Eclipse ( Remade )
Death Eater
The atmosphere within Malfoy Manor was suffocating, thick with shadows and silence. The only light came from flickering, dying candles levitating in midair, casting grotesque, dancing silhouettes upon the cold stone walls. The air itself felt heavier, as though dread had seeped into every inch of the room.
At the far end of the obsidian-carved table sat the Dark Lord himself—Lord Voldemort. His posture was composed, regal even, but his scarlet eyes burned with something ancient and terrible. Not a soul dared to speak.
The Death Eaters, clad in black, sat in eerie stillness, their masks off but their fear worn openly. Whispers had no place here tonight. There was only waiting… and tension.
Bellatrix Lestrange, seated to his left, leaned forward slightly, her twisted smile betraying the hunger in her eyes. A hunger for violence, for blood, for his approval. But she, too, kept silent, though her fingers twitched.
Lucius Malfoy, pale even by candlelight, dared to break the silence.
“My Lord,” he said softly, almost reverently, “shall we proceed with the matter at hand? The night wanes, and the Ministry grows—restless.”
No response.
The Dark Lord remained unmoving, his gaze fixed on nothing and everything at once. His presence alone was an oppression, a void that devoured all sound and thought.
Bellatrix's restraint finally snapped.
“My Lord,” she hissed, voice thick with devotion, “surely the Ministry must be addressed. We are ready. Let us cleanse the filth.”
Voldemort turned his head slowly, his voice a razor’s edge.
“The Ministry is a dying beast. But even a beast thrashes in its final moments. No—what we do tonight is far more... foundational.”
Murmurs stirred—but were quickly silenced by a cold glance.
Rodolphus Lestrange, his voice like gravel, leaned forward.
“Hogwarts,” he said. “Is that where your will turns, my Lord?”
A pause. Then a smile—thin and cruel.
“Yes,” Voldemort murmured. “That castle breeds hope. And I am tired of hope.”
He stood, slow and deliberate. “Its halls echo with Dumbledore’s lies, with childish dreams of light triumphing over shadow. We will tear those stones apart, not with brute force—but with ideology. Subtle, insidious. The next generation will not be taught to resist me. They will worship me.
Lucius frowned. “Hogwarts is... symbolic. But the Ministry—”
“—is rotting,” Voldemort cut in, sharply. “And rot does not need our blade. It will collapse on its own.”
A dark chuckle from Bellatrix. “And we salt the earth after.”
Severus Snape, his arms crossed, spoke with low clarity.
“If I may, my Lord. Planting corruption within the heart of education... it will take time. But it will be irreversible.”
Voldemort’s gaze settled on him. Approval flickered—faint, but present.
“Exactly, Severus. A spell cast on the mind of a child lasts longer than one cast on a battlefield.”
Rodolphus clenched his jaw. “And what of the pureblood families who still resist?”
“Then they shall learn,” Voldemort whispered, “that loyalty is not optional. It is survival.”
The room chilled further.
No one moved. No one dared.
And somewhere, in the distance, a raven screamed into the night—though none could say whether it was truly a bird, or something else entirely.
Barty Crouch, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke. “My Lord,” he said, voice brimming with certainty, “we must implement a system similar to what exists in the Muggle world, in some of their nations. A structure that ensures students from fifth to seventh year gain greater control over their behavior, something that trains them to regulate themselves. An organization led by them, but sanctioned by the professors, to enforce discipline—and to monitor others. A system not of leadership, but of control. I believe you understand what I mean.”
Lucius Malfoy furrowed his brow. “Are you suggesting we allow children to lead? No, Barty, that is too dangerous. They are young, inexperienced, and wholly untrained to wield that kind of authority.”
“No, Lucius,” Barty responded sharply, his voice alight with conviction. “This is not about giving them true power. This is about instilling obedience, about giving them a taste of command so they may learn submission under the illusion of control. If we wish to reshape the existing system, we must begin from within—by molding the next generation before they are old enough to shape public opinion.”
Rodolphus Lestrange nodded slowly. “Using the older students to watch over the younger ones... I understand. That would grant us a tighter grip on Hogwarts.”
Bellatrix grinned, her eyes gleaming with twisted delight. “An organization of youth, trained to surveil and discipline. It could become a beautiful weapon—if handled properly.”
Voldemort finally nodded, thoughtful and silent as he assessed the proposal. “Barty, your thinking is precise. We shall begin to consider ways to implement this at Hogwarts. But timing will be everything. Each move must be exact. We cannot afford missteps.”
Lucius pressed his lips into a thin line, clearly still unconvinced. “We have allowed Hogwarts to become a breeding ground for resistance. The children are given too much freedom. Some of the professors are more dangerous than the students themselves.”
“Ah, Lucius,” Severus Snape interjected, voice cool and unreadable. “You worry too much. We already influence a great portion of Hogwarts policy. And you know full well—we have allies within.
“Exactly, Severus,” Bellatrix chimed in with a low chuckle. “Dumbledore may still hold the reins, but he is not omnipotent. If we play this right, we can strip him of everything.”
Voldemort’s eyes grew distant, as though gazing into something far beyond the room. “Dumbledore is not the true obstacle, Bellatrix. The Ministry is. Controlling Hogwarts is only a fraction of the war. We must ensure our influence spreads through the entire wizarding world.”
Lucius nodded gravely. “The Ministry is the true core. If we can seize it, we can rewrite magical law, bend the foundations of policy. For too long, pure-blood families have been undermined. It is time we reclaim what is rightfully ours.”
Rodolphus added with low intensity, “Not just in Britain. We must reach out to pure-blood families across France, Germany, Italy... We will need their allegiance, or we risk losing invaluable strength.”
Voldemort nodded, expression calculated. “We must forge alliances. But tread lightly. Many abroad are still wary of our cause. We must draw them in—without making them feel threatened.”
“And the Ministry?” Lucius asked again, more firmly this time. “What shall we do about those who still stand in our way?”
“The purge must begin quietly,” Voldemort replied, his voice low and deliberate. “The so-called righteous hiding behind masks of virtue—they must be removed one by one. We will replace them in silence... and when the moment is right, we will collapse the Ministry from within.”
Severus Snape remained composed, but his sharp gaze revealed calculation. “Extending influence abroad will require time, my Lord.”
Voldemort turned to him, reading the man’s composed exterior. “We begin with what is closest. The rest will follow. We must be careful—never impatient.”
Bellatrix nodded, her eyes glowing with fervor. “From the Ministry, our reach will grow. Then Hogwarts. And then... the entire wizarding world.”
Voldemort’s tone sharpened. “That is the path. Every move—measured. Every action—calculated. We will not be stopped.”
But even amid the grand strategy and escalating ambition, doubt crept into the room like a whisper. Lucius Malfoy, ever cautious, could no longer remain silent. “My Lord,” he said with visible unease, “I fear sudden change. Many pure-bloods will not easily accept a drastic restructuring of power. They cling to the status quo.”
“The status quo?” Voldemort repeated, his voice laced with venom. “That is precisely what we must destroy, Lucius. The old world must be unmade.
Rodolphus spoke with cold conviction. “If we let things remain, we will perish with them. The world cannot stay as it is.”
Lucius exhaled slowly. “Very well, my Lord. I understand. We proceed—but with care.”
“There is one more concern,” Severus interjected, drawing all attention once again. “Hogwarts is the heart of magical education. We can change the curriculum—but we must also ensure those who enforce it are loyal to us.”
Bellatrix gave a short laugh. “We already have our hands around their throats, Severus. Most of the prefects and heads are under our sway. They just don’t know it yet.”
Voldemort’s eyes glinted with pure malice as he surveyed the room. “Everything must move forward. Every plan must succeed. There is no room for failure.”
And with that, the meeting pressed on—deeper into their schemes to transform not just Britain, but the entire magical world. Despite the bold words and elaborate planning, the room remained laced with tension. Each Death Eater knew: they were balancing on a knife’s edge. Every step forward could tip them into victory... or bring their downfall.
The meeting grew increasingly tense. The Death Eaters sat around the table, each waiting for the next decision. Voldemort was silent, saying nothing, merely listening as the tension thickened like smoke in the air. After several seconds that felt like hours, Bellatrix Lestrange—impatient as ever—finally spoke up.
"My Lord, what shall we do about them? The Muggle-borns and the half-bloods... They grow bolder, demanding rights they do not deserve. They’ve disrupted the balance of the magical world!"
Voldemort’s cold gaze fell on Bellatrix, his eyes narrowing slightly. He raised a hand—an elegant yet deadly gesture—to silence the room.
"Bellatrix," his voice a whisper sharp as a blade, "Not all problems are solved through annihilation. Even among us here, we bear tainted blood. Half-bloods are a reality we cannot erase. We are not merely sovereigns of pure blood. We are part of a greater system—one that even we cannot wholly command."
A flicker of doubt crossed Bellatrix’s face. She stared at him, momentarily disoriented. "My Lord... are you suggesting we accept their existence?"
Severus Snape, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke in his smooth, low voice. "There is truth in what the Dark Lord says. Pure blood does not always equate to superiority. Many among us carry mixed blood. I, as you all know, am one such example. My father was a Muggle, and for years I allowed that truth to corrode my worth."
Voldemort looked at Severus. Their eyes met briefly, an unspoken understanding passing between them. "Indeed, Severus. We are not 'saints' demanding supremacy through blood. Perhaps it is time to look inward—and acknowledge a darker truth."
Lucius Malfoy furrowed his brow, lips thin. "Then, my Lord, what becomes of the Muggle-borns and half-bloods? Do we abandon the doctrine we’ve fought so hard to establish? Or do we adapt—more wisely?"
Voldemort inhaled deeply, then spoke with finality. "We must ensure the Muggle-borns never grow more powerful than they deserve. Yet we cannot simply erase the half-bloods. As Severus said, even we are not untouched by their blood."
Lucius stiffened, his pride wounded by the implication. Voldemort noticed—the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth—but said nothing. A mental note made: Lucius remains bound to his illusions of nobility. That makes him predictable.
Rodolphus Lestrange, ever loyal yet far less impulsive than his wife, leaned forward. "Then, my Lord, how do we assess the half-bloods? What criteria shall we uphold? If we continue treating them as threats, we may end up destroying the magical world itself."
Voldemort gave a thin, humorless smile, laced with venom. "Which is why we must judge them by their quality, not by their blood. Our approach will evolve. The half-bloods and Muggle-borns must be controlled, not obliterated. Not without cause."
Lucius opened his mouth again—this time more cautiously. "So, my Lord, will we offer them a chance to prove themselves?"
Voldemort’s gaze turned on Lucius, sharp as a curse. "No. They will remain under watch. Not all deserve freedom. Those with true power will reveal themselves through action. The useless... shall be punished."
In the corner, Bellatrix made a sound of disapproval—a low scoff—and crossed her arms. "My Lord, they must be destroyed. Their very blood is a betrayal. We cannot allow them to grow stronger."
Snape cut in, voice firm and poised. "Killing them all is not a wise strategy. Some possess remarkable talent—greater than many pure-bloods. If we slaughter them all, we eliminate assets we may later need."
Voldemort inclined his head slightly. "We will introduce a new system. The magical world will be structured by ability and contribution—not bloodline. Those who prove nothing will be cast out. But those with potential... will serve under our rule."
Bellatrix’s lips curled, though her eyes betrayed disappointment. "And Hogwarts, my Lord? Its professors, its students—many are of impure blood. Shall we let them flourish unchecked?"
"At Hogwarts, stricter policies will be implemented," Voldemort said, his voice composed yet final. "There will be greater surveillance, especially of Muggle-born students. They will be tested, evaluated, and separated according to their worth."
Lucius glanced sideways at Severus. "Do you agree with this, Severus? It seems it will transform the very fabric of Hogwarts."
Snape sighed, his eyes narrowing. "I agree that change is necessary. But we must tread carefully. Excessive control breeds resistance. We cannot risk rebellion from those who may yet prove useful."
Voldemort raised his hand once more. The room fell silent again.
"The decision is made. There will be no more talk of mass extermination. We shall monitor the worthy and eliminate the useless. This is no longer about blood. This is about potential. We shall lead this world with precision, with iron—into a future that is stronger, purer. A world ruled only by those who deserve to hold power."
Silence reigned again. The Death Eaters sensed the shift—not merely in policy, but in their perception of the magical world. A colder, more calculated order was coming. One that cloaked itself in reason, but wielded judgment like a blade. And under this new vision, they would reshape everything—from within and without.
.....
The atmosphere in the room grew increasingly tense. The Death Eaters sat around the long, cold stone table, waiting in utter silence. Lord Voldemort had not spoken yet. He merely observed them, crimson eyes glowing in the dim candlelight. The oppressive quiet stretched on, each second dragging like an eternity—until Bellatrix Lestrange, unable to contain herself any longer, finally spoke.
“My Lord,” she hissed, voice sharp with disdain, “what shall we do about them? The Muggle-borns and half-bloods… they grow bolder by the day, demanding rights they do not possess. They have defiled the balance of our world!”
Voldemort turned his gaze toward her slowly. His eyes narrowed slightly, his expression unreadable. He raised one pale hand—an elegant, skeletal gesture—and the room fell silent.
“Bellatrix,” Voldemort’s voice was low, almost a whisper, yet it carried like a blade through the air, “destruction is not always the answer. Even among us—look around—none here can claim to be utterly pure. The reality of blood is far more complex than we pretend. We are not merely lords of blood. We are part of a larger mechanism—one we cannot control entirely.”
Bellatrix blinked, caught off guard by the tone. “My Lord… do you mean to suggest we must accept their existence?”
From the corner, Severus Snape’s voice broke the silence. Cold and deliberate. “What the Dark Lord says holds truth. Blood purity does not define power. As you all know, I am not of pure lineage. My father was a Muggle. That fact haunted me once—but I have long since learned that strength lies in what we make of ourselves.”
Voldemort’s eyes locked briefly with Snape’s, and something passed between them—something not spoken aloud.
“Precisely,” Voldemort said. “We are not saints to demand supremacy by blood alone. Perhaps it is time we looked inward and recognized the darker truths that shape us.”
Lucius Malfoy furrowed his brow, cautious but curious. “Then what are we to do, my Lord, with the half-bloods and Muggle-borns? Do we abandon our longstanding principles—or evolve them?”
Voldemort inhaled deeply, fingers tapping against the armrest of his throne-like chair. “We will ensure that Muggle-borns never rise beyond their station. But we cannot erase the existence of mixed blood. As Severus said, we ourselves are tangled in it.”
Rodolphus Lestrange leaned forward, his voice grave. “Then how do we judge them, my Lord? What determines who is to be tolerated—and who is to be cast aside? If we cling to old laws, we may destroy the very foundation of the magical world.”
A thin smile tugged at Voldemort’s lips, though it held no warmth. “Then we judge by strength. Not by lineage, but by merit. From this moment, our approach shifts. Half-bloods and even Muggle-borns will be measured. Controlled. But not mindlessly destroyed."
Lucius tilted his head. “And if they prove themselves?”
“They will never be free,” Voldemort said coldly. “They may serve. Nothing more. Those with power may earn their usefulness. The rest... will be discarded.”
Bellatrix sneered. “My Lord, they deserve annihilation. Their very blood is a betrayal to our kind. How can we let them live?”
Snape’s tone was steely, controlled. “Killing them all is neither efficient nor wise. We’ve seen powerful magic in those considered impure. To wipe them out entirely would be to throw away weapons we might wield.”
Voldemort nodded slowly. “There will be a new system. We shall construct a hierarchy—not of blood, but of capability. All will be tested. Watched. Those who fail shall fall. Those who succeed shall serve.”
Bellatrix gave a reluctant smile, though it was clear the fire within her burned for blood. “And what of Hogwarts, my Lord? The teachers, the students—many of them are of mixed or impure blood. Shall we allow them to continue as they are?”
“In Hogwarts,” Voldemort said smoothly, “there will be new policy. A stricter watch. Muggle-born students will be observed carefully. They will be sorted not only by House, but by ability. Those who do not meet our standards will be removed.”
Lucius turned to Snape, eyes narrowed. “You are the Headmaster now, Severus. Do you agree with this direction?”
Snape’s face remained expressionless. “Change is necessary. But we must be cautious. Excessive control breeds rebellion. We need not crush potential—only bend it.”
Voldemort raised his hand again, “The matter is settled. There will be no more pointless purges. From this day forward, we forge a world of order—where only the worthy may rise. Not a world ruled by purity, but by power. Let the weak fall. Let the strong serve.”
Silence once more fell over the chamber, heavier than before. The Death Eaters exchanged glances. Something fundamental had shifted—not only in policy, but in ideology. Their Dark Lord had spoken. A new order was coming. Not one of blind blood superiority—but a colder, crueler world where power alone would define worth. And in that world, mercy would have no place.
Voldemort raised his hand, giving a clear signal that the meeting was over. The murmurs of the Death Eaters surrounding him faded as silence enveloped the room. The thick tension in the air lifted only momentarily when Voldemort spoke, his voice colder and more commanding—as if the very air around them grew heavier.
"This meeting is over. You all know what must be done," he said, his tone devoid of emotion. "Go, and make sure you follow the instructions given. Do not defy any order."
Most of the Death Eaters rose immediately and began to file out of the room, leaving Voldemort still seated, as though he were expecting two particular individuals to remain.
Just before the door closed completely, Voldemort spoke again, his voice sharper and colder than before.
"Severus. Barty. Stay."
Severus Snape and Barty Crouch Jr. remained where they were, their eyes fixed on Voldemort with complete focus, ready to receive further orders. They both knew that if Voldemort asked them to stay, it meant something more serious—or perhaps more dangerous—was at hand.
They stood silently, awaiting the next words. Voldemort turned his piercing gaze toward them.
"I want both of you to keep an eye on Potter while he's not in my presence. Do not let him act without your supervision."
Severus gave a slight nod, unsurprised be the command. From the start, he had known that watching over Harry Potter was part of his role beside Voldemort, though it often left him trapped in complex moral dilemmas. Barty, however, seemed more hesitant.
"Barty," Voldemort continued, his tone darker, "I know you have questions about this. But don’t even think about shirking this duty. You know how vital it is to keep Potter from ruining our plans."
Barty swallowed, hesitating to speak.
"My Lord... Forgive me, but… Potter is—" He paused, trying to choose his words.
"He’s a true Gryffindor. He's fiery, egotistical, and quick to defy us. Even just having him near feels like standing next to a flame ready to ignite."
Voldemort stared at Barty, saying nothing for a moment, giving him space to continue.
"Potter won’t simply stop. Like any Gryffindor, he doesn’t know when to back down. He’s full of rage, and sometimes seems completely uncontrollable," Barty went on, his gaze shifting slightly in concern.
"He's dangerous," Severus added firmly. "But we can’t ignore the potential he has. If we’re too harsh, we risk losing our chance to control him. If he senses that we’re shadowing his every move, he’ll push back harder."
Severus knew—Harry had always been stubborn. He hated being watched, whether directly or from the shadows. Severus could never forget the incident in Harry’s third year that proved this quite clearly.
Voldemort listened intently, analyzing each word. He noted Barty’s hesitation, perhaps even suspecting a weakness in the man’s resolve toward the boy. But Voldemort would show no such weakness himself. His eyes fixed on Barty, and a cold smile spread across his lips.
"I know what you're thinking, Barty," Voldemort said with a voice laced in quiet menace. "But remember—this is your duty. Ensure that no one approaches Potter without my permission. No one is allowed to touch him—not even the two of you."
Severus and Barty exchanged glances, not surprised by the order, though clearly burdened by it. Barty gave a reluctant nod, unease still present in his expression.
"And one more thing," Voldemort continued, his voice terrifying in its intensity.
"Neither of you—Severus included—may lay a hand on Potter. No one is permitted to violate this rule. No one, except for me, may come near him in any manner."
Severus stared blankly at Voldemort, masking whatever worry might lie beneath.
"Of course, My Lord," he replied, his voice flat.
But Barty couldn't hide the doubt in his eyes.
"But, My Lord," he said softly, "Potter—he’s so stubborn. I’m afraid if we tighten the leash too much, he’ll become even more defiant. More... unpredictable."
Voldemort looked at Barty with a sharper gaze than before.
"If he becomes too defiant, you know what must be done. Do not hesitate to use whatever force is necessary, Barty. I will not tolerate failure."
Barty looked slightly stunned but lowered his head and nodded.
"Of course, My Lord."
Voldemort stood, his posture shifting from composed stillness to something more regal and intimidating.
"This is not merely about watching Potter. This is about ensuring nothing interferes with our plan. You both must ensure that there are no interruptions—from within or without. No one may touch Harry Potter without my command."
Severus nodded, expression unreadable. He understood that this assignment was extremely dangerous—not just for Potter, but for himself and Barty as well. Yet, he wouldn't allow himself to show any more hesitation. He was in too deep now to consider retreat.
Barty finally spoke, his tone cautious but resolute.
"My Lord... there will be danger if we press too hard. If we enforce this surveillance too strictly, Potter might become... uncontrollable."
Voldemort's stare turned glacial, his eyes narrowing.
"I know what I want from him, Barty. If he acts out, if he dares to betray us, then he will face the consequences. But until that happens, I expect you both to obey my orders without question. No one touches him. Remember that."
With those final words, Voldemort turned his eyes upon them with unmistakable command.
"You may leave now. Watch Potter with your lives. Ensure no one breaks this rule. No one touches him—except me."
Severus and Barty turned and walked toward the door, their expressions remaining resolute. But behind those cold stares was a silent unease—about Potter, and what might happen if they failed.
As the meeting room doors finally shut behind them, silence returned.
But within the hearts of those two men, an unspoken dread lingered—of Potter, and of what might unfold under their watch.
***
After leaving Voldemort’s chamber, Severus and Barty walked side by side in a heavy silence. Barty looked somewhat anxious, his eyes still fixed on the door that had just closed behind them. Severus, however, couldn’t keep his thoughts to himself any longer.
"How utterly reckless of you, Barty," Severus said, his tone dripping with scorn. "What were you thinking, speaking like that to our Lord? You know he despises having things repeated to him. You’re lucky he granted you mercy, but don’t expect it to happen again." His voice was so sharp, it felt as though he was trying to carve each word into Barty’s memory.
Barty remained silent for a moment, his eyes flicking to Severus, tension thick in the air between them. "I was only trying to explain our position, Severus," he replied, his voice trembling slightly. "That Potter—"
"Don’t ever speak of Potter as though he’s just a boy to be deceived," Severus interrupted coldly. "Our Lord knows more about him than you ever will. And you, Barty, are a fool if you think he can simply be left alone. That’s why he gave you a second chance—because you nearly made a disaster out of this."
Barty opened his mouth to argue, but then shut it again, knowing all too well that there was no winning against Severus in a debate. “I understand, Severus,” he said hoarsely, swallowing his pride and frustration.
Severus scoffed lightly and quickened his pace, eager to end the unpleasant exchange. When they reached a corridor far from the meeting place, Severus turned away from Barty and apparated with a swift, silent spell.
---
When Severus appeared inside his private, shadowed chamber, he immediately felt the weight of tension pressing against his body. The room hadn’t changed—lined with shelves filled with vials, needles, and all manner of strange ingredients, steeped in that subtle scent of potion residue only someone like him could detect. But for Severus, this place was a sanctuary—a place to quiet his storming mind.
He gazed at his worktable, where glass vials containing mysterious liquids sat in perfect order. His body felt drained, his thoughts cluttered with concerns that wouldn’t go away. He needed to focus on his work—brewing potions to calm the unrest gnawing inside him, as he always did when trapped in doubt.
But just as he reached for a few ingredients, a familiar image forced itself into his mind. Harry Potter’s face—once filled with hatred and distrust toward him—resurfaced with unnerving clarity.
Slowly, that image shifted—from the reckless boy with fire in his eyes, to a young man carrying burdens far beyond his years. Severus remembered vividly the first time he saw Potter in class, so young, already stained with worry. He knew then that boy would never live a peaceful life. Not with who his parents were, nor the fate set upon him.
Yet what disturbed Severus more was what came after—the transformation in Harry’s eyes. By the end of the war, in their final encounter, Severus had seen something different in him. Not just resolve… but hollowness. A part of Harry had died in that endless struggle.
He turned away and ran a hand over his face, frustration clawing at him. All these feelings—conflicted thoughts about Potter, the suffocating duties placed on him—they were only growing heavier with each passing day. “Why must he be so difficult?” he muttered to himself, as if saying it aloud would make it easier to endure.
Then, as he prepared a calming draught, something shifted within him. A memory—not of Harry, but of the Dark Lord. His eyes, when he spoke of the boy.
Severus froze.
There was something unspoken, but undeniable, in Voldemort’s gaze every time Potter was mentioned. Not just hatred. Not even the lust for power. It was obsession. Dangerous, consuming obsession. A twisted mixture of fear, fascination, and something darker still.
Severus had seen many things in the eyes of the Dark Lord. Rage. Triumph. Cruelty. But when Potter's name passed his lips, there was a glint that chilled Severus to the bone. It wasn’t just about killing the boy. It was about possessing him. Understanding him. Breaking him—and perhaps, in some strange way, being understood in return.
It was madness.
And Severus, ever the observer, had felt that madness radiating from Voldemort like heat from a flame. A madness that mirrored the one slowly growing in Harry himself.
That realization brought no comfort.
Even as Severus tried to steady his hand over the cauldron, the thought remained—how much longer before that obsession reached its peak? Before one of them—Potter or the Dark Lord—burned completely in that fire?
"He's not just a boy to be protected," Severus murmured to himself, voice softer now, laced with unease. "He’s a threat, yes... but also a force… something far more dangerous than I ever imagined."
With a slight tremble in his fingers, Severus looked down at the potion bottles before him. But this time, he couldn’t focus. That look in Voldemort’s eyes haunted him—obsession, hunger, and a maddening desire to possess the light that refused to kneel.
And Potter’s eyes—they were changing too. Growing darker. Becoming harder to read. What if Severus was wrong? What if Harry, despite everything, truly had the power to change everything? Or worse... what if he was already falling?
He exhaled deeply, placing the potion ingredients back on the table. “What will you become, Potter?” he whispered to no one, the question lingering in the air. “A threat... a savior... or something far worse?”
In the silence that followed, Severus sat at his desk, eyes resting on the half-finished potion. Anxiety, doubt, and a weight he couldn’t shake settled on him like fog. There was only one thing left to do—drink the potion he’d brewed, hoping for a moment of peace. Even if it never truly healed anything.
He lifted the vial to his lips and drank, letting the calming effects seep through his limbs. But the unease in his chest remained, stubborn and sharp.
And one name kept echoing in his mind—Harry Potter.
***
The room Harry lay in wasn’t bright. A dim light filtered through a small window tucked in the corner of the wall, casting long, pale shadows across the floor. The muted sound of rain tapping softly against the glass filled the silence, adding a subtle tension to the already heavy air.
On the bed, Harry twisted slightly in his sleep. His chest rose and fell in short, uneven breaths, and beads of cold sweat clung to his brow. His face was tense, drawn tight by something that clearly unsettled him. A dream—no, that dream—was back again. The one that had returned too many times to count, always bringing with it the same sense of quiet dread.
In the dream, he stood in a garden. It should have been beautiful. Wide stone paths weaved through beds of flowering plants, and towering trees lined the edges. But something felt... off. He couldn't say what, only that the stillness wasn’t peaceful—it was hollow.
No wind moved the branches. No birds sang. The colors of the flowers were dull, almost gray, and the leaves drooped like they hadn’t been watered in weeks. It felt like walking through the memory of a place, rather than the place itself.
The sky was an oppressive shade of gray. Clouds rolled low and thick, covering the stars. Even the moon was gone. The air was cold—sharp and damp, biting through the thin fabric of his dream-self’s clothes. Yet despite that, his back was damp with sweat. The contrast made his skin crawl.
In the center of the garden was a small lake. Its surface was unmoving, not even disturbed by the wind—which hadn’t made a sound all night. The water was dark, not the kind of dark that reflected the night, but the kind that swallowed it. It was like standing in front of a mirror that showed nothing back.
Harry’s steps were slow. He didn’t try to move fast; he felt like he couldn’t. His legs weren’t frozen, exactly, but every step felt like wading through water. His body knew where he was going even though his mind didn’t.
Then he saw it. Underneath a skeletal tree—branches mostly bare and bark pale with age—was a round, white table. Five white chairs surrounded it in a perfect circle. The table itself had a delicate pattern, faded roses painted in soft pink spirals, though the color had long since lost its warmth. The entire scene looked like it had been beautiful once, but time had drained it of life.
“Why does this look familiar?” Harry murmured, mostly to himself. His voice sounded strange in the stillness, like it didn’t quite belong.
He moved closer. The chairs seemed untouched, undisturbed by weather or time. They should’ve been inviting, but they weren’t. There was a tension to them, something he couldn’t explain. They looked fragile—not physically, but emotionally, as if sitting in one would bring something back he wasn’t ready to face.
He stopped just before reaching the table and looked around. Everything was quiet. Too quiet. He swallowed, throat dry.
“I’ve never been here,” he whispered, trying to convince himself.
“…So why do I feel like I have?”
There was no answer, of course.
He reached out, slowly, and touched the first chair on the left. The instant his fingertips brushed the wood, a rush of feeling hit him—not a memory, not exactly, but something deeper. A sensation. An echo.
He gasped softly and pulled his hand back, but the heaviness didn’t leave. It stayed with him, sitting in his chest like a weight. He touched the second chair. The feeling returned—stronger now. Loss. Regret. Something else he couldn’t name.
Harry frowned and clenched his jaw. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered.
But still, he couldn’t stop.
The third chair. A pressure built behind his eyes. His throat tightened. He didn’t cry, but the tears threatened.
By the fourth, his breathing had gone shallow. Not in panic—just… weariness. Like something inside him was unraveling.
The fifth chair. The final one.
He laid his hand on the back of it and stood still for a long moment.
Whatever he was holding back, whatever this place was trying to remind him of—it almost broke through. But just almost.
Harry closed his eyes. “What is this?” he whispered. “What am I supposed to remember?”
He opened them again and stared at the table, as if the answer would be written there. His voice dropped even lower.
“Were there people here before? Was I one of them?”
He looked at the empty chairs. “Was someone missing? Or… did I lose them?”
His fingers traced the edge of the chair absently. A chill ran down his spine, not from the cold, but from the stillness of his own thoughts. They were beginning to wander into places he didn’t want to explore. Not yet.
“Why does it hurt so much when I don’t even know what I’ve lost?”
He took a step back. Something told him not to sit. Not now.
Maybe later.
Harry stood there, letting the silence swallow him again, the soundless garden holding its breath as though it, too, was waiting.
Waiting for him to realize
Harry stood still for a moment, his tear-filled eyes staring at the white chairs surrounding the table—fading, just like everything around him. The atmosphere darkened, and a strange sensation, one that seemed to drain the strength from within him, crept over his body. It felt as if he were trapped in a place he could never escape from. The dark sky above grew heavier, pressing down like a shadow that swallowed all life and froze the world into a silent, suffocating void.
His trembling hand slowly reached out, fingers brushing the first chair at the center side of the round table. The moment his skin touched it, a powerful jolt surged through his body—like lightning striking without warning. The feeling intensified, no longer just sadness. It was emptiness—profound, unexplainable emptiness. It clawed at him from within, pulling him toward the darkness.
Then, a voice—barely a whisper—cut through the silence.
Harry turned around quickly, his exhausted, tear-filled eyes locking onto a figure standing beneath the shadow of a large tree. The figure was unlike anything he’d ever seen before. A small boy stood there, frail and pale, dressed in tattered, dirt-stained clothes.
He couldn’t have been older than six. His skin was ghostly, like melted candle wax, and his messy black hair clung to his face. But it was the boy’s eyes—large, lifeless, and void of light—that sent a chill down Harry’s spine. They stared at him without emotion, and yet held something profoundly terrifying. It was as if the boy could see through him, into the deepest, most hidden parts of his mind. His mouth was turned down in a frown, the expression of a child lost in a world he could never understand.
In his arms, the child clutched a worn-out book. Its pages were torn, brittle, the cover barely holding together like something forgotten for decades. But despite its state, the boy held it tightly, as if it was the last anchor to his existence in this dark, crumbling place.
Harry blinked slowly, dazed and confused, his breath trembling. Something about the child’s presence shook him to his core. He knew that face. Or... he thought he did.
“Tom Riddle?” Harry whispered, his voice barely audible, as if afraid that even saying the name would shatter whatever fragile reality he was in.
The boy said nothing at first. But then, his lips moved slightly. His voice was soft, fragile, and yet eerily clear.
“You left me here...You always reject me. Ihate it."
The words sank deep into Harry’s chest like a blade. The silence returned, heavier than before, wrapping around his lungs. That strange feeling intensified as he stared into the child’s face—something familiar, yet terrifying. It was as if this child was part of him, a fragment buried so deeply in his soul that he had spent his whole life pretending it didn’t exist.
The boy took a small step forward, the aged book still clutched to his chest. Though his expression did not change, the air grew colder, and Harry’s heartbeat quickened. Then, slowly, the boy lifted one pale hand and pointed at the round table and the chairs surrounding it.
That single gesture sent a wave of dread through Harry’s chest, tightening his breath.
“Why... why do I feel this way?” he muttered, unsure if the words even left his lips.
The boy remained still. Silent. The expression in his dark eyes never changed. But something unspoken lingered there—something he desperately wanted Harry to understand, yet never had the words to explain.
Harry’s gaze drifted to the old book. It felt like the key to everything. Without realizing it, his feet shifted slightly, as if wanting to move closer, to see what the boy held. But his body wouldn’t respond. It felt as though invisible chains held him in place.
The boy raised the book a little higher, presenting it like a sacred offering. Still, Harry couldn’t move. His heart ached with a weight he didn’t understand. His soul felt as if it were bleeding from wounds he couldn’t see.
The boy’s face drew closer—not physically, but emotionally. The longer Harry stared into those eyes, the more the shadows around him grew.
Then, just as suddenly, the boy stepped back.
He turned around slowly and began walking into the darkness beyond the garden, taking the silence and the cold with him. Each step he took seemed to drag the light deeper into oblivion, and Harry could only watch—paralyzed, breathless.
And as the boy’s small frame finally vanished into the night, the world dimmed until nothing remained but shadows.
Harry gasped as he woke, his breath ragged, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Sweat drenched his skin, and the weight of that dream—of that presence—still pressed against his heart.
He sat up, trembling, staring at the ceiling as if it might crumble into the same darkness that haunted his mind. The image of that child burned behind his eyes. The look. The silence. The book.
“...Tom..."
He whispered again, more to himself.
What was he trying to tell me?
And why did it feel like... something inside him had been lost long ago.
----
Harry stared around the room with tired eyes. His breathing was still slightly ragged from the strange dream that had just haunted him. His chest rose and fell in an uneven rhythm, as if his body hadn’t fully returned from that shadowed world. He ran a hand over his face, trying to shake off the lingering feeling that still clung to his chest.
Then, with a slow motion, he turned to his side, seeking a more comfortable position. But the movement made his eyes catch something he hadn’t noticed before—a small table in the corner of the room, now filled with food.
Harry tensed. His gaze locked on the table with growing suspicion. A plate of warm bread, a bowl of thick soup still steaming, and a large glass of water stood temptingly in the silence. There were even several slices of meat that looked delicious—something he never would’ve expected to be freely given to him in a place like this.
Doubt immediately crept into his thoughts.
Since when was that food there?
Who brought it?
Is this some kind of trap?
Unease spread through his mind. But before he could think any further, his body betrayed him. His empty stomach growled in protest, a loud, humiliating sound in the quiet of the room.
Harry bit his lip. He had gone hungry and thirsty for days. That suffering had become a part of him, something he had grown used to since childhood. But this—this was different. The food was right in front of him, and the temptation was too strong to ignore.
“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, clenching his fists as if hoping to resist the weakness of his own body.
But in the end, he gave in.
Cautiously, he sat up on the bed. His hand reached out—but didn’t touch the food just yet. He scanned for anything unusual. Maybe there was a potion mixed in? Maybe this was all a game—another mind trick from Voldemort. He leaned closer to the plate, trying to catch any strange scent. Nothing odd. In fact, it smelled incredible. The food didn’t just look normal—it looked perfect.
Harry took a deep breath.
“Shit,” he whispered, before finally picking up a piece of bread and biting into it.
The moment the soft warmth of the bread touched his tongue, something inside him almost collapsed. It was so good. So different from the stale, barely edible scraps he’d grown used to. Without realizing it, he took another bite. And another. He tried to stay alert, but his body was far too exhausted to fight the primal urge.
When he finally lifted the spoon and tasted the soup, Harry nearly sighed in relief. The rich, savory flavor spread warmth through him, comforting his aching body. He ate slowly, still wary, but each bite made it harder to stop. The tender meat, the cool water that soothed his dry throat—it all felt like a luxury he didn’t deserve, yet couldn’t resist.
But soon enough, he realized he couldn’t keep going. Though there was still plenty left on the table, his stomach had reached its limit. He had only eaten a small portion of what was offered.
Harry placed the spoon down gently and leaned back in his chair. He took a long breath, trying to calm his slightly steadier body. But his mind was still a storm.
He knew he couldn’t let his guard down. He knew this was just a new game. Voldemort feeding him didn’t mean mercy. It didn’t mean kindness.
He ran a hand through his hair, trying to push away the thoughts of what had come before—the confrontation, the choices, the twisted path that led him here. He wanted to forget it all, just for a moment.
But in the end, no matter how hard he tried to avoid it, one truth remained lodged in his chest:
He would fight back.
He wasn’t someone who could be broken so easily.
Harry Potter would never bow to anyone—not even Voldemort.
His green eyes lit up again, burning with renewed determination. He would strike back. He would plan carefully. If Voldemort thought he could control him, then he had made a grave mistake.
Harry closed his eyes for a moment, letting his thoughts sharpen, calculating his next move. And when he opened them again, there was something different in his gaze—something deeper than rage. Something sharper than hatred.
He was Harry Potter.
And no one—not even the Dark Lord himself—could truly break him.