Six years was a long time to be rumoured dead. It was a long time for flowers to gather then wilt upon a white-marble headstone that had become grey and weathered. It was a long time for people to mourn, to cry, to scream, and to accept the fact that a particular emerald-eyed boy with a lightning scar would not be coming back anytime soon. It was a long time for rebellions to falter, for fighting to seem pointless, and for hope to dwindle. Yes, six years was a very long time.
It was also a long time to remain hidden. Harry knew the inside of Malfoy Manor just as well as Draco, possibly better considering Harry's rank with the Dark Lord. He was well aquatinted with every portrait, knew the name and tendencies of every House Elf, and had read every book in the Malfoy's rather impressive library, which was an admirable feat on its own.
It wasn't like he'd had nothing to do while tucked away from public view. There were lots of things one could do at the Malfoy residence. It was amazing how many interesting (albeit, illegal) things one family could own. Some statues moved in the middle of the night; written in deadly inks on poison paper were books in the library that could kill you with a single papercut; some plants could eat an entire man whole. The mansion was full of exciting things and an abundance of mysteries just waiting to be solved.
Harry wanted to get the hell out of there.
"Stop fidgeting," Narcissa reprimanded for the fourth time.
Harry immediately released his hold on the black cloak that he donned, straightening. "Sorry," he said, also for the fourth time.
He heard her sigh before he felt her delicate fingers straighten his collar. "You are usually much more poised than this, dear," she chastised gently. She patted his shoulder, then removed her hand. "Is there something on your mind?"
Harry resisted the urge to mess with his cloak again. He could hear Severus's snide voice saying 'A Lord does not fidget, fondle, nor twitch,' in his head.
"I guess I'm just anxious," Harry said after a long moment. "I'm ready to leave this place, go out in the world. I want to be of use to my Lord, and I can't do that locked up in here. Not now that I know nearly all of the Dark Lord's tricks."
Narcissa hummed neutrally. "You sound just like my Lucius," she said, a soft tenderness coating her words. "When he first became a Death Eater, he was so excited. He was dying to go out into the world and purge it of its filth and inferior life forms. But patience is the best virtue, my Prince. The Dark Lord does not take impertinence well."
Harry nodded, knowing first hand how irritable his mentor and Lord could be. He had the scars to prove it.
Despite his short temper and violent wrath, though, Harry had been surprised to learn how informative the Dark Lord was. He was a remarkable teacher, praising intelligence and logic and encouraging questions - so long as they weren't tedious. He pushed Harry beyond his limits, forced him to work until he was depleted and sore and near collapse. Then he would lift up his wand, give Harry a cold look, and say, Again.
It had all paid off, of course. Six years of constant studying by the side of one of the most talented and brilliant wizards to have ever existed caused Harry to improve at a miraculous speed. He was soon able to accomplish magic meant for wizards three times his age, brew potions intended for only potions masters, and use curses so lethal and dark they weren't even registered in the Ministry out of fear that someone would stumble across them.
"You've done well," Voldemort had praised earlier that week, banishing the mangled remains of Harry's last experimenting with the combination of several dark curses. "Remarkably, even. I am quite pleased with you."
Harry had snapped to attention and bowed respectfully. "Thank you, my Lord."
"You have been faithful to me," Voldemort had continued, circling the young man thoughtfully. To anyone else, this would have seemed threatening, but Harry had known better. He was the closest thing to a friend the Dark Lord had - and Harry was merely an indispensable ally.
"Yes, my Lord."
"I asked you to stay here and study magic, and not once have you disappointed me. Not once have you complained, or protested, or attempted to break our agreement. You have been shied away even from my followers, save Severus and the Malfoys. You must have been lonely and tired. Six years is a long time to obey a vague order, as you undoubtedly know."
Harry nodded again. "Yes, my Lord. You are correct on all accounts."
"Mmm." Voldemort had circled him once more before stopping just in front of him. Thanks to the Philosopher's Stone, Voldemort was able to resurrect himself out of Quirrell's cursed body, forming a new, stronger corporal form from the remains. He was middle-aged, now, but still maintained the handsome look from his past. Dark hair swept back from his chiselled face, intelligent green eyes, only now flecked with Crimson. He was as white as snow, and one pale hand rose up and cupped Harry's jaw almost tenderly like a father would to his son.
Harry wasn't stupid. He knew Voldemort was incapable of love, but he did know that Voldemort could be affectionate and feel loyalty towards people, however few. Harry was thankful that he managed to make his way into that small handful.
"How would you like to be my heir, Harry?" asked Voldemort silkily.
Harry's eyebrows quirked in surprise, the only form of motion in his otherwise impassive face.
"Yes, Potter, my heir," repeated Voldemort with a wicked grin. "I feel like it's about time that you received your reward for being my most vigilant and trustworthy follower, not to mention most gifted as well. There could be a proper ceremony, marking you at last. What say you?"
There was no question of what to say. Harry's Lord had only expected one answer, and Harry lived to please his master.
An equally wicked grin had crossed Harry's face. "I say it's about bloody time."
And so Harry found himself, one week later, waiting behind the door that would lead him into a room that was full of his Lord's servants, Narcissa Malfoy by his side. And, dammit, Harry thought he had every right to feel nervous.
A House Elf appeared beside them silently, gesturing that it was time to make their entrance.
Harry swallowed.
"Relax, dear," whispered Narcissa, stretching to place a tender kiss on his temple. She adjusted the mask that covered his face's upper half with a beautiful smile. "Remember: it does not matter what anyone else thinks. You need only to concern yourself with pleasing our Lord."
Harry exhaled slowly and nodded, taking comfort in her words. She was right, of course. It did not matter what the servants thought. If Voldemort was happy, he was happy.
Besides, Harry was now the Dark Prince. If it came down to it, he could always just kill those who protested him being there.
"Go on," Narcissa said, giving his bottom a light swat. "Don't keep Lord Grumpy waiting."
Harry laughed, recalling the moniker he had hurled at his mentor when the man had pushed Harry a bit too far. The name was a bit of a joke among Voldemort's closest allies but never spoken in front of the Lord himself.
Harry still had nightmares from that round of punishment.
The Dark Prince opened the door, walking down the deserted corridor quickly before pausing outside the double doors, checking to make sure the mask was securely in place, before slamming the doors open with a deafening bang.
Silence immediately rang through the crowded room. Harry kept his eyes trained sorely upon his Lord, but he kept his senses aware, feeling for any threatening magic that might come his way. He strolled leisurely through the crowd of men and women, their black-clad bodies parting like a more sinister Red Sea. Murmuring broke out when he bowed before his Lord, and Harry couldn't help but smirk down at the folds of his cloak.
"My Lord," Harry greeted, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. The whispers stopped. "I have come as you requested," he continued. "How may I serve you, Master?"
Harry could feel the gaze of hundreds of Death Eaters piercing his skin, making the hair on the back of his neck rise. His smirk grew when he felt the curious sensation of a few attempts of legilimency probing at his mental shields, but none were able to get through. He awaited his Lord's orders.
"Rise, child," ordered Voldemort at last, and Harry hastened to obey.
The seventeen-year-old made sure to keep his head and gaze forward as the Dark Lord turned to the side with a dramatic flair of his cloak, addressing his masses rather than Harry individually.
"This," Lord Voldemort began, gesturing toward Harry, "is how a true servant to the Dark Arts is supposed to look. Diligent, strong, and intellectually armed, he has made his Lord proud. He makes all of you look weak, spineless, and inane. This boy has done more rigorous and challenging tasks than any man in this room. He has put you all to shame. I have never before had such a loyal, committed servant, and you all would do well to strive to be more like him."
Harry couldn't help the little smirk that crossed his face at that; for Lord Voldemort, it was positively sappy, oozing sentiment. He couldn't help but preen slightly at the blatant compliment.
"But," spoke a nameless Death Eater in the front, hesitantly stepping forward, "who is the boy? Who is it we should be modelling ourselves off of?"
"Silence!" hissed the Dark Lord, and with a wave of his wand, the Death Eater was a writhing mess on the floor, nerves stuttering under the use of the Cruciatus Curse. "It does not matter what his identity is! If I say that he is superior to all of you, then he is, no questions asked. Are we clear?"
A chorus of "Yes, my Lord," echoed around the chamber. After another second, the Dark Lord lifted the curse off of the young man, and the twitching Death Eater hastened to stand again, contrite and obedient once more.
"Although it is no one's concern as to what the boy's identity is," said Lord Voldemort, his voice barely more than a whisper, "least of all, any of you, his name and face shall be revealed. He has been studying under me for the past six years, working and learning and mastering magic more ancient than these halls, dating as far back as the founders of Hogwarts themselves. By the age of thirteen, he had mastered all three unforgivable curses. By the age of fifteen, he completed both his OWLs and his NEWTs, passing with Outstanding in all fields. By the age of sixteen, he mastered his mind and the minds of those around him, and today, at seventeen, he will take his place among our ranks and take his rightful place beside me as our cause moves forward into a new era."
Voldemort once again stepped in front of Harry, and they made eye contact briefly. Then the Dark Lord turned Harry towards the awaiting mass by his shoulders and placed his pale fingers over the front of his mask. "Prepare," the Dark Lord said, "to meet your Prince."
Voldemort removed the mask. Chaos erupted.
Harry watched blandly as the Death Eaters recoiled in shock when they saw who he was, some uttering exclamations of disbelief, others verbally protesting and doubting the Dark Lord's sanity. Only those who knew of his identity beforehand responded positively, the Malfoys smiling softly at him - Draco throwing him a teasing wink - and Snape looking as sour as ever, but his mouth was soft at the edges like he was fighting a grin.
Harry let the chaos unfold a bit before lifting his wand to his throat, casting a nonverbal sonorous, and, with his voice booming in omnipotence over the crowd, said, "Will you bloody shut up, please?"
It was almost as though he had cast imobulous instead. Death Eaters in various stages of hysterics froze as they were, skeleton masks turned to Harry and eyes blinking owlishly from the spaces. Surveying the mass before him, Harry nodded to himself once he was sure he had everyone's attention.
"Thank you," he said, cancelling the charm and addressing the gathering like normal. He paced leisurely in front of them, his movements controlled and coiled, much like a poisonous adder. His cloak swished silkily behind him, dramatically curling about his ankles similar to that of a certain Potion's professor. After searching each Death Eater's face one by one, Harry continued.
"I realise that this is a bit of a shock for most of you," he began, his voice hardly louder than a whisper yet echoing off the marble walls in the silent room. "I realise that both the Ministry and the Dark Lord have told you for years that Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, is dead." He paused pointedly, letting his words sink in.
There wasn't even the sound of shifting fabric.
"The Dark Lord has been training me in secret," Harry continued, giving a grateful nod towards his mentor. "I have mastered the Dark Arts nearly as well as he, which is why we have come to this decision. I will serve as an heir -" When the crowd murmured and shifted in discomfort, Harry raised a hand for silence. They followed his command instantly. "Perhaps that wasn't correct," amended Harry. "I guess the more accurate term would be stand-in.
"As you know, the Dark Lord's empire is only growing. Resistance is futile by this point, and nearly all rebellions have been diminished and destroyed. The Ministry is ours, and we have several allies across the globe. All rally around our Dark Lord. I'm not so much as an heir as an apprentice; I'm someone to help shoulder the task of taking on the entire world. Not that our Lord can't do it alone," added Harry, once again nodding to Voldemort, who raised an indiscernible eyebrow. "It just means that if he needs to tend to issues elsewhere, I can stand in his stead, maintaining order until he returns."
Harry stopped pacing, standing still in front of his rapt audience. The Dark Lord was the one to discover that Harry was a gifted speaker, persuasive and charming without even trying. He could tell just by looking at the crowd that they were hanging on to his every word, even though not three minutes prior, the majority had been prepared to curse Harry into a puddle of goo.
"The papers were right, you know," mused Harry wryly, "as was our Lord. Harry Potter, Savior of the Wizarding World, is dead. That child died when he was eleven years old, trapped in the chambers of Hogwarts with an enchanted mirror and a choice. I stand before you today new, a reincarnation crafted by the merciful hands of Lord Voldemort. The era of Harry Potter is over . . ." Harry smirked. "Let the era of darkness begin!"
The Dark Prince lifted his wand in a salute, and he grinned boldly as first the Malfoys, then Snape, then the rest of the congregation followed suit, joined lastly by Lord Voldemort. The air crackled with magic, sparks shooting from tips like purple lightning, and Harry couldn't have stopped the short peal of laughter that bubbled past his lips even if he tried.
"Thank you, Harry," said the Dark Lord, once everyone sheathed their wands and the excited whispers died down. Harry nodded and resumed his place by his Lord's side. "As you all can tell," proceeded Voldemort, addressing his Death Eaters, "Harry is more than capable of this task. But for him to properly join our forces . . ." The Dark Lord pulled out his wand, conjuring a chair in the centre of the platform, gesturing for Harry to sit. " . . . we must mark him as one of us."
Harry gathered his robes and sat gracefully down in the padded chair, not even blinking when restraints bound his wrists and ankles to the wood. Draco had told Harry the tale of his own marking that had occurred a month prior, and Harry was determined not to show weakness in front of his soon-to-be followers.
The Dark Lord muttered a charm under his breath. Harry's sleeve pushed up to his elbow, exposing his forearm completely. Despite his conviction to remain emotionless, Harry couldn't stop the cold sweat he broke out into in anticipation of what was to come. Voldemort took Harry's arm almost tenderly and turned it, so the underside of his left forearm was facing up. If he could feel Harry trembling, he didn't comment on it.
The wand made of yew pressed into Harry's skin, right along the main artery of his arm. Harry's breath hitched in a sudden burst of anxiousness. A moment's pause, and then the Dark Lord muttered something that Harry didn't quite catch.
At first, nothing happened, and Harry looked nervously up at his Lord. And then he felt it. Like poison creeping up his arm, Harry could feel the Dark magic seeping into his skin, rewriting his biology all the way down to the molecular structure of his DNA. It felt as though a fire was poured directly into his veins, his skin and bone and muscles burning from the inside out and freezing all at once. He was drowning in agony, suffocating because he couldn't even bother to think about breathing when his arm was being shredded apart cell by cell. The pain was worse than anything Harry had ever felt before in his life - more intense than any Dark magic, more painful than any Cruciatus Curse. He could feel his eyes rolling up into his skull, his hands spasming uncontrollably, his knees knocking together as his nerve endings sent up signal after signal to his brain that he was hurt and he needed to get out of this chair right now.
And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The pain faded, as did the black dots clouding Harry's vision. He was suddenly made aware of his mouth flooding with the taste of copper, and a hesitant prod with his tongue revealed that he had bitten clean through is bottom lip. Although the curse was over, Harry's body still jerked compulsively in echoes of the pain, making him feel both jittery and exhausted at the same time. Not realising that he had closed them, Harry slowly peeled his eyes open and looked down at his arm.
There, nestled in the pale skin between his wrist and elbow, laid the Dark Mark, the skull gazing up at the seventeen-year-old lifelessly, the snake sliding from its mouth like a demented tongue.
It was beautiful.
A wave of Voldemort's wand released Harry from the restraints of the chair. Ignoring the trembling of his legs, Harry stood and allowed the Dark Lord to lift his freshly marked arm up into the air for all to see.
"Behold," proclaimed Lord Voldemort, giving Harry's arm a small shake, "our newest recruit. Behold, your Dark Prince!"
And when the hall erupted in cheers and wand flares, as Narcissa Malfoy sobbed hysterically into an uncomfortable Snape's robes and Draco was jumping up in down, smacking his father's arm enthusiastically, Harry only had eyes for his mentor. The Dark Lord was surveying his followers with wry amusement, and, as though sensing his gaze, turned to Harry with unmasked pride in his eyes. "Happy birthday, Harry," murmured the Dark Lord so only Harry could hear.
Harry grinned, lifting his other arm into the air as well in triumph. Happy birthday, indeed.
- - - - - -
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Oh, my goodness, team, it's finally done. I finally updated.
About time, I know. Shut up.
I am genuinely sorry. I promise I haven't abandoned this story, and I have a good idea as to where this will be going. Life kept me busy, and although I wish I could sit in front of my laptop all day and type Fan Fictions for a living, I (tragically) can't do that.
I want to thank everyone who left a comment, liked the last chapter, or added this story to their Reading Lists. I saw every request for an update, and I want to say thank you all for being so very, very polite about your requests as well. I appreciated it, and it was those sweet pleas that kept me motivated, so thank you all.
Things have been hectic in the real world, what between Gabe got married, my Dad getting married, and chemo. I've been busy, and I apologise for the wait.
Thank you all once again for being so patient with me (have I mentioned that I'm sorry yet?), and I'll try to get the next chapter out as quick as I can.
Hugs and kisses to you all!
- Adrian
P.S. I did not proofread this before publishing, so if you notice something wrong, please do not hesitate to tell me. I'd appreciate it!