The Dark Apprentice Chapter 90 (Patreon)

Chapter 90 (The Master of Death)

When Harry left the familiar, echoing stone halls of Hogwarts, a deep, unsettling furrow was etched across his brow. The weight of his recent conversation with Augustus pressed down on him. There was an appalling gap in his knowledge, an ignorance surrounding his own lineage, a part of the Potters and the Gaunts that had been simply lost to time. The sheer volume of ancestral secrets and forgotten connections was staggering.

He was almost certain that even Tom, the last direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin through the Gaunt line, would be largely unaware of the minute details that Augustus had just shared. Tom’s knowledge, Harry suspected, was focused on power, on the immediate legacy of Slytherin, and the means to immortality, not the nuanced, almost mystical details of a familial tapestry stretching back a millennium to the Peverells. These details were believed to be legends by most, but it seems that the lines between myth and reality were blurred more than Harry would’ve liked. The teen would not risk any of these revelations to get back to his mentor from any other voice except his own.

Harry set himself immediately upon the path to Gaunt Manor. The old estate served not just as a refuge for the young man and the Dark Lord but also as a repository for their secrets and connection. 

Arriving at the front porch, his steps were quick and decisive, knowing he would need to get in front of the truth sooner rather than later. Night had fallen now, and Harry knew his mentor would be resting in the study, likely thumbing through a book written by his ancestors. Taking a deep breath as he arrived at the front door, he thought of what the new Headmaster of Hogwarts had told him.

Augustus, with a formality that belied the seriousness of the situation, had promised Harry a chance to explain the repercussions of their conversation to the Dark Lord personally. This was a courtesy Harry appreciated, a shield against an immediate, volatile knee-jerk reaction. However, Augustus had also promised, with equal firmness, that he would speak to Lord Voldemort on the matter very soon—a promise that acted as a silent, ticking clock.

The implication was clear: Harry's window of opportunity was narrow, perhaps only hours. He needed to make haste. He had to reach his adolescent home, gain an audience with the Dark Lord, and speak openly about the intricacies of their family history—the secrets of the Gaunts and the Potters that intertwined in ways neither had foreseen—and, most pressingly, the true nature and meaning of the fabled Deathly Hallows, a subject that Augustus had given a terrifying new context to. The very foundations of the Dark Lord's ambition and Harry's own destiny were tied to the explanation he was racing to deliver.

.o.

“The Deathly Hallows?” Harry repeated slowly.

Augustus remained silent, leaning back in his chair. He seemed to be waiting for the teenager to reveal some long-held secret that the youth had never before dared to speak aloud, but instead he merely frowned when Harry asked, “Is that some sort of ritual?”

“No.” Augustus said simply, before leaning forward, “You’ve never heard of the Deathly Hallows? What about the Tales of the Beedle and the Bard?”

Harry stared blankly at the former Unspeakable, and blinked a few times, “Are you taking the mickey?”

A deep furrow had appeared on Augustus's brow, a mark of his growing impatience with Harry's lack of knowledge. With a sharp, precise flick of his wand, he directed his wand towards a sprawling bookshelf that dominated the far wall. The air hummed faintly as a specific volume—a thin tome bound in deep, emerald-green leather—began to dislodge itself from its brethren. It floated smoothly, traversing the distance across the opulent study with an uncanny grace, its pages rustling softly as it approached the young wizard.

The book paused directly in front of Harry, hovering at eye level before its cover sprang open on its own accord. It settled on a specific spot, displaying the chapter heading: "Chapter 21: The Tale of the Three Brothers." The implication was clear, a silent command rather than a request.

Harry, his gaze fixed on the floating text, remained utterly impassive. His face, usually so expressive, was a carefully crafted mask of neutrality. He offered no verbal response, no nod of acknowledgment, simply extending a hand to accept the book. The green leather felt cool and smooth beneath his fingertips, the parchment dry and brittle with age. He settled the thin volume into his hands, his eyes immediately dropping to the words that detailed the legendary encounter between Death and three brothers. In the charged silence of the room, only the faint, rhythmic turning of the pages as he began to read broke the tension. He was absorbing the lore, but the true thoughts behind the teenager's silent compliance remained locked within him.

“The legend,” Augustus said, his voice a low, resonant murmur that seemed to fill the silence of the room, “Has been interpreted and re-interpreted over time, much like a well-worn parchment whose original script has faded beneath the scribbles of subsequent generations. Different fables and wildly varying myths have sprung from that ancient age, a period shrouded in the kind of deep mystery that modern history struggles to penetrate. However, what our research, and what the most persistent and verifiable histories have taught us, is that three incredibly gifted wizards existed in an age that pre-dates the founders—in fact, preceding them by roughly half a century.”

He paused, his eyes distant as if reading from an invisible text etched into the air. “Three brothers that belonged to the Peverell family. A name that, even now, carries a certain, undeniable weight in certain circles.”

The way the man spoke—slowly, deliberately, with a rhythm that suggested profound respect and sorrow—made Harry instinctively think the man was preparing to deliver a formal eulogy for long-dead nobles. Despite the unusual gravity, Harry remained motionless, refusing to interrupt him or attempt to rush the long, contemplative pauses that punctuated his narrative.

“Ignotius, Antioch, and Cadmus. The three distinct branches of that original, potent lineage. Each of them left behind clear, albeit sometimes fragmented, traces of their own personal history, and some of those histories were significantly more detailed and consequential than the others. Antioch Peverell’s line, for instance, has long been subject to fierce dispute. Numerous individuals have claimed connection to him over the centuries, but none have ever been able to provide sufficient, irrefutable claim to his name or legacy. This lack of verifiable succession is largely attributed to the unfortunate circumstance of his death occurring at an early age, a sudden end that seemed to cut short a burgeoning destiny. Nevertheless, the legend—the powerful, persistent narrative that refuses to be dismissed—insists that he was, quite simply, the most powerful of the three brothers… and, crucially, that he held in his possession a wand that was rumored to be the most powerful magical focus ever created.”

The lengthy silence that followed this declaration seemed to offer a clear, if unspoken, indication of what Rookwood—and perhaps others close to them—thought of the veracity of that particular myth. Yet, Harry maintained his discipline, saying nothing and patiently allowing the man to collect his thoughts and continue his meticulous recounting.

“Then there was Cadmus Peverell,” Augustus resumed, his voice dropping slightly. “His fate was a tragedy born of profound despair. He took his own life, hanging himself just months following the untimely death of his fiancée. The grief, it is said, was utterly consuming. But the story, as is often the case, doesn’t end there. Rumors that circulated around the village of Godric’s Hollow, particularly in the months following his fiancée’s passing, seemed to strongly indicate that shadowy figures, spectral manifestations—even corporeal apparitions—of the woman had been seen, sometimes frequently, haunting the grounds and the house. It was a dark, unsettling period of local history. And here is something you might find particularly interesting about Cadmus Peverell, Harry: historical documentation suggests that his illegitimate, bastard son—a child born out of wedlock—was a well-known parselmouth, historically noted as the first recorded individual of his kind.”

“Are you suggesting,” Harry asked, the words forced out through a thin veil of shock, as he spoke for the first time since the narrative began, “that Cadmus Peverell was instrumental in helping to birth—to establish the Slytherin line?” Harry’s skepticism was evident in the sharpness of his tone, even as his mind reeled from the implication.

“The rumors and the claims have certainly been embellished and exaggerated over the intervening centuries, as is the way of these things,” Augustus acknowledged smoothly, holding up a placating hand. “But allow me to continue with the established lineage before we prematurely cast doubt upon the fundamental truth within the legend.”

Harry gave a curt nod, conceding the point and allowing the man to return to his account.

Lastly, there was the third brother, Ignotius Peverell. His line proved to be the easiest to track, the most stable and well-documented of the three. It was a noble and respectable, if quiet, lineage that continued for generations, until it ultimately reached its close—or perhaps its significant transformation—when one of his distant, direct grandsons married a witch named Iolanthe Potter. Therefore, it is a known and undeniable fact, recorded in the most reliable wizarding genealogies, that the Potter family is descended directly from this infamous, ancient Peverell line. The rest of the story, as it concerns the artifacts they held and the nature of their power, is still, regrettably, merely legend.”

Augustus and Harry sat in the Headmaster's office, the weighty silence stretching out between them like an unbreachable chasm. The flickering candlelight cast long, dancing shadows, adding a sense of tension to the already somber mood. Finally, Augustus stirred, his gaze fixed on some point beyond Harry's shoulder, as if reading from an invisible script of destiny.

"Though what we know of the legend," Augustus began, his voice a low, thoughtful rumble that finally broke the oppressive stillness, "seems to indicate the path of each Deathly Hallow, doesn't it? The stories, passed down through the centuries, are surprisingly specific, if you choose to believe them."

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the polished wood of his desk. "If legend is true, and we are proceeding under the assumption that it is, then Antioch Peverell was reputed to be the most power-hungry of the three brothers. It is therefore likely that he held the Elder Wand, the undisputed champion of all wands. And when his throat was slit in the night, the Hallow passed on, tragically, violently, and most importantly, beyond family means. It became a prize of conquest, forever outside the immediate Peverell lineage."

Harry nodded slowly, processing the logic, which, despite the fantastical subject matter, was chillingly sound. "And then Cadmus," Harry offered, his voice barely above a whisper, yet firm with conviction. "If legend is to be believed, how else would the village have been rumored to have seen apparitions around his house? Whispers of specters haunting the area, clinging to the shadows near the family home. It must be that he, driven by a desire to see the one he lost, along with his direct descendants, would have ended up with the resurrection stone. A beautiful, terrible tool that grants the unbearable burden of half-life."

Augustus's expression was one of quiet, grim agreement. "Precisely. The desire to cheat death, or at least reverse its finality, manifests as a dangerous magnet for the Stone. A gift that ultimately brought Cadmus to his own despair."

He then settled his focus on the third and final brother. "And then Ignotus. The one who greeted Death as an old friend. If he held a Hallow—a truly unique, powerful artifact—then that could’ve only left him with the cloak of invisibility. The one Hallow designed not to conquer death, but to evade it in a way that respects its power. A cloak, Harry, that the Death Eaters, and most crucially, the Dark Lord himself, knew James Potter to own. A cloak that, in a poetic twist of fate, may have ended up in your possession."

Augustus sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of history and revelation. He softened his voice, looking directly into Harry's eyes. "It may sound ridiculous, Harry," he said softly, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "I assure you, it sounds utterly ridiculous even with most of the pieces right in front of me. But now, here we stand, at the cusp of a war the likes of which the world has not seen since Grindelwald, with one Deathly Hallow—the Elder Wand, now resting in the hands of its latest owner."

He paused, letting his gaze hold Harry's, a profound expectation in his eyes. "And I strongly suspect, Harry, that you have knowledge of at least one other. The legendary cloak, the very one that may have protected your father, and has, in turn, has protected you."

Harry’s eyes shot towards Augustus in realization, and the thoughts that swirled in his mind were now out of control. A sickening feeling began to churn in his stomach as he wondered what someone like Tom might do to acquire all three Hallows, and he knew what had to be done to avoid such a fate.

.o.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Harry pushed open the front door to Gaunt Manor. The wooden door groaned in protest, a sound that echoed the turmoil churning within him. He stepped across the threshold, the familiar rich sense of old magic and generations of dark history enveloping him. 

Harry trained his eyes now to see more than the surface as they swept over the entrance hall, his gaze inexorably drawn upward, catching a soft, flickering glow of candlelight spilling from a door on the second floor—the office where he knew Tom was currently resting, perhaps contemplating the very future Harry was about to irrevocably change. The teen held the knowledge he had gained from Augustus close—a heavy, complicated truth that felt like a physical weight in his stomach.

Swallowing the lump of apprehension and resolute determination that had lodged in his throat, Harry began to ascend the main staircase. Each step was a decision, a commitment to the confrontation that lay ahead. The polished mahogany creaked softly beneath his boots, the only sound in the otherwise silent house, amplifying the tension of the moment. He moved deliberately, putting one foot in front of the other, focusing solely on the destination: Tom's door. He had to tell him everything, about the Hallows, about their shared heritage, everything.

In his right hand, tucked securely within the fold of his left arm, he gripped his father’s Invisibility Cloak. On his wrist, secured in his holster, rested the Elder Wand, an object he had never desired in his life, but felt strangely solemn about surrendering it over. It was said to be unbeatable, and despite knowing that this could not be true, Harry felt a semblance of trepidation in giving it away.

Finally, he reached the landing, his heartbeat a muffled drum against the deep silence. The door to the office stood slightly ajar, a crack of light illuminating the dark hallway. He didn't need to be as magically sensitive as he was to know that Tom was in the next room. Steeling himself, Harry raised a fist and delivered a soft, deferential rap upon the wood.

“Come in, Harry.”

Tom's voice, calm and measured, answered instantly from within the room, a sound that managed to be both welcoming and deeply commanding, instantly stripping away the last vestiges of Harry's hesitation and pulling him into the inevitable reckoning.

When Harry entered the office, Tom’s eyes didn’t even lift up to greet him, instead they rested on a large tome in his hands, “I trust things at Hogwarts went well?”

“As well as we could’ve hoped for.” Harry said, wincing as he heard his own voice crack slightly under the nerves.

Tom, clearly sensing that something was wrong, glanced up to see the tense Harry.  The man frowned for a moment before snapping his book shut, pushing it aside, and then clasping both his hands together on top of the desk, “You are unnerved. Disturbed. What has happened?”

Not knowing what possessed him to do it, Harry moved slowly towards the man’s desk, and took a knee, bowing his head, refusing to meet the man’s eyes as he placed his father’s invisibility cloak on the desk. Without any prompting, he also summoned the Elder Wand from its holster, and held it out with both hands reverently to the man who had practically raised him, “Master, I have discovered something…something about our families…something about this wand and its origins. It is for that reason I surrender both of these artifacts to you, and await your judgement on the matter.”

Tom said nothing for a few long moments, the silence in the study becoming thick and heavy, pressing down on Harry in the way a storm front might. Harry could practically feel the man’s magic coalescing in the air, a palpable force that seemed to vibrate with a potent and carefully contained intensity. It was a raw, focused energy the teen did not recognize, and it sent a small tremor of unease through him, though it was mixed with the trust he had in his mentor.

Before long, Harry realized Tom had moved. The tall, formidable figure had stood from his high-backed chair, the movement silent and fluid, and crossed the rich, dark wood of the floor to stand on Harry's side of the desk, positioning them within immediate arm’s reach. The close proximity was unnerving, yet deeply familiar.

It was then, in one smooth, deliberate motion, that Tom gently took the Elder Wand from Harry’s loosened grasp. The teen barely registered the loss before Tom bent over, his arm sliding beneath Harry’s elbow, the grip firm but not painful. With an unnatural, almost effortless strength, Tom guided the teen to his feet.

"My apprentice does not belong on his knees," Tom stated, his voice a low, resonant rumble that held no room for argument or dissent. "I have told you this before, Harry. Now," he paused, his dark red eyes fixed on Harry’s own, the intensity of his gaze commanding absolute candor, "tell me everything. Leave nothing out."

He gestured with a subtle flick of his hand towards the ornate, velvet-upholstered armchair that sat behind Harry. The chair swiveled instantly and silently, rotating on the spot to face the flickering, comforting glow of the stone fireplace. Harry sat down heavily, the weight of his recent discovery and his conversation with Augustus making him weary. He was profoundly thankful Tom had been patient, demanding nothing until Harry was settled.

Tom moved with the same quiet grace back to his own seat, which now mirrored Harry's position. Together, the dark figures sat in the two massive, ancient chairs, facing one another across the hearth, the only illumination being the warm, dancing light of the fire. The silence of the study returned, but this time it was expectant, encouraging. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Harry began to explain what he had learned from Augustus —the tales of their legendary heritage and, the unsettling, lore of the Deathly Hallows.

When Harry was done speaking Tom just stared at the teen evenly, glancing between the two objects that now rested on his desk and his apprentice, “You’re certain that what we have before us is The Deathly Hallows? The Deathstick, and the Cloak of Invisibility?”

“I can’t speak to the legends master, but Augustus assured me that only one wand has ever even been rumored to contain a Thestral Hair.” Harry said softly, “And I am certain you remember the test we conducted on my father’s Invisibility Cloak, it is unlike any other. Our family does descend from the Peverells; it is too many coincidences to be anything but.”

Tom hummed at this, and reached for the wand on his desk, toying with it between his fingers. The man frowned after a long moment, before placing the wand down, and closing his eyes, as he reached out to touch the cloak. Harry just watched as the man’s eyebrows furrowed across him. Clearly, something making the man’s mind swirl with thoughts.

“I have felt this type of magic before.” Tom whispered softly, “It is unique, and discomforting, ever since I started down the path with my first horcrux.”

Tom leaned back in his chair, and opened the top drawer of his desk, laying out a ring Harry had not seen in years. It was a gold signet ring, with a type of stone Harry never recognized, yet in that moment the hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up.

“Individually I never would’ve sensed it,” Tom said, rising to his feet, “But now that they are together...”

Harry stood as well, his eyes wide, “Impossible.”

“For any other…perhaps, but not us.” Tom muttered, and wandlessly summoned the stone from the Gaunt Family Ring slowly into his palm.

The black stone was turned over in the man’s hand several times, as if Tom were trying to sense a way to command the magic of what he believed to be the Resurrection Stone. The man closed his eyes for a moment, and Harry felt a chilling magic enter the room.

“You’ve grown into a man, Tom.” A female voice said to Harry’s right, causing the teen to flinch and draw his wand in an instant. 

Before Harry could do anything, Tom’s features hardened, and he gestured for Harry to lower his wand, “Hello, mother.”

Harry could feel his jaw drop, as he observed the spectral figure that had arrived in the room with them. The woman’s hair was dark, but dull, she had a plain, pale face, and couldn’t have been more ordinary. It was a stark contrast to the handsome, red-eyed, wizard she had brought into the world.

“You have changed your ways, Tom. For the better.” The woman said softly, “Your son made you stronger.”

“My apprentice.” Tom corrected, his eyes flickering towards Harry.

“Your son in all but blood.” The woman returned, her voice ethereal, “The child of your enemy. The boy prophesied to defeat you. Now stands as your closest ally. Ready to give you weapons beyond either of your comprehension. Our ancestors would be proud.”

Tom frowned at this, and then avoided Harry’s gaze now, “If these artifacts are so powerful, then I should wield them in the war to come.”

“You could.” Merope Gaunt said softly, with a tone that indicated no preference or desire, “Or you could ensure your most faithful is well protected, well equipped, and well prepared to defeat all your enemies. You ran from death, Tom, when you delved into the magic you did. These artifacts will never serve you the way they can serve your apprentice. Heed my words.”

Before Tom could ask another question, the words died on his lips, as Merope Gaunt faded away. Silence filled the room. A tense, unbreakable silence. Tom tossed the stone onto the desk, and all three Deathly Hallows lay together, perhaps for the first time in nearly a thousand years.

“She could’ve been lying.” Harry said simply, unsure where the man’s mind was.

“Perhaps.” Tom said after a long moment, “Though I am unsure if it matters if she was or not. The cloak is of little use to me. I have no need of being truly invisible, and my own magic can make me undetected if I so desire it.”

The two pondered the implications of the Dark Lord's words for a long moment, before Tom spoke again, “The stone, I have no use for it. There are none that I have lost on my journey to power that I would wish to see again. I had not even intended to summon my mother, it is unpredictable magic, magic I would be willing to research, but not use for myself unless we could find a way to weaponise it.”

Then the man’s eyes fell on the wand, and the look on his face held a deep longing Harry had never seen before, “But the wand, if it is truly unbeatable…if it truly is the most powerful wand in creation.”

Tom swooped the wand into his own hand, and stared at it reverently, before frowning, “It resists me.”

The man’s eyes went to his apprentice, before saying softly, “For I am not its master. Nor have I defeated its master, since the wand has been won.”

Frowning, and feeling a surge of apprehension take hold Harry said, “But I surrendered it to you.”

“It must be taken by force.” Tom said simply, before tossing the wand on the desk, “Pick it up, Harry.”

Harry’s eyes widened, and he stared at the wand on the desk, “I’d rather live, and not.”

Scoffing, Tom shook his head, “I will not have to kill you. We have a blood pact, do we not? Regardless, I will have to defeat you in a duel to see if its allegiance will shift to me. This I must know. The other two Hallows can be used in any way you see fit, but this one, Harry, I must know if this wand can turn the tide of a war.”

Taking a deep breath, Harry picked up the wand, and felt its surge of power shoot up his arm. Tom watched his apprentice carefully before saying, “Let’s take this outside, best not to make a mess of things in our home.”

With that proclamation the man apparated away in silence, and Harry felt his stomach rise up into throat. Knowing that ignoring the inevitable would only make the outcome worse, Harry apparated to the front of the grounds, and saw Tom standing across the field, a smirk now stretching across his features, “Now this is familiar.”

Sighing, Harry offered a low bow, “Painfully so.”

Tom offered a slight inclination of his head, a gesture of almost dismissive courtesy that belied the sudden, lethal intent in his eyes. Without another wasted moment, his wand snapped down into his hand, the movement a blur of practiced precision, and raised up with lightning speed. The air itself seemed to crackle as the first curse, a wicked streak of purple light, came barreling towards Harry. Harry barely had time to slap the hex aside with a desperate, shield charm, much less prepare for the devastating salvo that followed. Tom did not offer the grace of single combat; his assault was a torrent of dark magic, a breathtaking display of raw power.

Somehow, however, each curse Tom sent was met and contained. The blocks were frantic, desperate things, fueled by instinct and sheer adrenaline. Harry's wand worked with a frenetic energy, executing complex defensive maneuvers in the blink of an eye. Spells were blocked, their force absorbed and scattered; others were rebutted, the kinetic energy of the impact twisting them into harmless deviations; and in some critical cases, a handful of Tom's most potent curses were even countered, met with swift, cutting hexes that sought to neutralize the attack at its source.

Falling into a combat form honed by years of surviving the impossible, Harry began to slip spells back towards Tom. He didn't have the luxury of time to think, only to react, weaving a chaotic pattern of offensive and defensive magic. But the longer the fight went on, the more destructive the nature of the magic that flowed between the two became. The dueling ground—a clearing in what had been a sturdy courtyard—was rapidly dissolving under the sheer pressure of their conflict. Massive chunks of stone were blasted into dust, deep gouges were carved into the earth, and the very air thrummed with residual magical energy. They may have made a blood pact not to kill the other, a binding piece of magic designed to prevent a lethal outcome, but clearly, such magic was not going to interfere in what felt, to Harry, like a fight for his life. The sheer intent in Tom's attacks suggested a desire to break, cripple, and utterly dominate, even if murder was off the table.

Harry attempted to transfigure the world around him to his advantage, desperately seeking respite in the accelerating chaos. He tried to raise stone shields, animate sections of the ruined ground to entangle Tom, and rely on his vast repertoire of curses—from blinding jinxes to bone-breaking hexes. Yet, his speed, the lightning-fast reflexes that had always been his saving grace, was the only thing that truly kept him on his feet. He was moving constantly, a blur of motion against the static, terrifying focus of his opponent. Despite this, Tom was tearing apart the world with an unnerving, cold efficiency, intent on getting past Harry's defenses. Massive explosions of magical energy detonated around Harry, not merely aimed at him but at the very ground he occupied, strategically cutting off escape routes and denying him a solid footing.

It was the longest duel of Harry’s life. It never seemed to find its end, but what Harry did find was a triumphant smile on Tom’s face. Despite the magic used between the two, Tom looked like he was having the time of his life. It was at that moment that Harry was reminded just who he was facing, and the circumstances behind it. Deciding to prove to the man he was worthy of the title of his apprentice, he felt his spirits rise, and a grin form across his countenance.

With a twist of his wand and a hiss Harry began to slip parselmagic into the duel, but as soon as he did, Tom’s eyes just seemed to alight with amusement, as he returned the favor. Harry felt overwhelmed now as Tom began to delve into magic he had only begun to comprehend.

Soon, Harry was caught flat-footed by a sudden, devastating shift in Tom's attack pattern. A curse, so bright it burned his vision, struck the ground directly in front of him, and the resulting shockwave—a brutal concussive force—violently threw Harry off his feet. He hit the ground hard, the wind knocked from his lungs and a blinding pain shot up his arm. Before his senses even offered a chance to counter, or continue fighting, before he could even process the extent of the damage, the chilling awareness of loss registered: the Elder Wand was ripped from his hands. The air rushed out of him, and through the blurred, pain in his eyes, he watched in defeat as Tom, holding the legendary wand, sent a spell up into the sky. It was a pillar of pure, unrestrained magic that resembled a lightning strike, a blinding bolt of power that pierced the atmosphere and parted the very clouds above in an arrogant, definitive gesture of triumph. The victory was total, absolute, and undeniably Tom's.

When the spell stopped, Harry had found his feet, holding onto his badly damaged arm. When Tom finished his celebration of victory, his eyes were alight, as he marched over to Harry, waving his arm over his arm, and Harry grunted in pain as the bones repaired themselves.

“That was the best duel we have ever had, Harry. I am proud.” Tom said simply, surveying the wand in his hands, “With this wand we will be invincible.”

Harry offered a bow of his head, feeling the loss of the wand deep within his magic. Much to his surprise Tom spoke again, “The wand is not unbeatable, however. As we just demonstrated. Therefore I think it will be better off in your hands.”

Blinking in surprise, Harry’s head shot up, a questioning glance clearly on his face, “Tom? I don’t understand.”

“The wand is powerful, of that there is no doubt.” Tom said simply, “But I am the most powerful sorcerer in the world. Not because of the wand I yield. My own feels just as powerful in my hand as this one does. The power is different, but I trust the partner I have been unbeaten with over the last several decades, vs the one of questionable nature and a power I am uncertain I am willing to trust. Therefore, the only other hand I would trust this wand in, is your own. The hands that have sworn to never harm me.”

Harry felt a surge of hope as Tom opened his arms, with the Elder Wand lazily held in his right hand, “Now you are going to get something I have never offered to any other. A free shot. Though I can promise you if anything other than the disarming charm comes out of your wand Harry Potter, I will make you sorely regret it.”

There was a teasing in Tom’s voice, and a ton of trust, that Harry had rarely ever heard, “Are you certain?”

“Yes.” Tom said, “The wand will still be used to further my cause, and my apprentice can have a fancy new title that I will most definitely use to terrify our enemies. Now take the wand, Harry, before I change my mind.”

Harry nodded, his phoenix feather wand slipping into his hand, and a slow, deliberate, disarming spell hit the hand of his mentor sending the Elder Wand flying through the air, straight into his hands. Power surged through him once again, and Harry could’ve sworn he heard lightning in the distance, but said nothing as he stared at the wand in awe.

“All hail the Master of Death.” Tom said tauntingly, but the look of pride on his face was still there from before, taking the bite out of the tease. 

Harry swallowed heavily, staring at the three objects, before he offered Tom a shake of his head, and a small smile, “You know, the prophecy was right about one thing.”

Tom offered him a bewildered look, but Harry’s smile tightened into something sinister, something that would have undoubtedly made the Dark Lord proud, “I am the ‘Chosen One’, but I wasn’t chosen to save this world, I was chosen to burn it all down.”