Permulaan
Malfoy Manor felt quieter than usual.
The Death Eaters stood in neat rows in the grand hall, their heads bowed in undisguised fear. They had no idea why they had been summoned this time—there was no urgent battle, no crucial mission, and no resistance that needed to be crushed. But if there was one thing they had learned from years of serving the Dark Lord, it was the fact that Voldemort’s boredom could be far more dangerous than his wrath.
Seated atop a high, black throne, Voldemort leaned back lazily, his fingers tapping against the armrest in a slow, rhythmic pattern. The dim candlelight flickered over his face, now more human-like, yet still carrying an unshakable aura of menace.
Bellatrix, who was usually brimming with energy, did not dare make a sound. Lucius Malfoy stood stiffly beside his wife, Narcissa, whose expression remained composed despite the way her fingers clenched tightly together behind the folds of her luxurious gown.
Voldemort closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling slowly, then spoke in a soft voice that only made the room feel more suffocating.
“I am bored.”
The Death Eaters lowered their heads even further, not daring to respond.
“I thought,” he continued, opening his crimson eyes once more, “that with the war won, I would relish every moment of this victory.” His gaze darkened. “And yet… victory can feel so monotonous.”
No one moved. No one breathed more than necessary.
Voldemort rested his face against one hand, his gaze sweeping over the room, savoring the thick tension in the air. “Will none of you entertain me?”
Bellatrix’s mouth parted slightly, as if she wanted to speak, but she quickly reconsidered. Everyone knew that speaking out of turn could result in punishment far worse than death.
Voldemort let out a dramatic sigh, as if truly disappointed. “Pathetic. My finest Death Eaters, and yet not a single one of you can rid me of my boredom.”
Then, he murmured softly, almost as if speaking to himself.
“Harry Potter…”
The entire room froze.
“I have given him enough time to think,” he continued, amusement lacing his voice. “And yet, the boy remains as stubborn as ever.”
Bellatrix could no longer hold herself back. “My Lord, allow me—”
“I am not interested in meaningless torture, Bella,” Voldemort interrupted, his voice calm, yet it made her snap her mouth shut at once. “Harry Potter is worth more than a mere outlet for your frustrations.”
For a moment, there was nothing but silence.
Then Voldemort lifted his gaze, settling his eyes on one of the Death Eaters standing near the edge of the line. “Selwyn.”
The Death Eater stiffened before immediately dropping to one knee, one hand pressed to his chest. “Yes, My Lord.”
“Bring me one of Potter’s friends,” Voldemort said casually, as if ordering a cup of tea. “And make sure they can still speak… at least for a while.”
Selwyn bowed even lower. “Whom do you desire, My Lord?”
Voldemort smiled—a smile far more terrifying than any rage.
“Whoever will make him suffer the most.”
The room grew colder in an instant.
The Death Eaters knew this was not just an order. This was the beginning of something far darker. Something even they could not predict.
And as Selwyn hurried away to fulfill his master’s command, Voldemort reclined in his throne once more, his fingers resuming their slow, rhythmic tapping against the chair.
His eyes gleamed with a quiet, dangerous amusement.
Harry Potter might still refuse to kneel.
But time had always favored those who knew how to play.
****
The room in Malfoy Manor felt colder than usual. The flickering candlelight along the walls seemed to dim, as if drained by the presence of the figure seated upon the dark throne—elegant yet exuding an undeniable aura of danger.
Kneeling on the marble floor before Lord Voldemort was Ronald Weasley. His face was dirtied, a cut marred his temple, and though exhaustion weighed heavily on him, he kept his gaze steady, refusing to show weakness.
Behind him, Selwyn stood, his breathing slightly uneven from dragging the captive into their master’s presence. "My Lord," he spoke in a low voice, "as you commanded, I have brought him."
Voldemort leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on the armrest of his throne. His thin lips curled into a smile—one that might have been considered almost welcoming, had it not belonged to the most dangerous wizard in existence.
"Weasley," he murmured, as if inspecting something of mild interest. "What a pleasant surprise."
Ron remained silent, his eyes unblinking as they met Voldemort’s.
The Dark Lord's smile did not waver. "I must admit, I never truly considered you a threat. Always in Potter’s shadow, always lurking behind the spotlight that was never yours. But perhaps I have underestimated you."
Ron clenched his fists but still did not speak.
"Nothing to say?" Voldemort hissed, rising slowly from his throne. "Would you not greet your gracious host?"
Ron lifted his chin slightly, a bitter smirk tugging at his lips. "I don’t see a host. All I see is an old snake who enjoys the sound of his own voice."
The room tensed.
Bellatrix let out a small, delighted giggle, though the flicker of fury in her eyes was unmistakable. The other Death Eaters exchanged glances, some holding their breath, knowing that Weasley had just made a grave mistake.
Voldemort, however, merely raised an eyebrow. "An old snake, you say?" he mused, his voice eerily calm. He stepped forward, slow but deliberate, like a predator circling its prey. "How very honest of you, Weasley."
He stopped mere inches away, his crimson eyes gleaming with quiet amusement.
"I wonder," he said softly, "what makes Potter so… special?"
Ron stiffened.
Voldemort leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a silky whisper. "How does he survive? What makes him endure? What makes him strong?"
Still, Ron refused to answer.
Voldemort sighed as if disappointed. "I have given you a chance to speak freely," he said, raising his wand with effortless grace. "But we both know there are… other ways."
Without warning, the spell left his lips.
"Imperio."
Everything in Ron’s mind suddenly felt light. The pain, the exhaustion, all of it faded away, replaced by a strange sense of peace. There was nothing to worry about, nothing to fight against.
And within that tranquility, there was a voice.
"Speak, Weasley. Tell me about Potter."
The urge was overwhelming. The words were right there, ready to be spoken—so easy, so natural.
But something inside him resisted.
No.
Voldemort’s presence pressed deeper into his mind, insidious, coaxing. "How does he survive? How does he thrive?"
Ron bit down on his lip, but his mouth betrayed him, beginning to form words of its own. "Harry… he… always trusts his instincts…" His voice wavered, body trembling. "He’s not the best wizard in class, but he… he always knows what to do in the worst situations…"
Voldemort narrowed his eyes. "Go on."
Ron clenched his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his palms. "He… never gives up… even when everyone doubts him…"
Bellatrix sneered in disgust. "My Lord, why waste time with this blood traitor? Let me torture him until he begs to speak!"
Voldemort merely lifted a hand, silencing her. His gaze remained fixed on Ron, his interest unwavering.
"What makes him strong?"
The pressure in Ron’s mind became suffocating. He knew that if he faltered for even a moment, he would be completely overtaken.
"He…" His breath hitched. "He is never alone."
A heavy silence filled the room.
Voldemort straightened slightly.
"Harry always has someone who believes in him," Ron continued, his voice now steadier, more defiant. "Even when things get bad… he’s never truly alone."
Something flickered in Voldemort’s expression.
Then, without warning, the spell lifted. Ron collapsed onto the cold floor, gasping for air, his body still trembling from the force of resisting.
The Death Eaters waited, tense and silent.
Voldemort stared at Ron, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, his lips curved into a thin smile.
"So that’s the answer," he murmured. "Attachment."
Ron glared up at him, his voice hoarse but filled with defiance. "And you will never understand it."
Voldemort’s smile faded.
"Crucio."
Ron's screams filled the chamber as his body convulsed under the excruciating curse. Bellatrix laughed in twisted delight, while some of the Death Eaters merely watched in silence, grim and unmoving.
Voldemort lowered his wand after a moment. Ron lay on the floor, panting, his limbs still twitching from the lingering pain.
Voldemort crouched slightly, his voice almost… gentle. "You can speak of bravery and friendship all you like, Weasley," he said. "But remember this."
He leaned in, whispering directly into Ron’s ear.
"One by one, I will destroy them."
Ron froze.
Voldemort pulled back, satisfied. "Take him back to his cell," he ordered, his voice laced with boredom. "I’m not done with him yet."
The Death Eaters immediately seized Ron, dragging him away.
As the doors closed behind them, Voldemort reclined back into his throne, his fingers resuming their slow, deliberate tapping against the armrest.
His eyes gleamed with quiet contemplation.
"Harry Potter has never been alone."
A cold, dangerous smile formed on his lips.
"But that can be changed."
****
The room was cold, damp, and so suffocating that every breath they took felt like a weight pressing on their chests. The rough stone walls loomed around them without a single gap, a stark reminder of how insignificant they were in the grasp of their enemy.
They had been here for days—perhaps weeks. There was no way to tell time anymore.
Ron felt a sharp pain piercing through his bones, the remnants of the curse he had received from the Dark Prince himself. He was used to the pain by now. What he couldn't get used to was the fact that they were all here—imprisoned, wandless, hopeless, and completely unaware if Harry was still alive.
"Lumos," a soft whisper came from beside him.
Nothing happened.
Only silence.
Hermione lowered her head, clutching her empty hands as if she could still feel the phantom weight of the wand that had long been taken from them. “I… I forgot.”
Ginny, sitting in the corner of the cell, scoffed. “We all do.”
Ron glanced at his sister. Her face, usually full of fire and determination, was now laced with exhaustion and a quiet, simmering anger.
"So," Neville finally spoke, his voice hoarse. "What did the Dark Prince say to you, Ron?"
They all turned to him, waiting for his answer.
Ron leaned his head back against the cold wall, feeling its harsh surface press into his neck. "He wanted to know about Harry," he said simply.
George, who had been silent all this time, let out a dry chuckle—one without any humor. "Of course. What else would that monster be interested in besides Harry?"
"But this was different," Ron continued, his voice quieter now. “He didn’t just want to know how Harry fights or how he leads. He wanted to know what keeps Harry… standing.”
A heavy silence filled the room.
"What did you tell him?" Luna asked, her voice as light as ever, yet carrying an undertone of tension.
Ron closed his eyes for a moment. "I told him… that Harry was never alone."
Hermione's expression hardened. "And?"
Ron opened his eyes, looking at each of them in turn. "And he looked… satisfied."
Neville frowned. "Why?"
"That's what I don’t understand," Ron admitted, frustration clear in his voice. “It was as if… he already knew the answer but just wanted to hear it from me. Like he needed confirmation.”
“He’s playing with us,” Ginny spat, her voice laced with hatred. “He’s enjoying this.”
"So that means we're still alive for a reason," Neville stated grimly. "The Dark Prince could have killed us anytime… but he hasn’t."
"We hold some value to him," Hermione murmured.
"But what kind of value?" George asked, staring blankly at the floor. “Are we just… bait?”
Luna gazed at him, her expression unreadable. "Maybe."
But Hermione shook her head. “No. If we were just bait, he wouldn’t keep us this long.”
“Maybe he wants to see how much we matter to Harry,” Neville said, his jaw tightening. "And how he can use that against him."
The suffocating silence returned.
Ron clenched his fists. “If he thinks we are Harry’s weakness… then we have to prove him wrong.”
Ginny nodded. “We won’t break.”
"And we won’t give them anything," Hermione added, determination burning in her eyes. “No matter what they ask, no matter what they do, we have to endure.”
They straightened their backs, trying to steel themselves despite their exhaustion and the wounds that had yet to fully heal.
Then, footsteps echoed in the hallway.
They all fell silent.
The heavy iron door creaked open, revealing two Death Eaters standing at the threshold.
The first was a tall man with sharp features and cruel eyes. The second was shorter, with a sneer that made their blood boil.
"Ah," the taller one drawled, his tone mocking. "Still alive, I see."
Ron glared at him. "Disappointed?"
The Death Eater chuckled darkly. "A little." He swept his gaze over them, his eyes narrowing in calculation. "Our Lord is still deciding your fate. But one thing is certain…"
He leaned in slightly, letting his words sink into their minds.
"He could end you at any moment."
Ginny tensed, but Neville placed a hand on her shoulder to hold her back.
"The Dark Prince has patience," the Death Eater continued. "But even patience has its limits. If I were you… I'd start thinking about making death a little easier."
Hermione met his gaze sharply. “If you were going to kill us, you would have done it already.”
The man smirked. “Oh, we’re in no hurry. The greatest satisfaction comes from watching someone break first.”
Luna stared at him, her voice eerily calm. "You're wasting your time."
The Death Eater grinned. "Am I?"
He tapped the bars idly before stepping back. "Enjoy your night… while you still can."
The door slammed shut with a heavy clang.
For a long moment, none of them spoke.
Then, George finally muttered, “I hate them.”
Ron let out a slow breath. “Same.”
Hermione pulled her knees to her chest, resting her chin on them. “No matter what happens… we can’t fall into their game.”
Neville clenched his fists. “We have to survive. Harry will come.”
They met each other’s eyes, searching for reassurance in one another.
They didn’t know if they would make it out alive.
But one thing burned in the depths of their souls.
They would become monsters one day.
****
Fate always plays its game.
In the dark corner of his cell, Harry lay exhausted, his breathing slow and heavy. There were no windows, no sounds except for the rhythmic thumping of his sluggish heartbeat. Sleep should have been his escape—but it never was.
Dreams came swiftly, pulling him into a vortex he couldn’t resist.
He stood in a place unknown.
The sky above was dark, starless, as if the night had lost its light. The ground beneath him was hard and dusty, cold against his bare feet. The air was dry, making his throat feel rough and bitter.
He turned, trying to recognize his surroundings, but all he saw were long shadows shifting at the edges of his vision—formless figures watching him from the darkness.
Then, the voice came.
Soft at first.
Calling him.
“…Harry…”
It was faint, like a whisper carried by the wind, yet laced with something that made the hair on his neck stand on end—sorrow, agony, and something deeper… something that felt like a summons.
He tried to find the source of the voice, stepping forward, but the ground beneath him grew heavier, pulling him down.
“Harry…”
It was clearer now, closer, but still unrecognizable.
He ran—or tried to. His feet were trapped in an unseen black mire. The harder he struggled, the deeper he sank.
Then, suddenly, the place around him began to dissolve.
Like ink spreading through water, the darkness swirled and shifted, morphing into something else.
Harry froze.
Before him, emerging from the shadows, stood the one figure he had feared above all—the Dark Lord himself.
Voldemort.
He stood tall, his long black robes merging with the surrounding darkness. His crimson eyes gleamed, filled with triumph—and something far more chilling: deep, unrestrained pleasure.
And in his hands..
Harry couldn’t breathe.
Voldemort wasn’t holding objects.
He was holding people.
Two lifeless bodies dangled from his grasp like broken puppets.
His parents.
Their faces were pale and empty, their eyes open yet devoid of life. Black scorch marks marred their chests—the remnants of the curse that had stolen their lives years ago.
A sickening wave of nausea rose in Harry’s throat, but before he could speak, his vision expanded.
And he saw them.
Bodies scattered across the ground around Voldemort.
Ron.
Hermione.
Ginny.
Neville.
Luna.
George.
His friends.
The people he loved.
All dead.
Harry collapsed to his knees, his breath ragged, his eyes wide with unrelenting horror.
Voldemort gave a slow, cold smile.
“What are you so afraid of, Harry?” he murmured, his voice deceptively soft yet venomous.
Harry wanted to scream, to move, to fight—but his body refused to obey.
Voldemort lifted one of the corpses—Harry’s mother—and regarded it for a moment before letting it fall carelessly to the ground with a sickening thud.
A sharp pain clenched Harry’s chest.
“I’ve given you a choice countless times,” Voldemort continued, his tone like a patient teacher scolding a stubborn child. “Yet you always refuse. Look at the result.”
He raised a hand, and Ron’s body lifted off the ground, suspended in the air like a lifeless doll.
Harry wanted to scream, to lunge forward, but his feet remained rooted in place.
“Wouldn’t it be easier to surrender?” Voldemort whispered, his eyes glinting with something cruel. “You could have saved them… if only you hadn’t fought back.”
The blood in Harry’s veins turned to ice.
Voldemort moved closer.
He knelt before Harry, so near that his icy breath ghosted over Harry’s skin.
“I could end it all here and now,” he murmured, his voice almost gentle. “I could let you go… or I could destroy everything.”
Harry swallowed, his voice barely a whisper. “I won’t—”
Voldemort’s hand shot out, grasping Harry’s chin, forcing him to meet his gaze.
“Don’t be so hasty with your answer, Harry.”
Harry glared at him, hatred burning in his eyes, though his body trembled.
Voldemort smiled, his voice a deadly whisper.
“You will lose everything.”
Then, the world exploded.
Harry jolted awake with a strangled gasp.
His chest heaved, his breath coming in ragged pants as if he had just been dragged from the depths of drowning.
He was in his cell.
Darkness still surrounded him, but he could feel the cold stone beneath him, the damp air pressing against his skin.
Just a dream.
But no.
Not just a dream.
His fingers curled into fists, his hands trembling.
Harry stared ahead, eyes fixed on the empty shadows cast along the wall.
He knew what this meant.
Voldemort was playing with his mind.
And he knew… his time was running out