Chapter Text
Dear Padfoot,
I hope you're doing okay. Professor Dumbledore mentioned that you had a safe place to lay low for a while. I'm happy for you, really, if there's anyone who deserves a little peace and quiet, it's you. I'd love to visit someday, see you in person if there's ever a chance to.
I'm alright. I'm going to be honest with you, I don't really know what I'm supposed to do with myself. Yeah, I keep telling people--Ron, Hermione--that I'll get better soon but the truth is I don't know if I am. Dudley and I once watched this war film when we were younger, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia never caught us, back when we got on alright. It mentioned something about survivor's guilt. I'm not Hermione so I don't know if my assumption is accurate, but I think that's what I'm going through.
I don't think I'm supposed to be here. Maybe that sounds like I'm being dramatic or something, but that's just how I feel. Maybe if I'd been faster in realizing where we were, what was going to happen, I could have gotten us out of that fu graveyard. Before Wormtail showed up. Then maybe I would be able to say 'I'm fine' and for once it wouldn't be a lie. Because I would have saved someone for once, not watched someone die in front of me like always. Mr. Diggory would still have his son.
I'm scared. Everyone expects me to do something about Him, but the Minister didn't even believe that he's back when I told him. I feel like people think I have a solution, but I don't have one. I'm not strong enough to beat Him. He's smarter and loads more powerful than I could ever hope to be. Even Dumbledore acts like he doesn't know what to do around me anymore.
I can't shake this feeling that my luck is about to run out.
The quill snapped.
Harry set it aside with a grimace, ignoring the specks of ink that had made their way to his bedsheets with the breakage. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wand.
"Incendio," he murmured. Flame shot from the tip of his wand and danced across the parchment, burning it to a brown crisp. With another flick of his wand, he banished the remains, trying to ignore the frustration building in his chest.
That was the fourth letter he had written and then promptly burned. Nothing was coming out right, he found. The words weren't doing what he wanted them to. He wanted to be vague, to assure his godfather that he was doing perfectly fine--Sirius had enough on his plate as it was--but when the quill met the parchment, it all came tumbling out.
"That's bloody fantastic," he muttered to himself.
The door opened. Harry glanced over his shoulder and felt his heart drop into his stomach.
He turned around, shoving his back to the newcomer. A part of him, one that Aunt Petunia had trained into him, screamed that he was being impolite and disrespectful. He quieted that voice by shouting back that he did not give a flying f--
"Harry..." Dumbledore was unsure of what to say, and Harry couldn't blame him. He knew Dumbledore meant well, that he was only trying to get Harry to talk because apparently, that made things easier to process. But Harry didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to think about what happened. "We need to talk."
"I'm late for the train, Professor," Harry said shortly. He grabbed his wand and shoved it into his pocket, determined not to make eye contact with the headmaster. "Maybe we can pick this up another time. I appreciate your thoughtfulness in coming here, though. Glad you had the time to."
He was being rude. He knew that. He also didn't care.
Ever since that encounter with Barty Crouch Jr., Dumbledore had resolved to keep his distance from Harry. Harry didn't really mind, at least he thought he didn't, but it did confuse him. It felt like he had done something wrong. Like he had let the headmaster down.
But what was he supposed to have done? Not fall into a trap? Kind of hard when it was the Dark Lord himself, the most cunning wizard in Britain, masterminding a plan to get you where he wanted you to be. Not be part of a ritual to resurrect Lord Voldemort? Oh, like he consented to have his arm split open by the man who sold out his parents.
And today of all days, the last time they would see each other before the next term started, Dumbledore had finally decided that Harry was worth his time.
"I hope you have a good summer, Harry," Dumbledore settled on. He sounded weary, exhausted--and Harry reckoned he would be. Everyone was in hysterics about the return of Lord Voldemort and Dumbledore looked like the only one who was fighting for the truth. Harry felt a bit sorry for him, but then again, he was in that same boat. "I am very sorry about what you have had to endure."
Harry scowled. A wave of anger crashed into him, so large and dangerous that it surprised him. Had Dumbledore's voice always aggravated him to this extent?
"Have a good summer, Professor," Harry said. Then he walked through the open doorway, never once meeting his headmaster's stare. He could feel it, though, burning into the back of his neck like another scar.
He didn't look back.
*
"Harry."
Green light flooded his vision, searing through his retinas. His vision was ripped away from him, leaving him stranded in a world of black hues. Shadows sifted through the darkness, hazy and grain-like. A pressure formed against his eyes. Like he was in a sea of dark water with his eyes wide open.
Something brushed his shoulder. Then his leg. Then the middle of his back. A gasp escaped from his lips before he could help it, sharp and loud compared to the silence he was in.
He hadn't even heard anything move. But there it was again. Something touched him, caressed him almost. Distantly, as if in a body he should be in but wasn't, there was pain, but far away as it was he didn't feel it.
He didn't understand what was happening. He tried to recall, to stretch his memory back to the last thing that happened. He had gotten off the Hogwarts Express after a long, awkward train ride with Ron and Hermione. That had definitely happened. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had been there waiting for him.
Uncle Vernon had a new car from the drilling company he worked for. He had explained it to Aunt Petunia on the way back. She had gushed about the delightful red color, the dashboard, the rearview mirror, to the extent that Harry had begun to wonder if she was being genuine or if she was just saying that for her husband's sake.
Then Uncle Vernon had caught Harry staring. The road they were taking wasn't right. There weren't any houses coming into view, not a building nor a power line in sight. Trees instead took their palace, their colours different variants of his eye color, leaning in ominously as if escorting him to his funeral.
Something was wrong, Harry realized as he thought back on it. His scar started to throb. He clenched his eyes shut and tried to remember what had happened after that.
"What are you looking at?"
There had been a 'boy' and 'freak' missing from that sentence. There had been something else, too, but Harry couldn't place it.
"Nothing," he had mumbled in response. He had braced himself for the reprimand that was sure to follow. Don't mutter under your breath around me, boy. But it had never come. Instead, Uncle Vernon had seemed almost adamant about ignoring him from that point on. He had kept his face turned towards the traffic, his hands clenched rather tightly around the steering wheel as if it was his first time driving with other cars around him. Aunt Petunia had looked rather pale beside him, more so than usual, her cheekbones gaunter than usual and her hands fidgeting restlessly in her lap.
Harry had flicked his gaze up to the rearview mirror to get a better look at their expressions. What he saw had puzzled him. Aunt Petunia hadn't been staring at the traffic at all, or even turning to talk to her beloved husband anymore. Her eyes had been darting around from left to right, up at the sky and down at the road, almost frantically. Like they were being followed.
Something wasn't right.
These people weren't even acting like Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia.
He had looked up at the man in the driver's seat wearing his Uncle's face, trying hard not to betray his alarm. They had made eye contact, he remembered. Something had risen up from behind him and pressed against his skull. The trees, the sky, everything Harry had in eyesight was consumed with an eerie red.
Then everything after that was a blur. A mass of black, a billowing curtain disguised his recollection, swaying too much with an invisible wind for Harry to grasp it and pull. It danced out of his grasp like a half-forgotten dream.
And now he was here. Alone in this peculiar black room.
His foot nudged something. Harry hadn't even been aware that he was walking. He glanced down but found he still couldn't see. He kneeled down and stretched his hands out, fumbling for the object in the dark like he did with his glasses in the morning.
The object was cold to the touch. Freezing and eerily smooth. He dragged his finger across it and was met with a soft, silky substance. He frowned, blinking even though he couldn't see.
And then, suddenly, he could.
His vision returned with a vengeance. The room he was in, chamber more like, was made of shadows that detached in wisps crawling towards him. He shied back instinctively. That was how he remembered the thing by his hand.
He looked down at Cedric's dead body.
Harry screamed in a totally undignified manner and stumbled away, panting, at a total loss for both words and air. His lungs squeezed the breath out of him, crushing his heart in between them with a vicious tide of guilt.
Cedric's eyes were open. Harry wanted to get close again just so he could close them, give the fallen Hufflepuff the peaceful rest he deserved, but something kept him rooted to the spot. The eyes stared at him no matter where Harry angled his head, accusing him even in absence of life.
You did this.
Harry swallowed with difficulty and tore his eyes away. They were growing wet, unsurprisingly. He must have still been in a bit of shock after what happened.
This is a dream, he thought nervously. He was exhausted during the car ride from King's Cross, he had fallen asleep, and this was just the trauma manifesting in his subconscious. The trauma from seeing his destined arch-nemesis returned from the dead. The same arch-nemesis who murdered a boy Harry ran through a cursed maze with, rewarded the man who sold out his parents, touched him in a way creepy couldn't begin to describe, and forced him into a perilous duel.
I'll be fine, Harry had told Hermione and Ron during the train ride. He didn't know how they believed him. How could anyone on the planet be fine after that?
"You're just dreaming," Harry murmured to the darkness. "This is all just happening inside your head. That means it's not real."
He hoped.
Maybe Dumbledore would want to know about this dream. Harry wondered if he should write to the headmaster when he woke up. If that would make himself too much of a bother to the old man. He cringed at the thought and resolved not to write a letter.
"Harry..."
He whipped his head around to Cedric's body. It hadn't even moved. Besides, the sound had come from the opposite direction as the dead body. Harry grimaced, heart racing again, and swung his head the other way, faltering when his eyes fell on a door.
And before he could brave a single step in that direction, the darkness fell away. Light appeared through the cracks, shining down on him and Harry almost prayed for the pitch-black to return.
There were chains around his wrists.
He yanked against them as he forced his eyes open. It was still dark, he found, but not the pitch-black of whatever room he had been in. He was almost relieved when he spied the stone walls surrounding him. Cedric's body in that horrible dark chamber was a dream, there was no need to worry.
Actually, Harry reconsidered, lifting his head so he could take in the whole room, there is every need to worry.
"Welcome, Harry."
Harry's blood went cold.
His mind flashed back to the graveyard, the feeling of being bound against the headstone of Voldemort's father all too real. The chains on his wrists suddenly felt tighter. He pulled on them, frantically trying to... break his wrists, snap the chains, rip them out of the bloody wall, he didn't know--he needed to get out of here now!
The tendrils of metal alloy stretched from his wrists to the opposite walls, lifting his arms up to stretch his back and display his chest. Now that he was fully conscious, he realized how sore he felt from the continuous pressure on his torso to keep himself straight. Another chain wrapped around his waist and pinned him to the ground so that he was forced into a kneeling position before the assembly of cloaked figures gathered before him.
He didn't know whose house--Manor, it looked more like--this belonged to, but whoever it was must have been richer than Harry was a hundred times over. The chandelier dangling from a high-domed ceiling must have cost more than twenty muggle cars put together, the sleek black dining table running a few meters away from a grand fireplace and stopping a small distance from where Harry was restrained probably more than that. Fifteen men or women in masks stared at him from their places at the table, their porcelain plates empty and silver cutlery untouched.
Harry's scar lit up with pain as the room became clearer.
He bit the insides of his cheeks to keep himself from betraying his inner turmoil, even as foreign emotion blazed through him like a forest fire. Satisfaction. Triumph. Amusement.
He forced himself to look at the head of the table, trying desperately to convince himself that he was dreaming. This, after all, would not be the first dream he had involving the Dark Lord. Sometimes, in those dreams, he was gazing at the scene from the perspective of the victims. It was rare, but it could happen.
This... was a rare time. It had to be. I'm still dreaming, he insisted. None of this was real. This was just a continuation of his nightmare where he had stumbled across Cedric's cold body. His subconscious had gone out on a whim and decided to throw in another scenario where Harry was chained up... at the mercy of the Dark Lord.
The agony pulsating through him from his scar told him otherwise.
He abandoned his effort to get out of the chain and instead shuffled backward as far as he could, which wasn't far. The chains wrapping around his waist kept him glued to the ground, trapped and exposed. The sharp pulling of the metal against his torso, even clothed, jolted him into a sea of nausea and crowded his vision with black spots.
This was real.
Lord Voldemort was here.
And Harry was in chains.
He was going to die here.
At least, that's the conclusion that he immediately jumped to.
But Voldemort wasn't even raising his wand.
His Death Eaters at the table were showing small signs of restlessness. Harry wondered how long they had been waiting for him to wake up.
He looked at all of them, trying to identify their faces, just as he had done in the graveyard, but their masks kept them too well hidden. Al except one, besides Voldemort, of course. A woman sitting by his right side. Her face was pale and gaunt, her cheekbones reminding Harry of someone he knew but couldn't identify. Her eyes were crazed, manic even, as they studied him, her lips spread in a grin so wide and red it could have been extended with slashes from a knife on either side.
Harry wet his lips, trying to keep a clear head. He quickly found that the task was impossible. From the moment he woke up, perhaps around five minutes ago, the panic had not let up. The emotion took control of his figure, possessed him even, until his mind and body were not working of his own volition. Sweat dripped down the sides of his neck, painting him in sticky salts and cool water.
He swallowed, and even that was difficult for him to achieve. He was parched, his throat dry, feeling as if on the verge of collapse. Water. He needed water. And he was hungry.
You're a prisoner, idiot. Stop thinking about water and food, they're not going to give it to you.
How exactly had he gotten into this situation? He had just been abducted not even a couple of weeks ago and dumped in some graveyard, even he couldn't be so careless as to repeat the same mistake.
Then he remembered how strangely Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had been acting. That hadn't been them at all, had it? Someone--Voldemort's followers--had disguised themselves and proceeded to abduct him from right under everyone's noses. Shit. What a fine mess he had gotten himself into.
Wait, that wasn't the worst of it. Harry had seen red eyes staring at him before he passed out. Oh god, he had been in a car with Voldemort. He had let Voldemort drive him down a highway without knowing that it was him.
Voldemort had been driving a car.
This really didn't bode well for him.
And Harry was all alone. Again.
Shit.
Calm down, he thought angrily. His eyes were burning and he hated that. Whatever happened, he was not going to cry. Uncle Vernon always hated it when he cried.
He just... needed to wait. Someone would come to find him.
Dumbledore.
The thought of the man and his twinkling made Harry's heart soar with hope.
And then it plummeted soon afterward when he remembered how distant the man had become after Harry's return from the graveyard. Would Dumbledore even be looking for him anymore? Was Harry even important enough to look for now that he had messed up and participated (unwillingly) in a ritual to resurrect the Dark Lord?
Voldemort's going to kill me.
The thought was strangely comforting. At least there was the chance that he might make it quick. If there was one lesson that Harry remembered from Moody's... no, that wasn't actually him--Barty Crouch Jr.'s Defense Class, it was the one where he showed them the Unforgivables.
The killing curse had stood out to Harry in particular, for obvious reasons, given his parents' untimely deaths. But what had struck him was how quick it had been. He always had this image of Voldemort torturing his parents before finally killing them, that the killing curse was the equivalent of the pain induced from a muggle weapon, like a bullet to the chest or a knife stab. It wasn't. It was just... One flash and you were gone.
"Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived..."
Harry lifted his chin, determined to face his death head-on, without fear. There was no escaping from this one, not like the other times he had encountered Lord Voldemort. This was like the graveyard all over again. his only chance of escaping this time wasn't with talent or skill, he certainly didn't possess either one except a talent for getting kidnapped apparently, but luck.
"Voldemort," Harry acknowledged with a whisper. He was met with sharp intakes of breath from the cloaked followers.
At last, the serpentine figure with gleaming red eyes rose from his seat at the table. His chair was more ornate than the others, high-backed and dark, elegant like a throne fit for a king. It really was a throne, Harry realized with a barely-restrained snort. Of course Voldemort would design one for himself. Anything to add to that massively inflated ego of his.
"How does it feel, Harry..." Voldemort stalked over to him, his strides elegant and graceful like an ethereal demon summoned from the darkest pit of hell. He took his time as he walked, content to keep Harry anticipating and fearful of his approaching nearness. "... to know that no one is going to come and save you? To know that you've been abandoned by those you thought your most loyal? Dumbledore and his fools don't even notice anything is out of place."
Harry said nothing. Not because he was petrified by fear, he insisted to himself.
"That is the fate you condemned me to," Voldemort hissed, his syllables drawn out and harsh like Parseltongue. "I was forgotten by the world who were all too eager to move on with their lives, by my followers who once swore to me that they would remain loyal, by those who I believed and cared for me."
Harry couldn't resist looking over Voldemort's steadily approaching figure. The followers in masks suddenly appeared more human, shuffling nervously and avoiding each other's gazes. Exactly how they had appeared in the graveyard when Voldemort had approached this same topic. He wondered how long it would be before these Death Eaters were back in their Lord's good graces.
"And now... you're going to know it, too."
"They followed you out of fear," Harry said, turning his focus back to Voldemort. "That's not true loyalty, that's just insurance that they'll cower before your feet. My friends are by my side out of--"
"Love?" Voldemort mocked. When Harry didn't respond, he made a tutting sound heavy with disapproval. "Dumbledore really has done a number on you, hasn't he? What else has he told you? That you will defeat me with the power of friendship? That you are stronger because you care about people?"
The Death Eaters took that as their cue to burst out into laughter. It reminded Harry of Uncle Vernon's chortles whenever a younger Harry had asked for new toys after seeing Dudley get some. The sneer was visible behind the joyous sounds, condescension bleeding from its tone.
"Look me in the eyes and tell me that you feel stronger than me, the great Lord Voldemort."
Harry immediately opened his mouth out of spite to say exactly that. The words got caught in his throat.
Voldemort's smirk was slow and satisfied. "There we are," he murmured, soft and sympathizing as if he was trying to comfort Harry after he had been stumped. It felt so unnatural; this monster could not possibly care about anything other than himself. "Once we are finished here, I am going to lock you up in the darkest dungeon this Manor holds. Behave yourself and I might even let you out for a day. Until then... you will stay here and rot, just as I did in that half-life I suffered for nearly a decade. Should I keep you in here for a decade, Harry Potter?"
Panic closed Harry's heart in a cold grip and squeezed. He shook his head hurriedly, not bothering to acknowledge what a pathetic sight he must make for Voldemort. He couldn't stay here--he needed to get out, he needed to find Ron and Hermione, he needed to find Dumbledore and tell him where Voldemort was, he needed to do something other than just stay here shackled up like the helpless little boy Voldemort believed him to be.
His thoughts must have translated to his expression if Voldemort's bout of cold laughter was any indication.
"You are helpless," Voldemort chuckled. "You... are in my power at the moment, Harry. Your life is in your hands. Do you know what that makes you? It makes you mine."
"No, that's not--"
One moment, Voldemort's eyes were sparkling with amusement. The next, that glimmer was gone, darkening into irritation, and his hand shot up to clench around Harry's throat. Harry choked, trying helplessly to move his head away from the hand crushing his windpipe. Red eyes drew closer to him and he felt the slightest nudge against the inside of his head. "Stop--" he gasped, fighting for just one breath but no more were coming; Voldemort would not allow it, as if he was magically keeping every bit of oxygen away from Harry's little spot in the massive room.
The Death Eaters laughed.
"Did I allow you to speak?" Voldemort asked him, his voice quiet with an underlying threat. Choking Harry was the least of what he was capable of. "I certainly didn't allow you to talk back. The next time you do so... the consequences will be more severe. Do you understand? Keeping you alive has quite the appeal to me--I can cut off your toes and slowly grow them back, crush your fingers in a torturous muggle way instead of with magic so it will hurt. I can rip out your tongue to relieve myself of the sounds of your aggravating voice. I can rip your magic away from you. I will make all of this happen if you do not learn this lesson."
Harry stared at him with wide eyes.
"Are... we... clear?"
It was difficult, but Harry managed to nod. Voldemort narrowed his eyes but removed his grip. Harry collapsed to the ground--Voldemort must have lifted him up however far his chains would allow at some point--and drew in several lungfuls of air. He swallowed, wetting his throat again.
He looked up again. That horrible, repulsive gaze was still on him. Harry felt like throwing up.
His vocal cords felt restless. Normally, he would be taunting the Dark Lord at this point, but he knew he had to keep his lips sealed for now. I can rip your magic away from you. There was a chance that Voldemort was lying about it, but only a chance. Harry couldn't imagine being without his magic; he had grown far too used to it ever since he was told that he was a wizard.
"Beg me for my forgiveness, Harry," Voldemort coaxed. "And maybe I'll grant you some water. Until then... you can go without. Beg me."
Harry gritted his teeth.
No.
He would sooner die than beg Voldemort for anything. He would not be kissing the feet of the man who had killed his parents. The man who had made his life a miserable hell ever since he could remember.
This monster in front of him was the reason he had ended up in the Dursleys' care. This monster was the reason Harry would never know what true family, what true love felt like even if Dumbledore claimed that he already knew. He didn't.
"Fuck you," he gritted out.
The female Death Eater actually jumped up from her seat, sending the ornate wooden chair skidding back with a heavy, grating sound. She whipped her wand out and pointed it straight at his face. He knew instinctively that she would not miss, even from her place across the room. Whoever this woman was, she was dangerous. And right now, she was ready to curse him if her Lord gave the word.
"Now, Bella," Voldemort drawled, "play nice. I'm sure he just needs a few more lessons in manners. Lessons that I am all too ready to give."
Harry whipped his head towards the woman. Bella. It suddenly struck him where he knew that face from. The resemblance, when he thought of how Sirius had looked fresh out of Azkaban, was uncanny. The same sharp cheekbones, pale beauty, dark eyes. He had seen her on the front of the Prophet once or twice, too. Bellatrix Lestrange.
I, Harry thought again, am going to die.
He paused.
Voldemort had been speaking as if he intended to keep Harry here for a long, long time. He said that he planned on making sure Harry stayed alive. Why was that? Harry was supposed to be his mortal enemy--why spare his life if that was the case? Why draw it out instead of trying to kill him right off the bat like he had done every other time they came face-to-face?
"Are you going to kill him, My Lord?"
Harry didn't know who it was, but he felt a surge of gratitude for their daring to ask the question he was curious of the answer to himself. Then he remembered that the man who had spoken was a Death Eater and promptly went back to hating his guts.
"No."
The single word cut through the hushed murmurs of worry rising from the table. Bellatrix froze in her position, her wand arm snapping back to her side faster than Harry could blink.
"Harry Potter... is mine."
Harry fought the urge to protest again.
Voldemort took a graceful step forward, the air around him clinging close and darkening as if he had called the shadows to accompany him. Whatever light there had been cast down from the chandelier dimmed. Harry's heart picked up its pace in a sense of foreboding.
"Mine to harm," Voldemort continued, his voice a soft, sibilant hiss. Something in Harry was drawn to the softness of his tone, something buried inside his chest that he couldn't identify. "Mine to conquer. Mine to defeat. Mine to torture. Mine..."
He was right in front of Harry again. Harry's vision was consumed with red. The Death Eaters in the background dropped away, fading into the shadows that Voldemort had brought with him. Nothing more than spectators.
"... to kill."
Voldemort raised a hand so pale it practically glowed in the darkness that whirled around the two of them. Harry wanted to shy away, to take a step back, but the chains kept him glued in place. His blood ran cold, adrenaline washing over his bones in shivering waves.
The Dark Lord's fingers touched Harry's face and moved to cup his cheek in an almost reverent gesture. Harry braced himself for the searing pain that would surely accompany the skin-to-skin contact, but there was nothing. Nothing to indicate that this was some sort of monster in his presence. Just a human hand cradling his face for no apparent reason.
Red eyes bore into his green ones, staring intently as if peering into his very soul.
"And mine..." Voldemort leaned forward so that his mouth was not even an inch away from Harry's ear. His magic brushed against Harry, nearly suffocating with its potency, choking him and binding him all at once, marking him for a fate he never wanted. "... to decide when to kill."
"What?" Harry croaked out, his voice no louder than a whisper. It didn't make any sense. "Why not get it over with now?" He blanched significantly, realizing how that sounded. "Not that I want to die," he said hurriedly.
Nice job, Harry.
Voldemort's lips curled into a half-smile. He chuckled, dragging his finger across Harry's cheek as if sculpting his face to his liking.
Harry couldn't breathe.
"You're so innocent," Voldemort crooned. "Do you really think I'm going to let you die so quickly? After what you've done to me? Always a thorn in my side, always resisting me when you should have known better. I offered you a place at my side when you were only eleven, and you rejected it like the fool you have proven yourself to be. You think I will simply grant you an easy death--a mercy--after you repeatedly defied me?"
"I thought you were a merciful Lord, Tom."
Voldemort smirked. His switch to Parseltongue was seamless, so sudden that Harry had to do a double-take to recognize he was speaking a different language. "Are you trying to get a rise out of me, Harry? By calling me the name of my filthy muggle father?" His words blended back to English. Harry wondered if his Death Eaters knew their Lord's true blood status. "I admire your effort, however pathetic it was. You have my grudging respect after all you have accomplished. You were a far more difficult opponent to defeat than I previously thought..."
"Then why aren't you ending my life?" Harry demanded. "Why not finish what you started? You want to kill me, you've made it your mission to, so why stop now?"
“Oh, I will kill you,” Voldemort agreed, and Harry would have felt a surge of relief if he didn’t know what was coming next. “... But first I’m going to take everything away from you. I’m going to make you watch as I destroy this world you fought for, raze it to the ground, burn it all down, and build it up again.
“I’m going to make you watch as I snuff out the lives of every single person you care about. I’m not going to let you die a hero, Harry. When I’m done, all your friends will be dead and it will be your fault because you, the prophesied Chosen One, could not kill the great Lord Voldemort, no… I’m going to let you die as you see me.”
A murderer.
A villain.
“No,” Harry gasped, hating how much it sounded like a fucking whimper.He was not going to beg Voldemort for anything, he would not be weak in front of this monster.
Voldemort just laughed.
A thumb brushed against the scar on his forehead, sending a shiver racing up Harry’s spine and something else he could not quite place. Warmth surged through his body, stemming from his scar, surprising him. He gasped again, softer this time, his eyes rolling to the back of his head at this unfamiliar feeling. He was aware of Voldemort murmuring something before the shadows the Dark Lord wore like armor reached out and plunged his world into darkness.