Epilogue Part 1 (Patreon)

The Dark Apprentice Chapter 91 (Epilog Part 1)

June 1998

“Back to back!”

Harry cried these words out just in time, the desperation in his voice cutting through the roar of the ongoing battle. As if they were two halves of a single mind, Tom reacted instantly, his wand carving a jagged arc through the air to throw up a massive, shimmering shield that protected Harry’s vulnerable back. Simultaneously, the teen channeled his own magic, mirroring the movement to manifest a translucent barrier to cover their front. They weren’t even a second too soon. The air hummed with lethal energy as dozens of spells—curses of every color and variety—splashed violently against their nearly impenetrable defense, sending ripples of gold light cascading across the clearing.

Harry relaxed slightly as the hum of their combined shields vibrated through his very bones, a steady, rhythmic pulse that signaled their safety amidst the chaos. He slowly rose from his crouched battle position, his muscles screaming from the tension of the last few moments. Behind the translucent shimmer of magic they had woven together, over a hundred spells—a kaleidoscopic nightmare of sickly greens, piercing reds, and blinding whites—shattered harmlessly like glass against a stone wall. The air outside the barrier was thick with the scent of ozone and scorched earth, yet within their small radius, there was a haunting stillness.

“It was a trap,” Harry breathed, his voice barely a whisper yet carrying clearly in the unnatural pocket of silence. He watched as another volley of curses rained down from around the Ministere Des Affaires Magiques De La France, each impact sending a fresh ripple of gold across their defenses.

“Oh, yes,” Tom replied, his tone dripping with a cold, detached disinterest that was far more terrifying than any scream. He didn’t even turn to look at the dozens of wizards that had surrounded them, his posture relaxed as if he were merely taking a stroll through a garden. His red eyes, however, betrayed his true nature, glowing with an intense, predatory magical energy that seemed to drink in the surrounding gloom. “But, they didn’t know that,” he added, a thin, cruel smile playing on his lips. “They were so convinced of their own cleverness that they failed to realize they were merely providing us with the perfect opportunity to demonstrate exactly why they should have bowed down before we arrived.  I am certain we will find some among them that will be more than willing after a few have died.”

Snorting Harry shook his head, watching as his shield began to fracture with crackling magical energy.  Spider-like webs began to formulate across the shield, and Harry sighed, “They never learn.”

When the spell shattered, Harry unleashed a massive physical spell that took the form of a scythe and viciously eviscerated a dozen men.  A green spell came zooming towards him, that he knew was a killing curse, but a piece of rubble leaped into the way courtesy of Tom, and Harry leveled that portion of the room with a blasting spell that killed several others.

A green spiral of fire came forward next from the pale wand in Harry’s hand, and the remainder of his side of the room screamed in agony as they disappeared in spirals of flames.

Tom scoffed behind Harry, “So uncivilized.”

“I didn’t appreciate that killing curse.” Harry said simply, “You would think being Master of Death, and having survived the curse before, these idiots would be less tempted to try it on me.”

From behind Tom the man’s shield was just beginning to shatter.  The men were desperately trying to avenge their fallen comrades, but Tom had kept them back to ensure Harry’s safety.

“Do you think we killed the Minister?” Harry asked, simply.

“There is no we, young one.  It was your spells that took the lives of all those Aurors.  I would’ve exercised much more restraint.” Tom tsked jokingly as he turned his attention to the remaining wizards in the atrium.

It was Harry’s turn to scoff this time, “After what they did to Bella?  There will be nothing left of this place by the time we are done.”

Two years had passed since the British Ministry had fallen, a period defined by the systematic dismantling of the old order and the brutal installation of a new, iron-fist regime. For two years, Harry and Tom had worked in harmony to reform the country, ensuring its absolute obedience through a mixture of legislation and public displays of power. The two had fought many battles together, their bond cemented in the conflict, and they had united the country through blood and strength, leaving no room for dissent or the lingering shadows of the Order of the Phoenix. In that time, they had attempted to expand their influence beyond the British Isles, looking toward the continent to bring in other nations through calculated diplomatic means and overwhelming shows of magical strength.

Germany had been the first major domino to fall, folding rapidly after the duo stormed the supposedly impenetrable fortress of Nurmengard. There, they had confronted and killed Gellert Grindelwald, the once-great conqueror who had languished in his own prison for decades. Of course, Harry, ever the opportunist, had used his unique connection to death and Legilimency to steal every little dirty secret, every forgotten spell, and every ounce of political leverage the old man possessed before ultimately ending his life with cold, surgical precision. With the death of the former conqueror, and Tom's seductive promises of a better world where the magical elite would no longer be treated as the villains of the community, the German magical population bowed. Spain, Italy, Belgium, and many of the other smaller countries that lacked a magical powerhouse ready to stand against Voldemort's invading forces bowed immediately, choosing survival over a futile resistance.

France, however, remained the defiant outlier. The French Ministry bragged on having some of the most powerful witches and wizards in the world, rooted in centuries of aristocratic magical tradition, and they believed their specialized wards and elite guard could hold out against the British tide. Harry and Tom had decided to test this belief personally, their patience finally exhausted after a series of provocative escalations. The situation turned personal when Narcissa Malfoy was seized during a diplomatic mission and taken as a political prisoner, a move intended to leverage the Malfoy family's loyalty. The final catalyst for war was when Sebastien Delacour, the newly appointed French Minister, broadcasted the brutal execution of Bellatrix Lestrange to magical receivers across Europe, a mockery of the Dark Lord's inner circle, before callously sending her remains back to the British Ministry of Magic as a warning. It was a warning that Harry and Tom intended to answer by reducing the Ministere Des Affaires Magiques De La France to ash.

“Oh.” Tom said simply, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “I suppose you are right.”

The man’s eyes seemed to nearly transfigure themselves into slits of molten crimson, the pupils stretching until they were nothing more than razor-thin needles of darkness. He let out a roar of primal rage that was less human and more akin to a Great Serpent’s hiss amplified by a thousandfold. With a violent flick of his wrist, he didn’t just drop his shield; he detonated it. The remaining crystalline shards of his magical barrier were instantly transfigured into a torrent of Fiendfyre that surged forward with sentient hunger.

The living inferno took the shape of a colossal, multi-headed basilisk, its maws snapping shut as it immolated dozens upon dozens of French witches and wizards that had previously stood in his path. Their screams were mercifully short, silenced by the absolute heat that vaporized bone and stone alike. Instead of extinguishing the flames when the path was cleared, Tom merely let the dark fire run its course, commandingly tethering the chaos to his will.

He strided forward with a predator’s grace, the towering walls of cursed flame parting before him like the Red Sea. He created a narrow, marble walkway through the heart of the conflagration, the heat so intense it distorted the air around them, yet he moved without singing a single thread of his dark robes. Harry followed a half-step behind without question, his own wand held low but ready, his eyes fixed on Tom’s back as they marched deeper into the heart of the falling Ministry.

Witches and Wizards rushed out to greet them as they marched under the large dome-like building, but each fell with a violence that Harry had not seen Tom enact since they had fought Dumbledore in the Ministry. The man was clearly furious at losing one of his most capable followers, but Harry knew the man was not a fool. Bellatrix was a liability, and her mind had been disturbed from all the time she had spent in Azkaban. Despite this loss, the Dark Lord had gained many faithful and powerful followers from the continent. His vast army of creatures was already being positioned to begin the subjugation of the African continent, while his newest continental followers were slated to commence their relentless march into Asia the moment the last bastions of Europe crumbled beneath their boots.

The air in the long hallway was stagnant, thick with the scent of the burning floral incense the French Ministry favored, now tainted by the creeping acridity of smoke from the atrium. At the far end, a single, ornate door of solid white oak stood as the final barrier between the invaders and the man who had dared to execute Bellatrix Lestrange. Twelve Aurors, the cream of the French elite, stood in a rigid defensive formation. Their deep purple robes, stiff with enchantments and heavy with gold-embossed medals, caught the flickering orange light from the fires raging behind Harry and Tom. Harry could see the tremor in the hands of the youngest guardsman, his wand tip dancing with nervous energy, even as his eyes remained fixed on the two figures approaching with terrifying, slow-motion grace.

Harry adjusted his grip on his pale wand, feeling the hum of the building’s dying wards beneath him. The structural integrity of the Ministry was failing; the very foundations groaned as Tom’s Fiendfyre continued its gluttonous feast everywhere behind them. Tom, however, seemed entirely unconcerned by the impending collapse. He stopped several yards from the line of Aurors, his dark robes settling around his ankles like a pool of ink. A faint, condescending smile touched his lips—a predator’s expression before the final pounce. He opened his mouth to offer them one last, hollow chance at survival, his voice a smooth, low-frequency rumble that seemed to vibrate in the stones themselves. “Gentlemen, don’t be foolish,” he began, his red eyes tracking the subtle shifts in their stances. “You see the atrium in its ashes. You have felt the power we bring. You know you don’t stand a-”

The lead Auror, a man whose face was a road map of scars earned in the service of the French Ministry, didn’t wait for the ultimatum to finish. With a sharp, guttural cry, he slashed his wand through the air. A jagged bolt of violet energy, a high-level piercing curse intended to shatter shields and bone alike, tore through the space between them. Harry moved to intercept, but Tom was faster.

In a display of casual, terrifying mastery that defied every law of magical theory Harry had ever studied, Tom didn’t raise his wand. Instead, he reached out with his bare left hand, his fingers splaying wide. The violet curse didn’t explode on contact; it compressed, folding in on itself as it hit his palm, the raw energy being physically gripped and subdued by Tom’s sheer magical will. A manic, high-pitched laugh bubbled up from Tom’s throat as he began to transform the spell.  The spell's physical form seemed to bleed away into a dense, swirling vortex of black smoke and crackling obsidian light. With a sibilant hiss that sounded like a thousand vipers striking at once, he hurled the stolen violet energy back toward the line of guards like a common soldier throwing a grenade. The sphere didn’t just hit the lead Auror; it erupted into a localized singularity of dark magic that swallowed the man whole. The hallway echoed with the sound of his soul-shattering screams as the spell he had intended for Tom was returned to him, amplified and twisted by the Dark Lord’s malice.

The fight that followed lasted longer than Harry might’ve expected, but the result was the same. The hallway became a blurred tapestry of violet sparks and dark magic as the remaining French Aurors, the literal cream of their elite, fought with the frantic desperation of men who knew they were already dead. They wove complex defensive webs and launched coordinated volleys of specialized transfiguration curses, trying to utilize the narrowing space of the corridor to their advantage. But with Tom at his side, moving with a predator's terrifying, slow-motion grace, the two cut down the remaining guards as if they were nothing more than practice dummies. Each Auror was as talented as the last, steeped in centuries of aristocratic magical tradition, but they were ultimately no match for the pair that were becoming legendary—and feared—across the entire world.

As they cut down the final Auror, Harry briefly wondered how the march through the streets was going. Above the dome-like Ministry building, the streets of Paris were being claimed by a darker force. They had meticulously coordinated a terrifying procession: a disciplined march of Death Eaters flanked by the lumbering, earth-shaking shadows of giants and a wide array of half-breeds. This monstrous army was currently converging on the Palace de la Magie, closing the circle as the French Ministry burned from within. They were going to send a message to the world, a visceral demonstration of their absolute power, and ensure that whether through blood or strength, every nation would know there was no room for dissent.

With the way finally cleared of purple-robed obstacles, Harry followed Tom forward toward the ornate white oak door. He watched as Tom began to weave intricate, shimmering threads of magic into the air, reinforcing the remaining wards around the Minister's private office. The Dark Lord was not merely securing the room; he was anchoring the space to the physical world, creating a localized void where the laws of magical travel ceased to function. No emergency portkey would activate, and no desperate attempt at apparition would save Minister Delacour now; of that Harry was certain.

When Tom blasted the doors apart with a casual, bone-shaking flick of his wand, the ornate white oak disintegrated into a cloud of splinters and ancient dust. Through the settling debris, Tom offered a mockingly polite, open-handed gesture for Harry to proceed first. The teen sighed at the theatrics, his green eyes scanning the gloom as he stepped forward into the opulence of the Minister’s private sanctuary. A searing flash of green light erupted from behind a heavy mahogany desk—the unmistakable emerald glow of the killing curse. Reacting with the fluid grace honed by two years of conquest, Harry didn’t just dodge; he wordlessly hoisted a plush visitor’s chair into the spell's trajectory. The furniture erupted under the impact, and Harry immediately banished the remnants back toward the source while simultaneously seizing control of the surrounding stone rubble.

With a sharp twist of his wrist, Harry transfigured the jagged debris into razor-sharp, obsidian-like points that hovered inches from the throat of his desperate attacker. The man, trembling and disheveled, gasped as the cold tips pricked his skin. Before the wizard could even think of a second curse, Harry’s magic lashed out to disarm him, sending his wand spinning across the polished marble floor. Standing amidst the ruins of the office, Harry maintained the lethal transfiguration with effortless focus, his expression one of cold indifference as he waited for Tom to step through the threshold and join them.

“Oh, Minister Delacour,” Tom greeted casually as he glided into the room, his dark robes trailing over the splinters of white oak. “I am afraid we haven’t had the pleasure of a formal introduction until now, and I must apologize for our rather rude entrance. It is quite unlike us to be so... unannounced.” He paused, his red eyes drinking in the sight of the broken man cowering before his apprentice. “I am Lord Voldemort, and this is my apprentice, a master in his own right as you can certainly imagine. After all, he did just dismantle your defenses and defeat you in the course of two simple, almost trivial spells. It is quite embarrassing for the leader of the French magical elite, is it not?”

Tom began to pace the perimeter of the room, for a moment before moving towards the shaking Minister, his long fingers trailing over the scorched edges of the mahogany desk. “He has earned quite a few nicknames across the continent during our recent travels— the Shadow of the Dark Lord is my personal favorite, the Reaper of Nurmengard, the master of…” Tom paused for dramatic effect, but then took on a sinister smile,  “well, I am afraid you have me monologuing. I tend to get carried away when I am pleased by such a swift conclusion to a conflict. However, I shall be brief, for time is a luxury you no longer possess. It hardly matters to you what his titles are; soon, you will be dead, and your Ministry will serve as the pyre for the old world.”

“France will never bow down to-”

The man’s defiant voice turned into a coarse scream, as Harry struck him with a bout of the cruciatas curse. The screams were deafening, but Harry felt rage coarse through him, a white-hot tide that demanded recompense for the slight of killing one his mentors. He held the connection steady, his pale wand trembling slightly not from effort, but from the sheer intensity of the malice he was channeling into the broken figure of Minister Delacour. Each agonizing shriek that echoed off the mahogany and marble felt like a tribute to Bellatrix, a hollow yet necessary satisfaction that filled the void left by her execution.

Tom laughed, a cold, melodic sound that lacked any trace of human warmth, cutting through the Minister’s cries like a razor through silk. He watched with an almost paternal pride as his apprentice dismantled the last vestiges of the man’s dignity. “The Cruciatus, Harry? How very... traditional of you,” Tom remarked, his crimson eyes gleaming in the dim light of the dying office. He stepped closer to the writhing Minister, and ended Harry’s spell with a clench of his hand. “I apologize for my apprentice’s behavior, it seems you have struck a nerve by killing one of his teachers.”

The man let out a sob, as Tom touched the man’s face, and slapped him gently before saying, “However,  I suppose even the leader of the French elite deserves to understand the true meaning of the word ‘power’ before he departs this world to join his fallen Aurors”.

“Again, Harry.” Tom commanded.

The teen didn’t hesitate as he struck the Minister again, and Tom delighted in the man’s screams, before stopping Harry’s spell once again, hissing, “You see, Minister, your fate was sealed the moment you killed one of my most faithful followers.  I trust your replacement will be much more…accomadating to our goals.”

Sliding away from the broken man, Tom began to pace the length of the opulent office, his boots crunching over the remains of priceless French history. He turned back toward the Minister, his red eyes glowing with a terrifying, predatory light. “Though, I don’t think you have truly learned your lesson yet, Sebastien,” Tom murmured, his voice as sharp as a glass shard. “You see, pain is a beautiful teacher—it strips away the pretenses of office and the arrogance of blood. But sometimes physical pain isn’t enough to ensure a legacy is properly dismantled. So, let me make a promise that will surely leave you in as much psychological anguish as my young friends' spells ever could.”

Coming closer to the Minister one last time, Tom leaned down, his presence overwhelming the personal space of the man as he whispered in a chilling, sibilant hiss that seemed to echo from the very walls. “I am going to let my apprentice visit your wife, Appoline, and your eldest daughter, Fleur. He is going to teach them a similar lesson to the one he is teaching you now—a visceral reminder of the cost of defiance. But do not worry about the future of your line entirely; your youngest, Gabrielle I hear, shows promise. I believe we will take her under our wing personally. We will teach her to see the world as we do, molding her into a weapon for our new order. By the time my people are done with her, she will be prodigious—a true credit to our cause. And if you are lucky, perhaps France will continue to see the Delacour name in politics, though she will be a creature of my making. You can only pray she will be more amiable to her masters than you were.”

The Minister, his spirit finally shattered by the threat to his children, collapsed into a sobbing heap on the scorched marble. He pleaded for his life and the safety of his family, his voice cracking into a desperate, unintelligible wail for at least thirty seconds. Tom watched with a look of bored detachment before a flash of blinding green light erupted from his wand, the Killing Curse instantly silencing the man's cries and ending the head of the ancient French family line.

“We are done here, Harry.” Tom said after staring at the body of the fallen Minister for a long moment, before turning, and departing out the way they came.

Harry followed without question, and cast powerful, destructive, parselmagic spells into the surrounding area, bringing green flames to assist in the final destruction of the French Ministry of Magic. The sibilant whispers of his spells echoed through the collapsing corridors, the ancient language of serpents weaving through the air as the Ministry's remaining structural enchantments dissolved into nothingness. As the world burned down around them, the air thick with the scent of ozone and ancient stone, Harry and Tom pushed into a small glass elevator.

Tom grumbled as Harry deflected falling rubble around them with a flick of his wand, the shards of marble shattering against a shimmering barrier. "I hate Paris," Tom muttered, his voice cold and filled with a disdain for the city's defiant spirit. He stood with a deadly calm, even as the lift groaned under the weight of the building's slow, agonizing collapse above them.

When the two emerged into the streets of Paris, the scene was one of orchestrated chaos. The procession they had assembled—a terrifying legion of Death Eaters, giants, and half-breeds—were chanting calls for freedom and change, their voices a low roar that drowned out the distant cries of panic from the French people. Citizens had gathered the length of the city blocks, framed by the majestic architecture of the Place de la Magie. Most seemed to watch from a distance, their faces pale with a paralyzing fear, while others cowered in the shadows of doorways. Yet, some were blatantly on the side of the Dark Lord, their cheers rising in a feverish, desperate pitch as they realized the old order had finally been reduced to ash. The circle was closed; France had fallen.

Tom delivered orations of victory and pledged a superior future to the populace of France. Harry maintained his customary position at Tom's side, vigilantly monitoring the assembly to prevent any desperate acts of aggression against them.

Harry observed with unwavering loyalty as the Dark Lord incited the crowd into a state of fervor. Harry was cognizant of Tom's strategic objectives for France and noted that the final significant magical nation of Europe had been secured. This acquisition would soon facilitate formal engagement with the International Confederation of Wizards (ICW), as they would possess sufficient representation to ensure their proposals were heard without dismissal. The subjugation of Europe was nearly complete; although the campaign had exceeded the anticipated duration, total victory was imminent.

That evening Harry and Tom sat in a beautiful lounge, and around them were celebrations of the Dark Lords followers. The atmosphere was thick with the scent of expensive cigars and the joyous roars of Death Eaters who had spent the day dismantling the last bastions of French resistance. The staff serving the group appeared nervous, their hands trembling as they refilled crystal decanters, but Harry had promised the manager he had spoken to that he would keep order, and that they would be compensated for their services. This meant that while the rest of the room was alive with the boisterous celebration of a momentous occasion for the Dark Lord's forces, Harry and Tom shared a table somberly, isolated in a pocket of quiet reflection amidst the chaos of victory.

A glass of amber fire whiskey sat in front of the pair, the light from the overhead chandeliers dancing within the liquid. Tom raised his glass, his red eyes momentarily losing their predatory gleam as he looked toward Harry to offer the toast, “To Bellatrix Black. A young woman who had once had all the potential in the world, who sacrificed herself because she had a vision for the brighter future we will soon bring to the world.” His voice, usually a cold rumble, held a rare note of genuine acknowledgment for the lieutenant whose execution by the French had served as the final catalyst for the day's total destruction.

Harry met this toast, his green eyes reflecting the flickering flames of the lounge's hearth. He felt the weight of the last two years—the fall of the British Ministry, the death of Grindelwald in Nurmengard, and the systematic subjugation of the continent—pressing down on him. Thinking of the woman who had mentored him despite her fractured mind, he tipped his head back and drained the burning liquid in a single, sharp motion. The fire of the whiskey matched the cold resolve in his chest; though Europe was nearly won, the memory of those lost in the transition to their new order remained a bitter aftertaste to their triumph.

“Tomorrow we will return home,” Tom said, his voice dropping into a low, contemplative rumble that cut through the boisterous victory celebrations of his followers. He swirled the remaining amber liquid in his glass. “The conquest of the continent is all but settled, and there are matters in Britain that require our presence.”

“Both of us?” Harry asked curiously, setting his empty glass down with a sharp click against the marble table. He felt the lingering warmth of the alcohol, a sharp contrast to the cold resolve that had settled in his chest from the start of this historic day.

“Oh yes,” Tom replied simply, his crimson eyes momentarily losing their predatory gleam as he looked at his apprentice. “I know your… little friend graduates tomorrow. In another life, perhaps, you too would have been graduating from Hogwarts on this day, walking across that stage to the applause of your peers, but it seems life had other intentions”. He offered a faint, thin smile, acknowledging the path of blood and strength they had walked together.

“It has all been for the best,” Harry said firmly, meeting Tom’s gaze without a shred of hesitation. “I have no regrets. The power I have gained, the secrets I have stolen from the minds of the fallen—it is a far greater education than any curriculum could offer”. He thought of Daphne, who had remained at Hogwarts under the watchful eye of Augustus, the man who had turned the school into a recruitment ground for the new order.

“Soon Daphne will prove to you, and the world, just what I have seen in her from the beginning,” Harry continued, his voice laced with quiet pride. “She is a capable young witch, and she has flourished under Augustus from what I have seen and heard”. He knew she had been training to excel, aiming for every merit to prove her worth to their cause, and he looked forward to her finally standing at his side where she belonged.

“I look forward to that.” Tom said, not willing to argue with his apprentice on such a momentous night, “Tomorrow, you will ensure the Delacours are taken care of, as we promised the late Minister, and then we can return home.”

“Yes, master.” Harry said without question.

Tom looked at his apprentice for a long moment, before offering the teen a smile, “We may have just done something that no other in history has done, my boy.  We have conquered Magical Europe.”

“It is only a stepping stone.” Harry answered simply, raising his glass to the man once again.

“Indeed.” Tom said simply, “But let us enjoy this victory, and soon we will relish in another.”

“To another victory then.” Harry proposed.

“To another victory.” Tom agreed with a click of his glass.

(A/N) Hello everyone!  I just wanted to bring a brief update as I begin to close out this story.  I would say we probably have another 3-5 chapters at most left in this saga.  I want to show different points of the conquest, and a little bit of final development in Harry and Daphne’s relationship.  In the last chapter I will give you all a very lengthy author note about where I think this story succeeded and failed, I would really appreciate any feedback from all of you during that.  This will be a moment I would really like you all to be critical.  The story is nearly done, and I want to know how you all really felt about it, and what you would’ve liked to have seen differently.

When the story is done, on the same day, I will give you all Chapter 3 of A Star is Born.  I have decided to go forward with that project, because it won’t be very long, and begin working on the next long term project in the background as I think it through.  A Star is Born is going to have A LOT of explicit content, that being sexual, violent, and even scenes of alcohol abuse.  It’s going to be a more upbeat story, but it will have its darker moments.  Harry will be paired with multiple women in the beginning, but there is an end goal pairing that I think you all will enjoy.

My betas and I are all leaning towards a Harry X Bellatrix or a Harry X Gabrielle story for the next long term project, but we are not all in agreement about how we should go about it.  If anyone has any fun ideas, please let me know, and I can’t wait to close this project out for good, and move on to bigger and brighter ideas.  Cheers everyone!