Unveiled
The last time Harry was conscious, he had been in a small, damp cell.
The walls were made of cold, rough stone, with iron chains hanging in the corners. The air smelled of rust and something older—like dried blood. It was a quiet place, but not the comforting kind. It was the kind of silence that carried an impending sense of doom.
But now…
Harry stood in a vast hall, illuminated by the flickering glow of floating candles. The ceiling loomed high above him, adorned with carvings that had endured centuries. The marble floor beneath his feet was polished to such perfection that it reflected his image like a ghostly mirage. There was no dust, no sign of prior life—as if this place existed solely for him.
At the far end of the hall, seated upon an intricately carved throne adorned with serpents, was Voldemort.
The Dark Lord looked composed. Too composed. As if Harry’s presence here was nothing more than another step in a plan that had long been set into motion.
“You’re finally awake.” Voldemort’s voice echoed through the chamber—soft, almost gentle, yet carrying an unmistakable undercurrent of something far more sinister.
Harry did not answer.
He tried to recall how he had ended up here. The last thing he remembered was the darkness of the cell, the cold weight of chains against his wrists, and the gnawing hunger clawing at his stomach. Then, everything had blurred into oblivion—only for him to wake up in this place, with no memory of how or why.
His fingers instinctively searched the folds of his robes. His wand was gone. His ring, too. He had nothing.
Nothing but himself—and Voldemort.
Voldemort rose from his throne with a graceful movement, his crimson eyes gleaming with something Harry couldn’t quite decipher.
“Look around you, Harry,” Voldemort said. “Do you know where we are?”
Harry remained silent, his jaw clenched. He refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
Voldemort smirked slightly, as if amused by his stubbornness. “This place is the heart of a long-buried history. A place that can only be entered by those of a particular bloodline.”
A particular bloodline?
Harry glanced around, his gaze lingering on the ancient engravings carved into the walls. The golden eyes of the serpents embedded in the stone seemed to watch him intently, as if scrutinizing his every move. And then, in the far corner of the room, his breath hitched.
A familiar symbol.
The same one from The Tale of the Three Brothers.
The Peverell symbol.
His heart pounded.
“What do you mean?”
Voldemort stepped closer. “You know of the Peverells, don’t you? The family that possessed the Deathly Hallows. But there is a part of the tale that Dumbledore never told you.”
Harry didn’t want to listen. But he couldn’t bring himself to ignore the words either.
“The Peverell family was never just a legend,” Voldemort continued. “They were the oldest bloodline in wizarding history. They spread their lineage among noble families—one of which was Slytherin’s.”
The walls seemed to close in around him.
“You thought I inherited Slytherin’s blood through mere ancestry?” Voldemort’s voice was dangerously soft. “No, Harry. I carry the same legacy as you—the same bloodline, one that predates even Slytherin himself.”
Harry shook his head. “I’m not Slytherin’s heir.”
Voldemort smiled, as if he had expected that response. “You don’t have to be the heir of Slytherin, Harry. You only need to create one.”
Harry’s pulse quickened.
“What do you mean?”
Voldemort took another step forward, close enough that Harry could feel the cold aura radiating from him.
“You bear Peverell blood. The last of its pure line. If you were to unite with me…” Voldemort’s voice lowered to a whisper, “we could create the true heir.”
Harry’s mind went blank.
And then, like a brutal storm, the meaning behind Voldemort’s words crashed into him.
His blood ran cold.
“No—”
“Oh, Harry…” Voldemort shook his head slowly. “Did you really think I would let such a legacy end? I do not merely need a successor to my power. I need a successor to our blood. And you are the only one who can fulfill that role.”
Harry’s stomach twisted.
“You want me to…” His throat tightened, making it nearly impossible to say the words, “…bear your heir?”
Voldemort’s lips curled into the faintest of smiles.
Harry took a step back, disgusted—not just by Voldemort, but by himself, for having listened to him for this long.
“You’re insane.”
“Am I?” Voldemort tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with something calculative. “Or are you simply afraid? Because deep down, you know this is your true fate.”
Harry wanted to deny it, wanted to scream—but something insidious crept into his mind.
Doubt.
And Voldemort saw it. He knew.
“You’ve been Dumbledore’s puppet your entire life,” Voldemort murmured, his voice like poison seeping into Harry’s thoughts. “You’ve lost everyone you ever loved. How many more must die for your stubbornness?”
Harry clenched his fists.
“Are you still so certain that I am your only enemy?” Voldemort whispered.
Harry hated himself.
Because for the first time… he wasn’t sure of his answer.
Harry didn’t move. He knew that if he showed weakness, Voldemort would exploit it. But his body refused to stay calm. He could feel his heart pounding wildly in his chest, his breaths short and uneven.
The true heir.
Voldemort’s words still echoed in his mind, like a cursed spell he couldn’t break.
Voldemort watched him patiently, as if savoring every flicker of emotion on his face. “You know this makes sense, Harry,” he finally said. “How long can you fight something that is already written in your blood?”
Harry clenched his fists so tightly that his nails nearly broke the skin. “I’d rather die.”
Voldemort sighed, as if disappointed. “You’ve always been so dramatic.”
With a smooth motion, he raised his hand.
Suddenly, pain tore through Harry’s body, as if thousands of invisible needles were piercing his nerves.
Harry collapsed to his knees, his hands clutching the cold marble floor.
“You speak of death so easily,” Voldemort said, his voice still calm, devoid of anger. “But you do not truly understand the meaning of suffering.”
Harry gasped for air, but he refused to scream. He wouldn’t give Voldemort that satisfaction.
Voldemort lowered himself slightly, his black robes brushing the floor. “Dumbledore gave you the illusion of choice, but I will give you the truth. You will never be free, Harry. This world only has two paths for you—destroy, or be destroyed.”
Harry shut his eyes, his mind spinning.
“I will never be part of your plan,” he growled.
Voldemort gave a small smile, as if Harry had just said something amusing. “Oh, Harry… you still fail to understand something important.”
Voldemort turned, and with a single gesture, the massive doors at the end of the hall creaked open.
Beyond them, another chamber was revealed—and inside, something was waiting.
Harry held his breath as his eyes caught the silhouette of a figure.
No—this couldn’t be real.
Inside the chamber, lying upon a black stone altar, was a man.
He wore tattered robes, his hair was messy, his body thin and pale, as if he had long since lost the warmth of life. But his face…
Harry froze.
It was James Potter.
But that was impossible. James Potter was dead.
“You…” Harry whispered, his voice barely audible. “This is impossible…”
Voldemort strode toward the altar, lifting his hand lazily. “As you can see, I have mastered things that even Dumbledore could never accomplish.”
Harry wanted to step back, wanted to reject the reality before him, but he couldn’t look away.
“Did you think death was the end?” Voldemort said, his eyes gleaming. “No, Harry. Death is merely a transition.”
With a flick of Voldemort’s hand, the body on the altar stirred.
Harry’s breath caught.
James Potter’s eyes opened—but they were empty, void of a soul.
“What have you done?!” Harry shouted, his voice breaking in the eerie silence.
Voldemort turned to him, looking almost bored. “I simply wanted to show you that everything can be negotiated… even death.”
Harry felt the world collapse around him.
“This is not my father.”
“Oh?” Voldemort raised an eyebrow. “But he has your father’s body. His blood. His face. Is that not enough?”
Harry felt sick. “You have no right to use him like this.”
Voldemort studied him for a long moment. “Then will you surrender? If you agree to create the true heir, I can offer you something Dumbledore never could—your family, restored.”
Harry said nothing.
He knew this was Voldemort’s game. A manipulation. But in the darkest corner of his mind, in the weakest part of himself… doubt began to creep in.
What if Voldemort was right?
What if there was a way to get back everything he had lost?
What was more important—his conviction, or the chance to change everything?
Harry stared at James Potter—or the thing that wore his father’s body—and for the first time since the war began, he felt truly lost.
The suffocating silence dominated the room, broken only by Harry's unsteady, ragged breathing.
He wanted to move away, to escape the empty gaze before him. But his body was frozen in place, as if bound by invisible chains.
Voldemort stepped forward slowly, his fingers brushing over the black stone altar where James Potter’s body lay. His touch was almost reverent, like he was dusting off a long-lost artifact.
"You know, Harry… family history always runs deeper than we think."
Harry remained silent, but his mind was racing.
Voldemort studied him, clearly savoring the lingering shock on his face. "Dumbledore always taught you about the 'light of truth,' but he neglected to tell you that the real truth hides in the shadows."
He lifted his hand—and in an instant, an image flickered into existence. A vision, an illusion, or perhaps something more.
Two young men appeared.
One of them had messy black hair and a mischievous grin—James Potter.
Beside him stood another figure, slightly shorter, with sharp features and a calm, unreadable expression. Regulus Arcturus Black.
Harry’s breath caught.
“James and Regulus. Two names that should never be side by side, shouldn’t they?” Voldemort mused with amusement. “Gryffindor and Slytherin. Light and shadow. But the world is never that simple.”
Harry didn’t want to hear this. And yet, a part of him demanded answers.
“Your father and Regulus… were much closer than you ever imagined,” Voldemort continued. "A bond few ever knew about. Sirius hated me because he thought I destroyed Regulus. But did he ever ask why Regulus chose his own path?"
Harry clenched his jaw. “Regulus became a Death Eater.”
“Ah, yes… but not entirely by choice.” Voldemort smirked. “He loved his family. Unlike Sirius, who ran away, Regulus wanted to protect what was left of the Black name. Unfortunately, he was too clever for his own good.”
The vision shifted.
Now, Harry saw Regulus standing before Voldemort, his face careful, yet firm.
"My Lord," Regulus said in the illusion, his voice steady. "I wish to serve."
Voldemort watched the memory unfold with satisfaction. “He came to me willingly. Unlike others who sought power, he sought understanding.”
Harry wanted to reject this, but his thoughts were tangled in the web Voldemort was weaving.
"But there was one thing he failed to foresee," Voldemort continued. "Regulus began to question everything after he uncovered a certain truth."
The image shifted again.
Regulus stood inside a dark cave, a silver locket with Slytherin’s mark clutched in his hand.
Harry stiffened.
"A Horcrux…" he whispered involuntarily.
Voldemort’s lips curled into a faint smile. "Yes, he found it. But he was not alone."
Another figure appeared beside Regulus.
James Potter.
Harry’s breath hitched.
"Of course, your father had no idea what he was dealing with at the time," Voldemort said idly. “But Regulus—he knew. And as you can imagine, they decided to take the locket.”
Harry gritted his teeth. “Then… my father knew about your Horcrux?”
"In the end, yes. But not at first," Voldemort replied smoothly. “What’s truly interesting is how it all ended. Would you like to know?”
Harry wanted to say ‘no.’ But he couldn’t.
The vision changed again.
Regulus and James stood inside the cave, surrounded by the black, murky water.
Regulus held the locket, his face grim.
"James, we can’t leave it here."
James hesitated. “But if we take it… we don’t even know how to destroy it!”
Regulus stared at the locket, then whispered, “I do…”
Harry watched as Regulus poured a dark liquid into a silver goblet.
"What is that?" James asked.
Regulus didn’t answer. He only looked at the goblet—then, without hesitation, he drank.
His face twisted in agony. His hands shook violently as he gripped the locket, his entire body convulsing.
James panicked. “Regulus! Hey, what are you doing?!”
But it was too late.
Regulus collapsed to his knees, his body writhing. He gasped, eyes filled with pain beyond comprehension.
And from the water, pale, lifeless hands began to emerge.
"Inferi…" Harry breathed.
James tried to pull Regulus back, but the swarm of Inferi was already crawling onto the stone.
Regulus shoved him away. “Go!”
"I'm not leaving you!" James yelled.
Regulus gave him a weak, sad smile. “You have to.”
And then, the Inferi dragged him beneath the black water.
James barely managed to grab the locket before he fled.
The vision faded.
Harry stood motionless, staring at the empty space where it had been.
"So," Voldemort said softly, "your father watched Regulus die—and he could do nothing to stop it."
Harry couldn’t breathe.
"Do you know how he felt afterward?" Voldemort asked. "He blamed himself. He believed Regulus’ death was his fault."
Harry clenched his fists.
“After that, he started digging deeper… and eventually, he uncovered more about the Horcruxes.”
Harry swallowed hard, his voice barely a whisper. "So… my father knew about your Horcruxes before he died?"
"Yes," Voldemort answered. "But he never had the chance to tell anyone… because I got to him first."
The vision changed one final time.
Harry saw a small house in Godric’s Hollow. James stood at the doorway, his wand raised.
And before him stood Voldemort.
"Hand over the baby, you filthy blood traitor!"
James refused. And the rest was history.
Harry felt sick.
"You understand now, don’t you?" Voldemort said, his voice dangerously quiet. "You are not just ‘The Boy Who Lived.’ You are part of something much greater."
Harry stared at him, his jaw set in defiance.
But deep inside, a seed of doubt had been planted.
Voldemort saw it.
And he smiled.
"So, my darling…" his voice was a whisper of death.
"Do you still wish to reject me?"