Creature Inheritance

Leaving the labyrinthine depths of Gringotts, Harry felt a strange lightness despite the weight of his newly discovered heritage. The ancient magic of the goblin bank still hummed beneath his skin, a constant reminder of the power he now possessed, a power that felt both exhilarating and terrifying. He apparated to a secluded spot in the forbidden forest, a place he'd stumbled upon during his childhood explorations, a hidden clearing shielded by ancient, gnarled trees. The air here was thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, a stark contrast to the sterile opulence of Gringotts.

 He'd chosen this location carefully, far from the watchful eyes of the Ministry, away from the ever-present threat of Dumbledore's spies. He needed time to process the information he'd uncovered, to understand the implications of his Dragel heritage, and to plan his next move. He needed solitude, and yet, a strange premonition pulsed within him, a sense that he wasn't truly alone. 

A whisper of movement in the shadows caught his attention. He felt a chill, not of fear, but of anticipation. A figure emerged from the darkness, tall and imposing, his serpentine face illuminated by the faint moonlight filtering through the leaves. It was Voldemort. 

The Dark Lord, the epitome of evil, stood before him, not with the usual air of menacing power, but with a strange vulnerability. His eyes, usually blazing with malevolent intent, were soft, almost pleading. The image was so jarring, so unexpected, that Harry found himself momentarily speechless. 

Voldemort moved with an almost hesitant grace, his movements uncharacteristic of the swift, decisive actions he was known for. He approached Harry slowly, not with aggression, but with a cautious respect. The air crackled with magic, but it wasn't the destructive, annihilating magic Harry had come to associate with Voldemort. This magic felt… different. It throbbed with a low, resonant hum, a powerful yet strangely gentle energy.

 "Harry," Voldemort said, his voice a low, melodious whisper, far from the chilling rasp Harry remembered. There was a tremor in his voice, a vulnerability that surprised and disarmed Harry. He spoke as if addressing a cherished friend rather than an enemy. "I… I did not expect to see you here." 

Harry remained silent, his mind reeling. He'd prepared for a confrontation, a battle, a desperate struggle for survival. He hadn't anticipated this—an encounter brimming with unexpected tenderness. This was not the Voldemort he knew from the books, the one whispered about in hushed tones, the embodiment of pure, unadulterated evil. 

"I know what you've discovered," Voldemort continued, his gaze unwavering. "The truth about your heritage, about your parents, about Dumbledore's manipulations." His words were filled with a strange mixture of understanding and empathy, a depth of feeling Harry had never expected from the Dark Lord.

 He gestured towards a nearby rock, and Harry found himself drawn towards it, as if led by an unseen force. He sat down, feeling a strange sense of comfort in the presence of the man who was supposed to be his sworn enemy. It defied all logic, all reason, all the years of ingrained fear and hatred.

 "Dumbledore… he lied to you," Voldemort said softly. He didn't elaborate, but the statement hung heavy in the air, echoing the betrayal Harry had already experienced.

 "He stole from me," Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper, "my money, my history, my life." 

Voldemort nodded, a single, sad movement. "He stole from many. But you… you are different, Harry."

 A silence settled between them, thick with unspoken words, with years of misunderstanding and conflict. The air crackled with the unspoken truths, the weight of their shared history. The moon cast long, dancing shadows that moved like silent observers of their clandestine meeting.

 Voldemort reached out a hand, a gesture that could have been interpreted as a threat, but in this context, it felt like an olive branch. His touch was surprisingly gentle, almost hesitant, as if afraid of breaking something fragile. 

"Let me help you, Harry," he said, his voice filled with a sincerity that pierced through Harry's defenses. "We… we can work together." 

Harry stared at Voldemort's outstretched hand, at the raw emotion in his eyes. The offer was bewildering, insane even. Voldemort, the man who had murdered his parents, the man who had terrorized the wizarding world for years, was offering him help, friendship, even. 

The idea was ludicrous, terrifying, yet... strangely alluring. He was tired of fighting alone. He was exhausted from being a pawn, a victim. The lure of an alliance, even with the Dark Lord, was surprisingly tempting.

 "How?" Harry asked, his voice barely a breath. The weight of centuries of prejudice and propaganda threatened to crush him. Yet, here he was, considering an alliance with the man who represented everything he was raised to fear and hate. 

Voldemort drew a deep breath, his expression tightening with a hint of pain. "Dumbledore has controlled the narrative for far too long. He has painted me as a monster, but there is more to the story, Harry. Much more. The truth is complex, tangled, and it will take time to unravel. But I can help you. I can give you the answers you seek, the power you need."

 He continued, "The Dragel lineage... it’s far more significant than you realize. Its power extends beyond the realms of mere wizardry. Dumbledore feared this power, feared what it could do to his carefully constructed order, and for centuries the bloodline has been manipulated and suppressed, suppressed to maintain his control. He did not want an heir of equal or greater power." 

Voldemort paused, looking deeply into Harry’s eyes. His gaze was intense, yet devoid of malice. There was a weariness about him, an ancient sadness that resonated with the deep grief within Harry. "This isn't about good versus evil, Harry. It's about power. And survival. He has been manipulating everyone for his own agenda."

 "But… the killings, the terror," Harry stammered, the ingrained propaganda still fighting for dominance. "Not all that is attributed to me is my doing," Voldemort hissed, a shadow crossing his face. "There were agents, pawns, manipulations, that even I didn’t fully control. But there's no need to discuss this now, when your focus should be on your heritage. I am willing to guide you, teach you, and help you claim what is rightfully yours." 

He stood and gestured towards the thick forest. "Come, Harry. Let us begin." 

The unexpected offer hung heavy in the air, a promise of answers, of power, of something more. Harry looked at Voldemort's outstretched hand, a hand that had wielded a wand to inflict unimaginable pain, yet now offered a chance for redemption, for a new beginning. The weight of his choice was immense, but the lure of understanding his heritage, of reclaiming his stolen life, was too strong to resist.

He placed his hand in Voldemort's. The touch was surprisingly warm, sending a shiver down his spine. It wasn't a gesture of dominance or control, but of trust, of a shared burden, a shared destiny. This was not the beginning of a battle, but the start of an unlikely alliance, a partnership forged in the shadows of a world filled with secrets, betrayals, and the tantalizing promise of something new. The path ahead remained shrouded in mystery, but for the first time in a long time, Harry didn't feel entirely alone. He felt a strange sense of hope, a spark of defiance flickering in the darkness. The game had changed, and this time, he was playing to win.