The Triumph Of The Darkness
Chapter 1: The Triumph of Darkness
The world had changed. Hogwarts, once the final beacon of resistance, was now nothing more than a shadow of its former glory. The Great Hall no longer glowed with the warm light of floating candles. Instead, the eerie green flashes of Unforgivable Curses occasionally flickered across the enchanted ceiling, casting an ominous glow upon the ruins of a broken legacy.
At the heart of the hall, where once sat the long tables of the four houses, now stood a single, imposing throne. It was carved from obsidian, adorned with ancient inscriptions that pulsed with dark magic. Atop it sat the undisputed ruler of this new world, the one whose name had been feared for decades—yet now, that name was spoken openly, without hesitation, for he had no rival left to defy him.
Lord Voldemort.
But the man seated upon the throne was no longer the serpentine figure with a face like a skull, stripped of all human features. Victory had restored him—perhaps not to what he once was, but to something even more terrifying. His raven-black hair, once lost to the ravages of dark magic, had returned, falling in an unruly manner over his pale forehead. His skin, though still pallid, bore a noble sharpness rather than the ghastly chalk-white of his past form. His cheekbones were high and aristocratic, his lips thin but striking, and his crimson eyes—unchanged yet more haunting—held not just cruelty, but a quiet, patient menace.
The Dark Lord had become something more than just a conqueror. He was a king. And kings did not merely destroy; they rebuilt.
Before him, kneeling on the cold stone floor, was a young man whose name had once carried the weight of a prophecy. His robes were torn, his face smeared with blood and dust, but his emerald-green eyes still burned with defiance.
Harry Potter.
He did not bow. He did not plead. He simply stared, unbroken.
"You look worse than I expected, Potter," Voldemort mused, his voice carrying the same unsettling calm as always. "Yet you are still alive. That, at least, is something."
Harry exhaled sharply, the metallic taste of blood lingering in his mouth. "If you're going to kill me, just get it over with."
A sigh, almost bored. "Kill you? No, Potter. Death would be a mercy."
A slow, deliberate movement—Voldemort rose from his throne, his long, dark robes whispering against the marble floor. He took a step forward, and then another, closing the space between them with an air of absolute control.
"The House of Slytherin," he continued, his voice smooth as silk, "has been tainted by generations of weakness and impurity. But now, in this new era, it will rise to greatness once more. And you, Potter, will be at the heart of it."
A chill ran down Harry’s spine, but he refused to react.
"You will help me rebuild the Slytherin bloodline," Voldemort stated, watching him intently.
Harry's mind blanked for a second before the meaning of those words settled in.
His blood boiled.
"Go to hell," he spat, his voice laced with disgust.
Voldemort’s lips curved, almost in amusement. "I expected you to say that."
The words had barely left his mouth before agony exploded through Harry’s body.
"CRUCIO."
It was not shouted. It was not screamed. It was whispered—soft, measured, deadly.
Harry’s back arched as pain unlike anything he had felt before coursed through his veins. His nails dug into the stone floor, his breath coming in ragged, broken gasps.
He would not scream.
The Dark Lord circled him like a predator, his expression unreadable. "You are foolish, Potter," he murmured, watching him struggle. "Pain is not your enemy here. Pain is your teacher."
The curse lifted, and Harry collapsed, his limbs shaking.
Voldemort crouched before him, one pale hand reaching out to grasp his chin, forcing him to meet those hellish red eyes.
"You will carry the next generation of Slytherin," Voldemort said, his tone as certain as fate itself. "And you will not defy me forever."
Harry’s breath was ragged, but his answer was clear. "I will never be a part of this."
Voldemort’s smile was chilling. "We shall see."
With a flick of his wrist, two masked figures stepped forward, gripping Harry's arms.
As they dragged him away, his gaze flickered to the shadows of the hall. He caught glimpses of them—figures imprisoned in separate chambers, their faces pale but alive.
Ron. Hermione. Neville. Luna. Ginny.
They were still here. Still fighting.
For how much longer?
As the heavy doors slammed shut behind him, Harry closed his eyes, his heart pounding.
This was not over.
Not yet.
----
The damp scent mixed with dust filled the air, seeping into his lungs like an invisible poison. The cold stone beneath his body was the only thing that felt real—the only reminder that he was still alive. But was that something to be grateful for?
Harry opened his eyes slowly, adjusting to the flickering torchlight on the walls, trembling like a creature on the verge of fading away. His head felt heavy, pain radiating from his nape to the tips of his fingers. The lingering agony of the Cruciatus Curse still burned in every joint, as if the curse had never truly left—only burrowed deep into his bones, waiting for the perfect moment to rip him apart again.
He tried to sit up, but the pain dragged him back down.
A low chuckle—soft, almost amused—echoed from the darkness.
"Interesting. Even after all this, you still try to resist."
Harry tensed. That voice. So familiar, yet different from what he remembered.
A shadow in the corner of the room moved, stepping out of the darkness as though it was a part of him. Voldemort walked forward, his black robes blending seamlessly with the gloom behind him. But it wasn’t just his robes that had changed.
His face.
Gone was the monstrous visage that looked like a fusion of man and snake. No flat nostrils, no waxy skin stretched over a skull-like frame. The figure before him was something far more terrifying—because he looked almost human.
High, sharp cheekbones cast faint shadows as the torchlight kissed his skin. His eyes were still red, but they were deeper now, like fire burning beneath a thin layer of ice. His dark hair, long and slightly wavy, fell past his shoulders. He looked older, more refined, more… real.
And that made him even more dangerous.
'Shit. He hadn't noticed this before…'
Harry bit his lip, suppressing the urge to retreat. Voldemort observed his reaction with satisfaction.
"I understand your surprise," he said, stepping closer. "But I have merely reclaimed what was mine. I am not just a monster, Harry. I am the last heir of Salazar Slytherin, and I will restore the legacy that was tarnished by cowards."
Harry forced himself upright despite the pain. "I don’t care about Slytherin’s legacy. And I don’t care about your plans."
Voldemort took another step forward, lowering himself slightly until their faces were almost level.
"You will."
Harry met those burning eyes with defiance. "You can torture me, threaten me, but I will never do what you want."
Voldemort's lips curled into a thin, almost sympathetic smile—the kind one gives to a child who still believes the world is fair.
"You misunderstand, Harry," he murmured. "This is not about what you want. It is about what must be."
A pale hand reached out, fingers brushing against Harry’s chin—light, deliberate. The touch sent an involuntary shiver down his spine. He tried to pull away, but Voldemort’s grip was gentle yet unyielding.
"You are part of this," Voldemort continued. "We are two sides of the same coin. You carried a piece of my soul within you for years. How could you ever think your fate is not intertwined with mine?"
Harry froze.
Horcrux.
His heartbeat pounded in his ears.
Voldemort knew.
He knew about the fragment of his soul that had been inside Harry all this time.
"Yes," Voldemort said, as if reading his thoughts. "I finally realized it. How ironic, isn’t it? You are a part of me, and I am a part of you."
Harry held his breath, refusing to show his fear. "Then kill me."
Silence filled the room. For a moment, the only sound was their breathing.
Then Voldemort laughed.
The sound was low, deep, disturbingly soft.
"Oh, Harry," he murmured. "Death is far too easy for you. I don’t want you to die."
His fingers traced along Harry’s cheek—slow, calculated. Harry remained rigid, his pulse hammering against his ribs.
"I want you to live," Voldemort continued. "I want you to understand. I want you to kneel—not because of curses or coercion, but because you finally see that there is no other way."
Harry’s glare burned with unyielding hatred. "I will never kneel to you."
Voldemort smiled. Darker this time. "We shall see."
And in an instant, the pain returned.
Cruciatus.
It tore through him like wildfire in his marrow, setting every nerve ablaze. Harry screamed, biting down on his tongue in a futile attempt to stop the sound, but it broke past his lips anyway.
Pain. Pain. Pain.
As though his body was being shattered, broken into a thousand pieces yet forced to remain whole just so it could suffer longer.
When the curse finally lifted, he lay sprawled on the cold stone floor, his body trembling uncontrollably.
"You will not die," Voldemort’s voice was distant, though Harry knew he was only steps away. "But you will learn."
Harry panted, glaring up at him with seething hatred.
Voldemort turned, striding toward the massive stone door, sealed tight with dark magic. But before leaving, he spoke once more—his voice calm, yet carrying a weight of quiet menace.
"Think carefully, Harry. Your friends are in a place far worse than this."
Then the door shut.
And Harry was left alone.
With the pain.
With the knowledge that this was far from over.
And with the terrible, creeping fear that, perhaps—Voldemort was right.
---
Pain had been Harry’s most loyal companion since the war ended.
The Cruciatus Curse had burned through every nerve, crushed his bones in relentless waves of agony, yet Voldemort never let him die. No. He always pulled Harry back from the brink of ruin, letting his body heal just enough before the next round of torture began.
Darkness wrapped around the narrow cell like a poisonous fog, draining him bit by bit. But even in this state, his mind refused to yield.
He would not surrender.
His lips were cracked and bleeding, his hands trembling from exhaustion, but his eyes remained defiant. Voldemort wanted his submission—wanted him to be something in the Slytherin bloodline, to bear an heir who would carry the Parselmouth gift and the ancient magic of Salazar Slytherin himself.
The thought alone made him sick. What did the Dark Lord want? To claim him as his heir?
“No, that makes no sense,” Harry growled under his breath. But the next possibility in his mind made his stomach churn. Marrying Voldemort and continuing his bloodline made far more sense.
But that would never happen. Never.
The iron door creaked open.
Harry didn’t move, not even when that tall silhouette stepped inside. The torchlight from the corridor illuminated Voldemort’s altered face—not the noseless, snake-like visage he had known for years, but the face of a man who was still dangerous, still terrifying, yet now cloaked in a misleading, aristocratic beauty.
High cheekbones. A sharp jawline. Sleek black hair combed back with precision.
This face should not exist. It should never exist. Yet before Harry, Voldemort now looked like a ruler reborn.
But his red eyes remained the same.
And that reminded Harry that a monster would always be a monster, no matter what mask it wore.
“I hope you’ve come to your senses, Harry.”
That voice was smooth, gliding through the air like a serpent slithering into his mind. Voldemort stepped closer, allowing the silence to press down like an invisible hand wrapping around Harry’s throat.
Harry simply stared at him.
“Don’t waste your breath,” he rasped, his throat raw from days without enough water. “I won’t change my mind.”
A faint smirk curled Voldemort’s lips. “So stubborn… I wonder, is that your nature or the result of Dumbledore’s influence?”
“Dumbledore was far more human than you,” Harry hissed.
Voldemort chuckled. “Human?” He leaned in slightly, his voice turning softer—more intimate, more venomous. “Harry, you’re alive because I allow you to be. You can still speak because I permit it. Do you truly believe Dumbledore could have protected you like this if he were still here?”
Harry clenched his fists.
“You want to rebuild the Slytherin line? Find someone else,” he spat, rage simmering beneath his exhaustion. “I will never be part of your plan.”
Voldemort studied him for a long moment, as if weighing his endurance, searching for cracks in his resolve. Then, in a movement so swift it was almost imperceptible, his wand was raised.
“Crucio.”
The pain struck so fast and so viciously that Harry barely had time to scream.
It was like hundreds of knives stabbing into every inch of his skin, like his bones were being shattered and pieced back together in rapid succession. The room spun, the torchlight blurred into streaks, and a raw, involuntary cry tore from his throat.
Voldemort lifted the curse a few seconds later, letting Harry collapse onto the cold stone floor, trembling violently.
“Listen carefully, Harry,” Voldemort murmured, kneeling beside him. His hand gripped Harry’s chin roughly, forcing their eyes to meet. “You have no choice. I won’t kill you. I will break you. Every day, every hour, until you beg to submit.”
Harry stared at him, hatred burning through the haze of pain.
“You can torture me for the rest of your life,” he panted, “but I will never be yours.”
Voldemort only smiled, his gaze as patient as a serpent waiting to strike.
“We’ll see how long you last, Harry.”
He stood, and without warning, flicked his wand once more.
“Crucio.”
And Harry’s screams filled the dungeon once again, echoing through the halls of Malfoy Manor, drowning in endless agony.
But even as his body shattered, his soul remained unbroken.
He was still Harry Potter.
And he would not break.
Time had lost its meaning.
Inside the dungeons of Malfoy Manor, Harry no longer knew whether it had been hours or days since Voldemort last left him in a semi-conscious state, his body still trembling from the torture.
The small wounds caused by the Cruciatus Curse had almost healed, thanks to the potions given to him regularly. Voldemort did not want his body to break too soon. No. He wanted Harry to remain intact, to feel every humiliation, every blow that would be inflicted upon him.
Yet, beyond the biting exhaustion, there was something far worse.
The solitude.
There was no sound in this room, except for the slow rhythm of his heartbeat and the raggedness of his breathing. No one to talk to, nothing to see but the cold stone walls surrounding him.
He had no idea what had happened to Ron, Hermione, or the others.
Were they still alive?
The thought struck him like a heavy stone, pressing against his chest until it was hard to breathe. Voldemort knew exactly how to break him, and this was the first step—to separate him from the people he loved, to make him question everything.
But Harry couldn’t fall.
He had endured too much to surrender now.
Footsteps approached.
Harry tensed, despite the heaviness in his limbs. The large iron door creaked open, and Voldemort stepped inside with movements so graceful and commanding, like a king visiting his prisoner.
This time, he came without his long robes. He wore only simple black attire that framed his aristocratic form perfectly. His face—the new, dangerously handsome face—was calm, almost gentle.
But his red eyes remained the same.
"How does it feel, Harry?" Voldemort asked, his voice a soft, insidious whisper. "Alone in the darkness, not knowing whether your friends are still alive?"
Harry clenched his teeth.
"I won't let you win."
Voldemort arched an eyebrow, as if amused. "Win?" He took a slow step forward. "I have already won, Harry. You just haven’t realized it yet."
"Then kill me," Harry sneered, despite the blood still on his lips. "I will never do what you want."
"Ah," Voldemort sighed, stopping just before him. "I could kill you, of course. But that would be such a waste of an opportunity."
He crouched, staring directly into Harry’s eyes.
"You have something far more valuable than just your life, Harry. Your bloodline."
Harry froze.
"You’re insane," he whispered.
Voldemort only gave a thin smile. "Oh, you should have known by now that I have no limits. Did you really think I would allow the Slytherin bloodline to end so easily?"
Harry shook his head, disgust creeping through his veins. "I will never agree to your madness."
"You don’t need to agree," Voldemort said in an almost gentle tone. "I have all the time in the world, Harry. You, on the other hand…" He reached out, his fingertips grazing Harry’s face, sending a shiver down the younger man’s spine. "…only have a certain limit before you break."
Harry forced himself not to tremble, but Voldemort noticed.
"One by one, I will destroy everything you love," he continued, his voice soft yet sharp as a blade. "I will make you hear their screams… one by one… until you crawl to me and beg."
Harry bit his lip, holding back the storm of rage and fear swirling inside him.
"And I will start… with that Weasley boy."
The world beneath Harry’s feet collapsed.
"You wouldn’t dare!" he roared, thrashing against the enchanted chains binding him.
Voldemort only smiled in triumph. "Oh, I will do far more than just dare."
Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving Harry alone with his spiraling thoughts.
No.
He couldn’t let this happen.
And for the first time, a tiny crack appeared in his resolve.