nor did his eyes flash with anger. Instead, an uncomfortable silence stretched between them, as though the question had caught him off guard.
The stillness unsettled Harry more than any rebuke. Voldemort had never hesitated to be blunt or cruel, but now he sat in quiet contemplation, his gaze distant and unreadable.
Harry’s thoughts spiraled. Voldemort had called him a vulnerability, a liability. The answer seemed clear, yet it didn’t come immediately.
After what felt like an eternity, Voldemort slowly lifted his glass, taking a deliberate sip before turning his gaze toward the fire. The flames flickered in his crimson eyes, reflecting the tension in the air.
"You are... a contradiction," Voldemort murmured, his tone soft yet bitter. His magic pulsed outward, brushing against Harry like a restless, possessive force, probing him.
For a brief moment, something unreadable flickered in Voldemort’s gaze—a tension between rage and something else Harry couldn’t name. The firelight painted sharp shadows across his face, but Harry could sense it wasn’t just anger tightening the lines around Voldemort’s mouth. It was the discomfort of holding on to something vital yet corrosive, something Voldemort could neither relinquish nor fully control.
Harry’s stomach churned. Did Voldemort keep the shard only as a tool for control—to summon him, inflict pain, ensure obedience? The thought gnawed at him. But another, more troubling possibility lingered. Was the shard more than a mechanism of dominance? Could it be a bond—twisted, unspoken, as complex as the emotions Harry felt himself? Voldemort, who trusted no one, relied on him. Not just for survival, but to also achieve his deepest aspirations.
The silence stretched, broken only by the fire’s crackling rhythm. Harry searched Voldemort’s expression for any hint of truth, but the Dark Lord’s face remained impenetrable, withholding.
Harry reached inward, pressing against the shard that tethered them. He so desperately needed the unfiltered truth, a glimpse of Voldemort’s true emotions beneath the ice of his control. But instead, he collided with a wall. Voldemort’s feelings were a storm—wild, chaotic, beyond comprehension.
"Please," Harry wasn’t sure what to expect, but this was the closest he’d ever felt to knowing what the Dark Lord truly felt when he considered his heir. "I need to know the truth."
Crimson eyes narrowed, and a pulse of anger rippled through the shard—a sharp, bitter current of resentment.
Voldemort moved slowly, deliberately, reaching for the glass. He drained it in a single fluid motion, his expression as unreadable as ever. Harry’s gaze tracked every small flicker of movement, searching for the smallest crack in the Dark Lord’s armor, but Voldemort revealed nothing—only the firelight dancing in his eyes, betraying the storm simmering beneath his control.
The silence deepened, pressing on Harry like a suffocating weight. For a moment, he feared Voldemort would evade the question, deflecting as he always did when pushed too far. But to his surprise, Voldemort leaned back, his gaze locking onto Harry with cold intensity. The air between them hummed with unspoken truths.
“I have done everything in my power to make you strong,” Voldemort began, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “I’ve molded you, shaped you into something powerful. I’ve given you every opportunity to realize your potential. Even now, despite your resistance, despite your failures, I have devoted myself to your education.”
Harry braced himself, each word sharp and deliberate, but it was Voldemort’s next words that struck hardest.
“I don’t despise our connection,” Voldemort said, his voice decisive yet laced with unexpected introspection. “But the vulnerability... infuriates me. It is unacceptable.”
The words hit with brutal force, unraveling Harry’s defenses and exposing him as sharply as when Voldemort had made the same accusation in the Department of Mysteries.
Voldemort turned toward the fire, his expression unreadable, his posture distant, as though trying to distance himself from the weight of what had been said. With a flick of his fingers, the whiskey bottle floated toward him, filling his glass. The silence that followed was not just quiet—it was a chasm between them.
Harry stared at his hands, his emotions churning—frustration, guilt, defiance, and something deeper gnawing at him. Voldemort’s words had cut him, sharp and barbed, with something he wasn’t ready to face. Were they meant to chastise or protect him? Perhaps both. The ambiguity only seemed to make it worse.
“Especially now,” Voldemort continued, his voice low, darkening further. “You’ve broken my trust. Even when confronted, you refused to submit, to back down. You persist in this foolish desire to step through the Veil. And most infuriating of all, you tried to go behind my back,” Voldemort turned back, his crimson gaze searing through him. “Knowing full well I would not approve. Why?”
For a brief, almost imperceptible moment, Voldemort’s magic shifted. Harry felt a flicker of genuine curiosity through the overwhelming storm of control and fury. As if the Dark Lord had not thought Harry capable of such disobedience, of such treachery.
Harry’s hands clinched into fists on his lap, the weight of everything bearing down on him. It wasn’t just this moment; it was everything—the long weeks of fruitless searching, the empty pages of the grimoire that promised answers but delivered none. The cold indifference in Tullos’s eyes, as though the urgency of the situation meant nothing. The haunted faces at Hogwarts, young and old alike, worn down by a war that hadn’t even started in earnest.
And then there was Harry himself, spiraling, stumbling through each decision. Every move felt like running in circles, blind to the path ahead, the clock ticking faster with each passing second. He had wanted to save everyone, to prove he wasn’t just another pawn in a game he hadn’t chosen play. But now, he felt like one.
The shadow of Grindelwald loomed larger with every lost day. He had no idea how to stop him. Worse, he had vowed never to become his captive again, but the truth was undeniable—as things stood, Grindelwald would win. Again.
He clenched his teeth, fighting the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. His hands trembled slightly as the weight of failure suffocating him. He had tried so hard to be strong—to be more than just a weapon. But now, as Grindelwald’s power grew and the Scepter slipped further away, all he could see was his own failure.
Finally, his voice broke through, heavy and raw. “He has another undead army,” Harry began, the words slipping out like a painful confession. “We have less than two months before Grindelwald could access the Scepter. We’re no closer to stopping him—or getting there first. And if we don’t…” He blinked once, then twice, eyes shifting to the fire but not seeing it. “If he gets the Scepter, then I will lose everything.”
The flames flickered as if they could devour his frustration whole. It was a quiet admission, yet beneath it lay the crushing weight of his despair—the helplessness, the fear, and the gnawing question: What if I’m not enough?
“And I only have one lead left,” he added bitterly, his voice trembling under the weight of it all. “Death is calling to me in my dreams. It’s summoning me.”
He had avoided speaking this truth, uncertain of how Voldemort would react. After all, there was no love lost between Death and the Dark Lord—two forces as incompatible as fire and ice, volatile opposites that clashed rather than coexisted.
Voldemort’s magic unfurled around him, invasive and prying, laced with anger and surprise at the revelation.
“Calling you how?”
“In my dreams,” Harry replied, his voice taut.
“Saying what?”
Harry met Voldemort’s unrelenting gaze, refusing to shy away now, not when everything was finally being laid bare between them. “That I needed to find it. That we needed to speak.”
Voldemort’s expression darkened, his features twisting into something sharper, more disdainful. “Yes,” he sneered, his voice dripping with venom, “the very being that chastised you for daring to claim mastery over it with the Hallows. And now it beckons you—tempts you—to step through a Veil from which you may never return.”
His crimson eyes locked onto Harry. “Have you considered, even for a moment, that this could be a trap? A calculated manipulation?”
The firelight flickered, the shadows casted across Voldemort’s face magnifying the disdain in his voice. “Death does not tolerate mortal defiance lightly. You defied it with the Hallows. Grindelwald mocks it by seeking even more power over Death’s dominion. And now we chase a Scepter, one promising power beyond anything we’ve ever sought mastery over.” He leaned forward, his words pressing down on Harry. “You have no understanding of why Death seeks you, no comprehension of its true motives. But make no mistake: its goals are not aligned with ours.”
Voldemort leaned back, visibly forcing himself to calm, before taking a deliberate sip from his glass and setting it down with a controlled, almost cruel care. “You think I don’t understand? That I don’t grasp the gravity of the situation?” he asked, a mocking malice present. “Yes, if Grindelwald secures the Scepter first, it threatens both of us. That is a danger we are addressing.” His gaze burned into Harry’s. “But your actions—your reckless desire to step into the realm of the dead without understanding the consequences, without considering the possibility of a trap—are equally as dangerous. In doing so, you’ve placed my soul at risk.”
Voldemort’s magic coiled around Harry, tightening. “It is ironic, isn’t it?” he murmured, his voice turning cold. “Given the current threat, it is you who would gamble with my immortality so carelessly. Your actions have put it in the greatest peril that anything Grindelwald has done.”
His crimson eyes locked onto Harry’s, unblinking and unyielding. “Perhaps I should be thanking you. One thing is now clear. If I cannot trust you with my soul shard, I will have to find another way to secure my immortality.”
There was no hesitation in his voice, no flicker of doubt—only the unshakable certainty that had always defined Voldemort’s every move.
Harry’s heart began to pound faster, a sense of defeat settling over him. He felt powerless. Perhaps Voldemort wasn’t eager to release the bond, to sever his control over Harry. And Harry realized, he didn’t truly want the soul shard removed either. But the truth remained: it was their best option. It might be their only option.
“I’ve offered you another way,” Harry said quietly, his voice tight.
Voldemort’s eyes shifted to his glass, his expression once again turning unreadable. For the first time in hours, the oppressive force of his magic stilled, giving Harry a brief moment of reprieve.
“You’ve done this before,” Voldemort said, his voice quieter but no less commanding. “What does reclaiming a Horcrux require?”
The question wasn’t born of curiosity—Voldemort already knew the answer. It was a challenge, a demand for acceptance.
A sudden flicker of surprise, quickly followed by a sharp stab of dread, coursed through Harry. He swallowed hard.
"Remorse."
The room seemed to grow darker. Voldemort’s expression didn’t shift, but the air around him tightened, charged with a malevolent magic. His lips twisted into a grim, sardonic smile, devoid of warmth and heavy with disdain.
“Remorse,” Voldemort repeated. “An indulgence. A crutch for the fragile who cannot bear the cost of power.”
The Dark Lord leaned back in his chair, his crimson eyes narrowing as they raked over Harry with piercing scrutiny. “To feel regret is to admit failure,” he said, his tone chillingly final.
The cold certainty of those words cut deeper than Harry had anticipated.
Harry stared at him, searching for even the slightest crack in Voldemort’s facade. Was Harry his biggest failure? Was Voldemort suggesting that to move the shard required such an admission? Such a regret?
Or more troubling, was it that Voldemort refused to feel remorse—was he simply incapable of it? Could someone so consumed by power and desire even have the capacity for regret? Had Voldemort severed that part of himself entirely, leaving only the relentless pursuit of control and an unyielding resolve?
The thought unsettled Harry deeply. Remorse wasn’t just a burden; it was a tether to humanity. If Voldemort had cast it aside, then what did that make him? A man unwilling—or incapable—of reconciling his mistakes? Or something far darker? The answer felt terrifyingly out of reach.
“You don’t need to feel remorse,” Harry said at last. Voldemort arched a knowing brow, his gaze never leaving Harry’s. There was a hunger in his eyes now, one that Harry didn’t like. “I carry enough for both of us, I always have. We both know I’m capable of pushing enough through our link to conduct the ritual.”
Voldemort studied him for a long moment, his features unreadable. It felt like an eternity. Everything rested on this moment, on this decision. If the soul shard was reclaimed, everything would change. Harry knew that as surely as he knew the sun would rise in the morning.
The truth was simple and brutal: until now, the Dark Lord could only push him so far, only demand so much, because Harry held something Voldemort needed. The shard bound them, not just in purpose but in necessity. If Voldemort reclaimed it, that bond would be severed. What use would Voldemort have for him then? There would be nothing left to force them to work through their differences, no more leverage. Voldemort would no longer need him for immortality—and perhaps, no longer tolerate Harry holding the mantle of Master of Death, a title Voldemort might want for himself.
The realization hit Harry like a blow. This was the ultimate sacrifice. Reclaiming the shard would free Harry—but it would also free Voldemort from dependence on Harry. He would no longer be bound to maintaining Voldemort’s immortality. It was the only path to true freedom, but the cost was staggering.
And yet, it was one Harry was willing to pay.
He could see no other choice.
The look in Voldemort’s gaze, dark and calculating, told Harry that the Dark Lord had already reached a similar conclusion.
“I don’t know how to control these powers,” Harry began, his voice trembling, but he pushed forward. “You said it in the Department of Mysteries. I’m your liability.”
He paused, struggling to keep his emotions in check. The lump in his throat made it harder to continue. “And you no longer trust me.”
The admission felt like a knife twisting in Harry’s chest. He knew Voldemort could sense everything he was feeling—he couldn’t hide the truth behind their shared connection. Unlike the Dark Lord, Harry found that he didn’t even want to. Instead, he let the raw vulnerability show, allowing Voldemort to feel the full weight of what this was costing him.
“I’m still immortal,” Harry continued, his voice numb despite the storm raging within him. “We know I’ll survive this, even if it doesn’t work. This is our best chance. This is your best chance.”
A long silence stretched between them. Finally, Voldemort inclined his head, his expression as unreadable as stone.
“Very well,” he said, his tone low and controlled, stripped of all emotion. “Who am I to deny you what you ask, my heir?” His words carried something darker, a foreboding presence that Harry couldn’t ignore.
The questions lingered in Harry’s mind, gnawing at him as he watched Voldemort’s silhouette flicker in the flames. The weight of the decision, of the bond they had just agreed to sever, settled heavily in Harry’s chest, suffocating him with its uncertainty. What had they both just agreed to? Even if they succeeded, had he just ruined everything?
S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S
The door to the potions chamber swung open without a sound. Severus didn’t need to look up from his brewing; he already knew who stood in the doorway. That peculiar mix of presence and hesitation was unmistakable. Only Potter could command the room's attention with the raw force of his magic while simultaneously radiating such maddening uncertainty.
“Do you plan to enter?” Severus asked, his voice calm as he continued his task, stirring the potion with practiced precision. He added powdered unicorn horn, ensuring the liquid remained at the correct density. As the ingredients settled, the potion turned a satisfying shade of violet. The concoction wasn’t particularly complex—designed to replenish the school’s dwindling medical supplies—but it required careful attention when ingredients were introduced. After five days of covering extra classes, he had finally earned a night to himself on the eve of the weekend. No students, no distractions—just the solitary rhythm of brewing. It was more relaxing than he cared to admit. “Or is indecision your latest hobby?”
The air thickened with the scent of the simmering elixir. The shuffle of reluctant footsteps followed, and the soft click of the door closing behind the visitor told Severus his goading had worked. With the potion now stabilized for a few moments, he allowed his gaze to lift, landing on the young wizard before him.
Potter stood there—a contradiction made flesh. His posture was slouched, his shoulders heavy under an invisible burden, yet his very presence hummed with reined-in power. He wore sleek robes, the kind he only donned when coming from the Manor, when he was at the mercy of outfits Voldemort ensured were always available to his heir to maintain his appearance of status. But something was different this time.
Harry’s face was pale, his expression distant, as though part of him remained far from this room, disconnected from the exchange they were about to have. But it was his eyes that told the truth.
There was a glint in Harry’s eyes—sharp, hollow, and cold. It wasn’t the usual anger, defiance, or guilt from a clash with the Dark Lord. No, this was something darker, more unsettling. His gaze was too distant, his body too rigid, as though he were holding himself together with sheer force of will.
It was the look of someone who had crossed a line, who had done something irreversible. And it unsettled Severus more than he cared to admit.
His hands stilled, and for a moment, Severus regarded the young man before him with rare, unguarded intensity. He set the iron stirring rod down, his attention fully shifting to Harry.
“Exhaustion doesn’t suit you,” Severus remarked, his voice sharper than he intended. The sight of Potter in such a state always put him on edge. “I assume you’ve come here to share it?”
Harry didn’t respond immediately. He stepped into the room with unconscious grace, the kind that spoke of pureblood mastery, of strength honed through years of expectation being forced upon him. Yet as he came to a halt before Severus, his movements betrayed him. There was a subtle numbness to them, an underlying detachment that made Severus’s unease deepen.
“I trust your time at the manor was... productive?” Severus asked, stretching the pause just long enough to provoke a response. “You appear unscathed. Or do those shadows beneath your eyes suggest otherwise?”
Harry let out a humorless laugh, empty and hollow, almost unrecognizable. He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes lingering on the potion as if it could offer some refuge. His body shifted, betraying the exhaustion he clearly tried to conceal, each movement heavy with it. “Unscathed? Sure. Let’s call it that.”
Severus’s lip curled faintly. “How eloquently vague,” he remarked, his voice dry. His gaze sharpened as he studied Harry with quiet scrutiny, waiting for him to elaborate.
Harry rubbed his temples, the gesture raw with fatigue. “It’s complicated.”
“Complicated,” Severus echoed, laced with irony. “I never would have suspected complexity in dealings with the Dark Lord.”
Harry’s lips twitched, a painful attempt at a smile that vanished almost instantly. Severus’s gaze sharpened, his instincts telling him that something deeper was at play here than the usual mix of Harry’s rashness and guilt. This was different—darker, more complex. There was a shift beneath the surface, something Severus couldn’t yet grasp.
“What drew you away?” Severus asked, his voice softer, more probing. He sensed that this time, he’d need to coax more from Harry than usual. The boy seemed lost in a particularly morbid, perhaps even dangerous, state of mind.
“We had another fight,” Harry admitted, his voice flat, each word seeming to take effort. His posture stiffened, almost as if he were bracing for something. “He thinks I’m reckless. That I’m jeopardizing everything.” A barely audible sigh followed, one that seemed to carry the weight of the world. “And maybe... maybe he’s right.”
Severus remained silent, his eyes focused on Harry, watching every subtle shift. It was the glint in Harry’s eyes, that fractured light, that unsettled Severus the most.
This wasn’t the usual despair after an argument with the Dark Lord. There was no fire of defiance or flicker of indignation. Instead, Severus saw something far more chilling—something that spoke of finality.
"Recklessness, as always, is a hallmark of yours," Severus observed, his voice carrying a thread of amusement, but with a faint, restrained understanding beneath. "I thought you and the Dark Lord had reached some kind of mutual understanding. So, what exactly happened?"
Harry shrugged, the motion almost mechanical. "This war... everything’s moving too fast. I can’t keep up." His voice thickened with an emotion Severus hadn’t anticipated. He paused, then muttered almost to himself, "So, I went looking for answers."
"Answers seem a reasonable thing to seek," Severus replied, though the unease that had been simmering now solidified into something sharper. Harry and the Dark Lord had always kept things from him, and Severus had begrudgingly accepted it over time, but this felt different. The stakes were higher. Harry had always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, but now, it was clear that weight was finally breaking him. Severus couldn’t ignore the look in Harry’s eyes—a quiet admission that he was teetering on the edge.
Harry stood motionless, his gaze shifting to the potion. Severus immediately noticed the neglect. The liquid should have been progressing, hot enough to move to the next stage, requiring ingredients and careful stirring. Instead, it had taken on a murky hue, the vapor shifting from silver to white—a sign the potion was slipping off course.
Severus’s eyes flicked from the cauldron back to Harry. The potion was in a delicate phase—delay and it would be ruined. But this conversation held greater urgency. He had already accepted the brew would be sacrificed. This moment with Harry demanded his full attention.
What he didn’t expect was for Harry to step forward without a word. He moved along the table, reaching for the beetle eyes. With a quiet expertise, he scooped a fourth of a spoonful and dropped it into the potion. Then, almost mechanically, he took the stirring rod and gave it two clockwise turns before pausing. His eyes were distant, his expression unreadable, as he began stirring counterclockwise, slowly gaining speed as the color began to change.
Severus watched as the potion slowly transformed, shifting from violet to deep amber. It wasn’t just the change in color—it was the subtle revelation of something deeper within Harry. Severus had always known that Voldemort had claimed dominion over Harry’s education, but seeing it in such simplicity, in this quiet correction, unveiled just how much had changed.
What unsettled Severus even more was how little Harry seemed to appreciate his own skill. He had walked in, clearly in emotional turmoil, yet corrected the potion mid-brew as if it were a trivial task—an act no mere dabbler could accomplish. How many other aspects of himself had Voldemort’s meticulous, exacting instruction perfected over the years? It unsettled Severus deeply, for despite how shaken or broken Harry appeared in the moment, Severus couldn’t forget who had shaped him. The power and knowledge Harry now possessed were undeniable—forces capable of reshaping the world. Something Harry had already accomplished more than once in his modest lifetime.
When Harry finally spoke, his voice low and hesitant, Severus was drawn back into the conversation he’d momentarily forgotten, lost in his musings. “It’s not just that I sought answers,” Harry began, his words hesitant. “It’s about everything we’ve built, everything we’re fighting for. I might have put it all at risk.”
Severus raised an eyebrow, silently urging him to elaborate.
Harry dropped his gaze in resignation, his shoulders slumping as if he had already said too much, that he’d accepted his words needed to remain cryptic and unsatisfying.
Severus exhaled sharply. “While I understand you have your secrets, such vagueness will hinder me if you truly seek my counsel. Whatever has transpired between you and the Dark Lord, it’s clearly significant enough to torment you to a state I’m not sure I’ve ever seen before. If I’m to be of any use, I need more. Do you truly think it wise to bear this burden alone?”
Harry’s lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, Severus thought he might remain silent. His fist clenched, his posture stiff and unnervingly still, betraying the storm inside.
“I’ve been handling things on my own for years,” Harry muttered, almost defensively.
Severus tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. “Yes, and that approach has left you here, drowning in your own burdens. After all these years of observing you, I can only conclude that what you carry is far too much for one person, no matter how capable you think you are.” His voice softened, though it still held an edge. “You may think you’re protecting others by keeping this to yourself, but in truth, you hinder your own ability to move forward.”
Harry glanced up, his green eyes shadowed with emotion. Severus caught a flicker of fear in them—whatever Harry was concealing, it terrified him to speak aloud.
“I think I might have messed up,” Harry admitted, his voice shifting to barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to fix this. And if I can’t... things will never be the same.”
The admission sent a chill through Severus. This wasn’t Harry’s usual self-recrimination or despair over a fight with the Dark Lord. This was something deeper, something more profound.
Severus’s gaze lingered on Harry, studying him closely—his slumped shoulders, the faint tremor in his hands, the hollow tone in his voice. He had seen Harry face impossible odds, battle through wars, and shoulder burdens that would have broken lesser men. But this… this seemed different.
The war was breaking him. Severus could see it, the truth as plain as the shadows beneath Harry’s eyes. The resilience that had carried him through the last war—the defiance, the determination, the reckless optimism—was slowly eroding under the weight of this new conflict. Harry had always sacrificed, always carried more than he should, but now he was being pulled in too many directions, torn between the manipulations of two Dark Lords.
The firelight flickered across Harry’s face, highlighting the haunted look in his eyes. Severus fought the scowl threatening to form, angered by the injustice of it all. The entire world expected Harry to protect them—and, worse still, Harry believed it too. But it wasn’t arrogance that fueled him; Severus had long since accepted it never had been. No, it was responsibility—the crushing weight of knowing that if he didn’t carry the burden, no one else would.
“Then you owe it to yourself—and to all of us—to seek help,” Severus pressed, his tone calm but firm. “You’re not infallible. You cannot carry this alone, and you certainly cannot bear it in silence.”
Harry shifted uncomfortably, his gaze once again drawn to the potion as if looking for an escape and finding none—Severus suspected they both knew it needed to sit for an hour before the next step. His shoulders slumped further, as if Severus’s words had struck a chord Harry wasn’t ready to acknowledge.
“I don’t want to make things worse,” Harry replied after a long pause. His voice was tight, strained, as though the admission itself had cost him.
“Is letting it fester alone a better option?” Severus countered sensing that Harry had come here for a reason, that this time he might actually confide some of his secrets in Severus.
The silence that followed was longer than before, but it wasn’t the usual defensive quiet Severus was used to. It was the silence of someone grappling with a decision that terrified them.
Finally, Harry exhaled, the sound more a shudder than a sigh. He swiped a hand through his hair, his expression bleak yet tinged with newfound resolve. “I can’t tell you everything,” he caveated, his voice tight with reluctance. “But… maybe you’re right. Maybe I can’t keep carrying this alone.”
Severus inclined his head slightly, his expression neutral, though a flicker of relief passed through him. “That would be a wise conclusion,” he said, his tone carefully measured.
Harry glanced at him briefly, green eyes seemingly seeing more than Severus was comfortable with. After a long moment, Harry nodded.
“While I can’t tell you everything,” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper, as though talking himself into it. “More and more people are realizing this one part of it. So, it might as well be someone I trust.”
Severus’s dark eyes gleamed with something akin to triumph, though he quickly masked it, his features returning to their usual inscrutable form.
Despite the surge of curiosity, a sense of unease lingered within Severus. He knew that whatever Harry was about to reveal would be but a fragment of the truth—an incomplete piece, burdened by far more that Harry was still unwilling to share. As someone who had built a life around knowledge, this withholding, more than anything, frustrated Severus. Yet, it had been years since he had made the choice to remain in this world, to pledge his loyalty to Harry. So, he would accept whatever the boy was willing to offer, knowing full well that he was fortunately that Harry trusted him as much as he did.
S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S~S
Severus stared into the fire, his thoughts spinning in relentless, disorienting circles. Hours had passed since Harry had left, yet Severus found himself unable to move, replaying their conversation over and over, dissecting every word, every subtle inflection, every hidden implication.
Harry was the Master of Death.
The revelation should not have surprised him. Severus had known Albus for far too long to be unaware of such magic's existence, though Albus had always kept the details hidden, as if the knowledge itself might invite ruin. Now, with everything falling into place, the realization was unsettlingly clear.
The Elder Wand, the ring Albus had tried to steal under the pretense of destroying a Horcrux, the cloak he had coveted for years while pretending to safeguard it—each piece was now connected, woven together in a way that seemed inevitable. Of course Albus had known. Of course, he had orchestrated these events, moving the pieces with his usual blend of manipulation and foresight. A meddlesome fool, as always.
Now that Harry wielded this unimaginable power—and appeared to be immortal—it made too much sense. Severus couldn’t decide if it was comforting or terrifying.
What unsettled him further was what Harry had not revealed. He had been careful to remain silent about Voldemort's immortality.
Severus had known about the Horcruxes for some time. The confirmation had come the day after Albus’s death, when Voldemort summoned him, demanding life oaths of loyalty because Severus had clearly seen the ring. After those dark days, Severus had learned more, despite the oaths, thanks to the Order's revelations after Neville managed to steal away Nagini. He had heard rumors of Harry’s supposed life oath to destroy the Horcruxes—and how that oath had allegedly been fulfilled.
As always, Harry had been tight-lipped about the entire ordeal. Severus didn’t know the full details of what had happened that night, but he knew something had irrevocably shifted. It wasn’t just Harry who had changed—Voldemort’s perception of him had evolved too. Their dynamic had shifted in ways Severus could barely comprehend. What had once been an enigma—a boy caught in a war—was now something far more complex, far more dangerous. Remarkably, the bond between master and heir had deepened, growing closer, more interdependent after an encounter that made little sense—especially if Harry had truly destroyed the Horcruxes the Order had taken.
And yet...
Severus had no illusions that Voldemort had relinquished his immortality. He wouldn’t have allowed Harry—an immortal being in his own right—to remain at his side without assurances. Assurances Severus suspected Harry was fully aware of, even if he had yet to speak of them.
The fire crackled softly, its warmth failing to reach the cold churn of Severus’s thoughts. His mind raced, struggling to piece together the disjointed fragments of the puzzle before him. Grindelwald sought not only to control the undead, but would be able to control Harry as well. Harry had attempted to counter that threat by seeking out Death. Voldemort, it seemed, didn’t want Harry risking himself by crossing into the Veil—that much was clear. But Severus suspected there was something deeper at play, something Harry had left unspoken. By seeking the Veil, Harry had defied the Dark Lord, enraging him, shattering the trust between them.
Which had led to Harry’s stay at the Manor.
Harry had been allowed to return to Hogwarts only after a deal had been struck—one that seemed to grant him permission to pursue Death once more and continue mastering these dangerous powers, despite the risks. However, this came with the condition that he first fulfill a part of the bargain, a condition that remained frustratingly secret.
That was the missing piece—the critical detail that Severus could not yet grasp, preventing him from fully understanding what was truly at stake. But he knew it was significant. Harry had hinted at a new understanding, an accord between him and Voldemort. A course had been set, but it was clear that this path was causing Harry no peace. If anything, it was weighing him down with dread. Harry feared it might cost him everything—even his place at Voldemort’s side.
And whatever this agreement was, it had nothing to do with the Master of Death.
Severus’s frown deepened, his thoughts spiraling into darker territory. If Harry feared the direction they were heading, what did it mean for Voldemort? For the delicate balance they were struggling to maintain? And perhaps, most troubling of all, what would happen to the world if that balance were to collapse?
The firelight flickered, casting harsh shadows across Severus’s face as he leaned back, his gaze fixed, distant, and contemplative. Whatever Harry had set in motion, Severus knew it was only the beginning.
He sighed.
Or perhaps, it was the end.
AN: Voila. THANK YOU for all the support of the last chapter. As always, reviews and reactions are always appreciated!
ALSO, I'm also dabbling with another fic, if you want to read it. Finishing Defying Destiny will remain my priority with normal updates: Link to Chains of Fate: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62312020/chapters/159432346