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The Dark Apprentice Chapter 75
🕑 Added 2025-12-09 06:08:30 +0000 UTCThe Dark Apprentice Chapter 75
The ascent back to the bank's lobby level was elementary. The flood of euphoria that passed through Harry when he felt success was in their reach was unspeakable. He opened his mouth, ready to stammer out a word of praise or perhaps a question about the cup’s imminent fate, but the sound died on his lips as they made the final turn into the lobby.
Before he could utter a single syllable, dozens of powerful, explosive spells detonated with blinding flashes and a deafening crackle, slamming into the cavern wall about a meter from his head. The air pressure hit him like a physical punch, forcing a panicked, instinctive flinch that sent his wand flying in an upward motion to summon a shield that might protect him. The sudden, violent intrusion shattered the moment of triumph, plunging them back into immediate, bone-jarring danger.
The sudden, unwelcome arrival of the Aurors signaled a clear escalation in the Goblins' desperate tactics. A tense stillness fell over the cavernous space, broken only by the frantic scrambling of the Ministry wizards attempting to get into formation.
As Harry’s eyes darted around the sudden chaos, assessing the threat, he found Tom looking strangely and utterly composed. His wand was held casually, almost negligently, between his long, pale fingers. The man offered Harry an approving, almost proud, nod, acknowledging the effectiveness of the shimmering, near-invisible shield that Harry had instinctively thrown up, which had successfully intercepted and dissolved the volley of curses before they could reach any of the three of them.
But it was the deep, knowing smile that curved the lips of his master that truly arrested Harry's attention. It was a smile that was anything but a sign of concern, a chillingly confident and patient expression. Tom's eyes, the color of blood, seemed to glow faintly in the sudden tension, holding a raw, palpable amusement. This unexpected attack from the shadows was merely an inconvenience to him, perhaps even an entertaining one. He seemed to be savoring the situation, like a predator enjoying the initial, frantic struggle of its prey. The air around Tom seemed to thicken with a dark, expectant energy, as if he were waiting to see what the Aurors would try next.
Instead of issuing the expected command to his apprentice or most loyal follower to engage the threat, Tom stepped forward addressing the Aurors before him, “My fellows witches and wizards. I am afraid you have no idea of the mistake you just made.”
None moved now. Two dozen had spread out blocking the exit that would lead them into Diagon Alley. All were clearly unaware of who they faced, because the look of confidence on their faces was unmistakable. Their arrogance led them to believe that their superior numbers would buy them a victory, but none knew that they were in the presence of a nearly fully re-charged Lord Voldemort.
An Auror in the front, a large African man, boomed in a deep voice, “Drop your wands, and put your hands in the air.”
Tom tutted the man, “I see two dozen wizards, and your combined efforts couldn’t even break the haphazard shield my apprentice managed to get up. I am afraid your chances are laughable.”
Before the Auror could speak Tom flicked his wand hissing sharply, “Silence!”
The Auror, his face a mask of shock and confusion, clearly lost the ability to speak, his facial expression nearly frozen in consternation. As Harry observed the others around him, the remaining Aurors, and the few unfortunate goblin bystanders left in the chaos, it seemed they all had. A profound, physical silence had descended upon the nearly decimated group in the marble-floored lobby.
Now, a slow, hesitant motion began. They started to shuffle their feet, to fidget with the cuffs of their robes, their eyes darting between the Dark Lord and the floor. It was in this movement that Harry understood. They could now feel the immense, cold power of the charm that held their silence. It was beginning to settle on those gathered in the lobby, the sheer, terrifying magnitude of power wielded by the man who stood fearlessly before them.
Their initial bravado, the arrogance of Ministry authority, was evaporating like mist. Their confidence, which moments ago had been palpable and aggressive, was fading fast, replaced by a dawning fear. Each second of silence magnified their helplessness, making the gilded lobby feel less like a fortress of law and more like a gilded cage. The air itself seemed to vibrate with a suppressed energy, a silent promise of overwhelming force that none of them possessed the means to counter. They were no longer the powerful; they were simply spectators to a power they could not comprehend.
“You all have ignored the signs, haven't you?” Tom's voice was a low, cutting rumble, laced with an undisguised air of cold disapproval. “My mark—the undeniable sign of my return and my dominion—has been painted across the sky, stretching the entire length of our great nation. It is a spectacle impossible to miss, a beacon of my power.” He paused, letting his gaze sweep over the assembled Aurors and Ministry officials. “Yet, here you stand before me, posturing with wands drawn, as if you genuinely fail to comprehend the gravity of the situation, as if you don't grasp just who it is you have dared to stand up against. I am genuinely uncertain whether this displays an extraordinary level of naivety or simply abject stupidity.”
The effect of his words was immediate and palpable. Across the rigid line of Ministry defenders, expressions began to fracture. Raw, unadulterated fear started to bleed onto the faces of some of the younger, less experienced Aurors, their knuckles white on their wands. Others, particularly those who had been through the last conflict, seemed to visibly deflate, their shoulders sinking as a heavy, sickening realization finally settled upon the. A few, however, seemed to have already reached this bitter conclusion; the lead Auror, the stern man with battle-hardened eyes, was among them, his expression one of utter, weary resignation to an inevitable and terrible fate.
“Let me be perfectly clear, as there seems to be some confusion lingering in this miserable gathering,” Tom continued, his voice now rising, no longer a rumble but a chillingly precise declaration of absolute authority. “I am not merely a Dark wizard. I am not another minor threat for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to handle. I am the architect of your deepest fears. I am the one you have spent a decade praying would never return. I am Lord Voldemort.”
Bellatrix’s high, manic cackle echoed through the chamber, a sound of pure, unadulterated triumph that perfectly complemented the smug satisfaction radiating from Tom beside her. At Tom’s other side, concealed behind the polished, golden mask, Harry allowed a small grin to spread across his face. This moment, this unfolding scene of calculated domination and submission, was intoxicating. It felt utterly and completely triumphant, a culmination of years of scheming and clandestine operations.
The urge to rip the heavy, ornate mask from his face and publicly claim his allegiance to the Dark Lord was a fierce, almost unbearable pull in his chest. He wanted to step forward, and let the world know he was no longer the Boy-Who-Lived, but the Dark Apprentice. He craved the immediate, delicious fear and shock it would cause.
Yet, he forced the impulse down, his control ironclad. He knew the time was not yet upon them. The final pieces were still being moved into place. A small, cold part of Harry's mind also dismissed the need for a formal announcement altogether. Soon, it wouldn't matter who knew what, or when. Soon, the only options left to those before him would be to kneel before the might of the Dark Lord, or who would die. The moment of reckoning was fast approaching, and the thought was a quiet, exhilarating promise of glorious bloodshed and an inevitable new order.
After allowing a long, dramatic moment to pass, Tom spread his arms wide. The gesture was theatrical, almost a parody of welcome, as if he were preparing to embrace those who stood before him, poised between defiance and terror. His eyes, glinting with a cold, triumphant fire, swept over the assembled figures, the mixture of Aurors, the foolishly loyal, and the opportunists who had failed to see the inevitable.
"It would be profoundly unsportsmanlike of me," he began, his voice a smooth, resonant baritone that carried easily through the oppressive quiet, "to simply extinguish all of you here and now." A cruel smile touched the corner of his lips, a fleeting expression that promised more pain than mercy. "I did, after all, extend a similar, unprecedented kindness to my own closest followers—those who had previously proven their mettle, yes, but who had also, in more recent times, chose to ignore the unmistakable signs of my long-foretold return. Many amongst them were blind, deaf, or simply cowardly when they should have been preparing for the dawn of my new reign."
He let his hands drop, the simple movement conveying a sense of ultimate finality, as if a great, heavy door were slamming shut on their past lives. "Now, that leniency—that astonishing, undeserved act of grace—is precisely what I am offering each and every one of you." His gaze intensified, fixing them like an insect under a glass. "One last chance to correct a catastrophic error of judgment. One final opportunity to step onto the path of power and away from the abyss of irrelevance."
Tom leaned forward slightly, the tension in the room reaching a breaking point. The air crackled with unspoken threats and the raw fear radiating from his captives. "The choice, as ever, is delightfully simple, yet utterly profound. What will you do with this singular, precious gift of reprieve? Will you acknowledge the inevitable truth of my dominion and join the rising tide, or will you cling to the soon to be shattered idols of the past and drown in the resulting chaos? Will you Kneel? Or Die?"
Harry’s grip on his wand tightened, and he leaned forward in anticipation. Bellatrix seemed to do the same on Tom’s left, and both were prepared to strike any down that made any move that they didn’t agree with.
Suddenly the ward broke, and the lead Auror shouted, “We will never kneel!”
Harry couldn’t say for sure, but he truly believed two Aurors dropped their wands and ran, but that hardly mattered, because when the lead Auror finished shouting, a red jet of light flew towards the trio of Dark Wizards, but the Dark Lord merely slapped it aside with his wand, and engaged with the large African man.
To the man’s credit he did not immediately fall, but the same could not be said for the wizards to his left and right. Many attempted to assist the lead Auror in his defense, but all were too slow on the uptake as Tom washed several away in a spell of pure dark energy. The lead Auror held his ground however, his shield shimmering violently under the pressure of the curse.
The surge of raw power emanating from Tom was towering. He did not walk; he seemed to glide forward, a figure of malevolent grace. The Dark Lord's attack was a spectacle of systematic offense. He moved with the precision of a master duelist and the brutal force of a dark whirlwind. Spells, potent and silently cast, tore through the air, carving a path through the Ministry Aurors.
Many had fallen right away, and Harry was so in awe of his mentor, he nearly forgot to join in the attack. His shock in watching nearly a dozen witches and wizards fall in a mere matter of seconds was only surpassed by the fact that the lead Auror was still alive, defending himself with everything he had.
As Bellatrix joined the frey the Aurors fell with shocking speed, their defensive efforts utterly negated by the duo's overwhelming power and ruthless collaboration. Each movement was calculated, each curse delivered with an intimate understanding of how to inflict maximum devastation. Tom cut down more arriving wizards with a casual, horrifying ease, their arrival proving to be little more than a momentary delay in his objective of reaching the Alley.
Tom never broke stride as he drove the Aurors out of the bank into the alley, merely turning his head just enough to cast a significant, predatory grin back at his loyal followers, a silent command for them to follow. His eyes, burning with a cold, triumphant fire, daring them to falter.
Harry and Bellatrix took down a trio of arriving Aurors with ease as Tom landed a spell on the lead Auror, causing blood to ooze from every orifice as he dropped his wand, hitting the ground screaming in pain. The remaining goblins, wielding makeshift weapons and driven by desperation, were mown down with contemptuous ease, their frantic attacks deflected by powerful Dark Arts and sheer, ruthless magic. The more seasoned Aurors, though fighting with courage, were simply overwhelmed.
The main lobby, once a grand, echoing hall, had devolved into a sickening chamber of carnage and sheer terror as the trio relentlessly pressed their advance. Harry, Bella, and Tom moved with a lethal, synchronized precision, each wielding a horrifying choice of magic that left no room for survival. The polished marble floor slick in places as they cut down the final, desperate pockets of resistance. With a final, agonizing shriek swallowed by the ensuing magical din, the path to their escape was clear.
Before the towering bronze main doors stood half a dozen of the most determined defenders, their faces a mixture of fear and doomed resolve, wands held high. Harry and Bella were already tensing, wands raising to end the bloody confrontation. But Tom had a different solution. He did not bother with the defenders. Instead, he launched a spell of such raw, focused power that it made Harry jump. It was a vicious, sickly-yellow curse—not just a bolt of light, but a wave of energy—that struck the massive bronze doors directly.
The resulting sound was not a clang or a crash, but a deafening implosion of metal and masonry, a noise that punched the air out of the teens' lungs and made his stomachs drop. The sheer force of the impact was like a localized, magical earthquake.
When the dust and glittering fragments of ancient bronze settled, the six defenders were simply gone, vaporized or utterly flattened by the devastating energy blast. More terrifying than the fate of the guards, however, was the absence of the doors themselves. The immense bronze entrance, which had likely stood as an immutable fixture for hundreds of years, was utterly obliterated, leaving behind a jagged, gaping, and silent maw leading out into the night. The casual, terrifying ease with which Tom had eradicated both obstacle and opposition was a chilling testament to the depth of his power and the utter lack of restraint in his use of it.
Harry and Bella merely followed Tom forward as the fight had seemingly ended with one foul swoop of magic. Tom took a deep breath and smiled widely, “Gringotts has fallen.”
Bellatrix cheered, and raised her wand flicking the dark mark high into the sky. Harry watched as the symbol of his master filled the air, and the feeling of triumph returned. Before Tom could give the order to apparate home however, a flash of fire occurred a few dozen meters ahead, and a new foe had arrived.
An older man. His presence filled the vast space of deserted alley, a beacon of calm in the storm of destruction that lay behind the trio. His long, silver beard and half-moon spectacles were instantly recognizable. With an expression that was both weary and resolute, Albus Dumbledore stood before them.
“Hello Tom.” The old headmaster greeted, “I see you have not curbed the blood lust of Mrs. Lestrange after all these years. Disappointing, but not unexpected.”
Tom moved forward with a small triumphant smile on his face, he offered a bow of sarcastic respect, “Headmaster, if there are any disappointments tonight it is that of the Aurors and the goblin resistance. I brought only my closest two followers and we easily cut down every life that stood in our way. How pathetic.”
Bellatrix cackled with unrestrained glee, a sharp, almost hysterical sound that echoed in the otherwise silent alleyway. Harry however remained perfectly composed, perhaps even 'blissfully still,' concealed completely behind the impervious, polished gold of his mask.
Dumbledore, slowly turned his head. His initial glance was a brief, analytical assessment of Bellatrix, acknowledging her presence and her visceral reaction to the scene. It was a look that contained deep judgment, merely an observation of a known quantity. His gaze then hardened, his brows furrowing in confusion, as he finally settled his eyes on Harry in his golden mask.
“I fear not all of us are cut from the same cloth, Tom,” Dumbledore’s voice was a low, resonant rumble, cutting through the high-pitched echoes of Bellatrix's laughter. His tone was one of profound, weary disappointment, yet it carried an underlying firmness of principle. He spoke to Lord Voldemort, though he did not look at him, addressing the Dark Lord's philosophy and his method of recruitment.
Dumbledore then slowly shifted his focus between Harry and Bellatrix, his deep blue eyes seeming to penetrate the gold and the malice, seeing the dark symmetry between the two individuals flanking Voldemort. “And clearly,” he continued, a faint, almost imperceptible sigh hidden beneath the words, “you have found two others who might just be cut from the same as your own. A very rare and dangerous weave, I must say.”
He paused, allowing the weight of his pronouncement to settle. The potential of the trio was not lost on him. “Formidable, undoubtedly,” Dumbledore conceded, acknowledging their collective power with a grudging respect that only heightened the obvious danger before him. The word hung in the air, heavy with unspoken threats and unquantifiable magical strength. Dumbledore's brow furrowed, a shadow passing over his usually serene face. He finished with a quiet, firm censure that spoke volumes about his moral compass and his deep-seated disapproval. “But I can’t say I approve. Not in the slightest.” The statement served as both a moral verdict on their aims and a declaration of his own steadfast opposition.
“It is not your approval I seek, Dumbledore,” Tom said through the tension of the hall, sharp and devoid of the honeyed charm he once wielded. His lips curled into a cruel, wide grin that did not reach his cold, red eyes. “Merely your death.”
He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his dark robes swirling around his ankles, mirroring the predatory movement of the two figures flanking him. To his left, Bellatrix stretched their line, her wand hand twitched, clearly eager to unleash devastation. To Tom’s right, Harry followed his wand shooting golden sparks in anticipation.
Tom gestured dismissively toward the man in front of him with his free hand. “Which surely you must realize is upon you if you stand against the three of us?” His tone was a masterful blend of arrogance and absolute certainty. He didn't just pose a question; he stated an ineluctable truth, daring the old Headmaster to deny the simple arithmetic of their overwhelming power. The shadows in the hall seemed to deepen, embracing the dark acolytes and their master, ready to claim the most powerful wizard of the age.
“It seems you are right.” Dumbledore said regretfully, “But you must know that this is not over, and I can’t just let you walk out of here.”
“That sounds like a challenge, Dumbledore,” Tom said with glee, “If it's a fight you want…AVADA KEDAVRA!”
A green light soared from the Dark Lord's wand, but before the light could strike the old man, rubble from the destroyed bronze doors leaped in front of the curse causing the rubble to explode outwards. Dumbledore made quick work of the debris, but with ferocity Bellatrix and Harry began launching vicious attacks.
Harry knew using parselmagic in front of Dumbledore would be a dangerous giveaway, a damning piece of evidence that would confirm the old Headmaster's worst suspicions and expose Harry's true allegiance far too soon. He decided instead to follow the lead of Bellatrix, whose movements were a whirlwind of focused, elegant destruction.
After a summer spent immersed in the shadowy tomes of Grimmauld Place, Harry was intimately familiar with the Black family magic—the ancient, potent, and often brutally effective spells that ran through Bellatrix’s blood and now, by careful study, his own. He raised his wand, a polished Holly stick, and cast a shield that shimmered with the distinctive, dark-violet hue of a complex Black ward—a subtle but potent nod to his newest mentor.
Together, the three attacked with a storm of dark magic. Bellatrix was all grace and ferocity, chaining curses together with the speed of a striking viper, her laughter echoing unnervingly through the chaos. Harry decided to fight like a Black, cold and efficient, his movements economical and precise. He focused on flanking maneuvers, and striking vital points with debilitating, lethal hexes.
In the storm however, Dumbledore's wand was a swirling mass of controlled movements. Nothing was wasted, and the man knocked Harry and Bellatrix’s curses aside, as if they were mere mosquitoes bothering him on a summer day. It was Tom that held his focus.
Dumbledore and Tom, the two titans of their age, were locked in a duel of horrifying intensity. When Bella and Harry both stopped to heave for breath they froze in awe as they witnessed the sheer, overwhelming power on display. Bolts of vibrant, destructive light—emerald, crimson, and silver—blasted between them, shaking the very foundations of the ground. The old brick around them warped and crumbled under the pressure of the warring magics. It was a spectacle of absolute, unbridled power; a cataclysmic dance of light and shadow that threatened to consume everything in its path.
Deciding to wait no longer, Harry raised his wand, and Bellatrix was only a second behind him as they both roared out killing curses. Dumbledore’s eyes glanced over his shoulder in the knick of time, his eyes widening, before a loud cry of a bird erupted around the atrium, and in a burst of fire the headmaster disappeared before he could fall.
Tom roared with a sound that tore through the already shattered silence of Diagon Alley, a raw, bestial sound born of absolute, incandescent rage and frustrated power. His wand, held in a white-knuckled grip, became a conduit for that fury, ripping through the air in a horizontal arc of destructive magic. The resulting spell was a violent shockwave, a sheer manifestation of his will, that pulverized two nearby, already structurally compromised buildings—a former apothecary and a derelict robe shop—into clouds of dust and splintered wood. The ground trembled beneath the force of the blast.
Tom now seemed more monster than human as he seethed with an inferno of uncontrollable fury, his very presence an aura of malicious heat. Yet, Harry’s eyes were not fixated on the visible destruction or the source of the terrible silence. They were elsewhere, darting from the skeletal remains of the destroyed street to the deep shadows pooling in the cracks of the cobblestones. It was as if he expected a spectral form of resistance—an entity of magic, or ghost of the men who had opposed them—to suddenly coalesce out of the residual smoke and continue the desperate, impossible fight.
But no such opposition materialized. No flash of protective shields, no counter-curses, no phantom resistance came. A profound, absolute silence, interrupted only by the creak of settling debris and the distant, echoing roar of Tom, settled over the landscape. Diagon Alley, once a bustling, vibrant heart of the magical world, remained utterly deserted, a desolate avenue of ruin. The magnificent, impenetrable halls of Gringotts Wizarding Bank, the bedrock of the magical economy, were not merely damaged; they were utterly destroyed, their marble façades blown inward, their vaunted protections shattered, left hollow and empty, a gruesome monument to the massacre that had just occurred within its vaults and on its steps. The air hung thick with the metallic tang of blood and the sickly-sweet scent of dark magic, a grim testament to the finality of the devastation.
Tonight they had made history.
