"Harry, are you ready for O.W.L.s this year?" Draco asked, his voice low and lazy as the Hogwarts Express rattled gently beneath them.
Harry didn't answer right away. His head was resting on Lysandra's lap, eyes closed as the hills rolled past the window. The soft rise and fall of the train's rhythm might have lulled anyone else to sleep, but Harry was very much awake, simply not in a hurry to speak.
Blaise Zabini, seated opposite, filled the silence. "Harry has already taken O.W.L.s for three classes."
"Woah. Really?" Draco turned his attention from the window, genuinely surprised.
Harry opened one eye. "Astronomy, Herbology, and History of Magic," he said, voice even. "I didn't plan to pursue the N.E.W.T.s in them, so I wanted them out of the way, as soon as possible."
Pansy Parkinson leaned forward, curiosity sparking in her eyes. "Do you know what you want to do already? After Hogwarts?"
It was a fair question, one Harry had mulled over in quiet moments — usually in the library, or on long walks through Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley during holidays. What he wanted to do, he cannot get. So, he had thought of working in the Ministry. He had considered working in research and spellcraft. But he was not sure yet.
"No," he said simply.
"I'm going to be a Death Eater," Draco said without hesitation, puffing up, acting like a peacock like Lysandra says. "Just like my father."
Lysandra chuckled softly. "If any of us is going to be a Death Eater, it'll be me and my Harry."
Her voice was affectionate, but there was possessiveness also. Which Harry didn't mind.
All eyes turned to him. Harry opened both eyes this time, looking up at her.
"You do know who my family is," he said slowly. "I doubt the Dark Lord would trust me enough to Mark me."
"You would be surprised, Harry," she said, brushing a lock of hair off his forehead and cupping his cheek with her delicate fingers. "I heard my mother and father talking about you this summer. They were impressed with your progress." Her cheeks colored slightly. "Maybe mother will even come to meet you."
A faint blush spread across Harry's own face. He let his eyes flutter shut again, not trusting himself to answer.
Daphne made a quip about their matching blushes, something clever and teasing that had the compartment relaxing again, after little bit of teasing, conversation scattering into lighter topics.
_______________________________________________________________________
Harry found that nothing at Hogwarts had changed for him, despite everything that had happened over the summer. But there was a sense that he had crossed some invisible threshold into a new stage of life. School still demanded effort. The halls were still cold in the mornings. The castle still echoed with footsteps and whispers and magic that had soaked into the stone over centuries.
He was quietly grateful for the normalcy.
He worked through his coursework and his advanced studies with a silent determination that made him the top students of the school, in recent history. The library became another home — warmer in many ways than Number 12 Grimmauld Place due to Lysandra's presence. He no longer attended Quidditch matches. That time, he thought, was better spent studying obscure magics or re-reading alchemical theory.
For nearly a month, he managed to avoid anything remotely resembling conflict.
Then came Hermione Granger.
It started in Transfiguration, though it could've happened anywhere. The class had been reviewing wand movement precision, and Harry, speaking offhand to Blaise, had said the word mudblood — not loudly, but not quietly either. It wasn't the first time he had used it. And, as before, it sparked the same reaction.
"You must not say that!" Hermione snapped from the front of the room. Her voice was sharp, righteous — the kind of tone that he didn't like at all. "It's a slur! Isn't your mother a Muggleborn? How would she feel if she heard you say that?"
The classroom stilled.
Knowing what was coming, Professor Rosier didn't even move from his desk. He was watching them over his spectacles, expression unreadable. He said nothing.
The mention of his mother angered Harry, but, he didn't react in the way he once might have. This time he didn't use any Dark Spell.
He rose from his seat and flicked his wand toward Granger in one smooth motion. "Dentio Cresco," he murmured.
Her front teeth began to grow — slowly at first, then rapidly, comically, grotesquely. She gasped, hands flying to her face as majority of the class erupted with mixed laughter.
He stepped closer, staring directly at her. "She is not my mother," he hissed, each word cold and precise.
Professor Rosier finally stood, leisurely, and waved his wand to stop the teeth growing. "Miss Granger, off to the Hospital Wing," he said with no urgency.
Harry already returned to his desk. He didn't got any detention. No loss of points. No reprimand.
Granger fled the room, red-faced and humiliated.
Harry returned to his seat.
By the end of the day, the story had made its way through most of the student body. And Harry noticed a shift — subtle, but real. The quiet faction of Gryffindors who didn't care about the Dark Lord's reign began greeting him in the corridors. Younger students from another faction also now nod when they passed, some even smile. It looked like the size of the other faction was decreasing.
"Thanks for hexing her," Draco said in the Slytherin common room that evening. "I hate Granger. She just never shuts up."
And Harry agreed with Draco.
_______________________________________________________________________
On Samhain that year, in his fifth year, Harry was summoned to the Headmaster's office.
He hadn't even done anything serious, he thought. He kept his steps quiet and measured as he walked the corridors of the castle. Hogwarts was oddly still that evening, a few charmed candles flickering with light in honor of the holiday. Samhain always made him feel strange, as though the air around him was thinner, easier to pass through and harder to breathe. But he said nothing. Just went.
Headmaster Snape was waiting outside the office when Harry arrived, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Without saying anything, he turned and began walking, and Harry followed.
The guardian gargoyle sprang aside without a password. Snape led him up the winding staircase, stopping only to open the heavy door with a flick of his wand.
Inside the office, the usual shelves lined with potions and magical instruments remained untouched, but now there was someone else sitting behind the desk.
"Harry Potter," Bellatrix Lestrange greeted, her voice like a blade wrapped in velvet. Her lips were curled into a smile, her eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "Take a seat."
She gestured toward the chair opposite her. Harry did as she said.
Snape quietly exited the room and the door closed behind him with a soft click. The silence was sudden, thick.
Bellatrix studied him for a moment longer before speaking. "Can you take a guess as to why I want to meet you?"
Harry's voice was even. "Mrs. Lestrange, I can't guess why you want to meet me. But your daughter told me that there was a possibility that you would."
Bellatrix chuckled. "There are two reasons. First, I want to talk to you as the Dark Lord's representative. And then as a mother."
She stood and moved around the desk slowly, her boots tapping softly on the stone. She didn't sit beside him, but stood near, close enough to loom, like a predator assessing a peer.
"Last year, Barty administered the Imperius class," she said. "Usually that session is filled with disappointments. Only a couple of students manage to cast the Imperious Curse successfully in the first class. And rarely can a student cast the Cruciatus Curse. But you… you did all three successfully. The Imperius. The Cruciatus. The Killing Curse. And without any hesitation. Without anyone's guidance."
She grinned, eyes bright with pride. "Imagine my surprise when Barty told me it wasn't one of the older students, but you, a fourth year. You performed better than anyone expected, especially given your family's past."
"I practice spells on my own," Harry said. It was the truth. He hadn't asked for help. He hadn't needed it.
"Yes, I heard that from Lysandra," Bellatrix replied, stepping back behind the desk.
Harry shifted slightly. "And I... exceeded your expectations. Which is," he gave a half-smile, "good, right?"
"Oh, it's very good," she said smoothly. "I've been watching you closely since then. Examining everything about your past, your magical education. And I must say, Harry, it's all quite pleasing. Even The Dark Lord is very pleased."
She paused, watching his reaction. He held her gaze.
"And he wants you to join him," Bellatrix said.
Something shifted in Harry's chest. The words settled into the hollow space there like a stone.
"Does the Dark Lord want me to be a Death Eater?" Harry asked. The idea had been distant, a fantasy perhaps. But now, here it was, real and tangible.
"Yes," she answered simply. Then, before he could say anything else, she raised her wand.
He stiffened, but she said nothing. The tip of her wand glowed faintly as she looked into his eyes.
And then came the pain.
It slammed into him with no warning. From his eyes down to his gums, into the base of his skull, down his spine like a lightning strike. He wanted to move, to scream, to fight, but his limbs were frozen. Trapped.
Images surged.
The cottage.
His father, drunk and distant.
His mother's cold stares.
Sirius handing him a key.
The rats.
His wand.
A rat screaming.
His whole life was being seen.
Lysandra smiling. Her lips kissing his neck.
And then it all vanished.
The pain stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Harry slumped in his chair, panting. He felt like his bones were missing, like he might dissolve into the floor.
"What did you do?" he rasped.
"Legilimency," Bellatrix said calmly. "To see, truly, if you are worthy."
Harry wanted to laugh. Nothing came but a broken sound.
"You are," Bellatrix said.
When he next opened his eyes, the office was quiet again. Bellatrix was sipping from a porcelain cup like nothing had happened.
"Good to see you're awake," she said.
Harry pushed himself up slowly, unsteady. "What the fuck," he muttered. "Is that how all Death Eaters are recruited? Invading their minds like a... like a mind rapist?"
Bellatrix looked amused. "I see the Legilimency left your inhibitions a bit frayed. Lucky for you, I find it charming. For now."
Harry's face drained of color. "Sorry," he squeaked.
"There it snaps back," she said, grinning. "Now, Harry Potter." She set down her cup. "Would you like to be a Death Eater?"
He blinked.
"You already know my answer," he said.
"The Dark Lord may want to see this memory," Bellatrix said. "Say it."
Harry looked at her. His voice was steady.
"Yes."
Her smile deepened.
"Very well. After our talk is finished, you will accompany me... to make it more official. So be prepared for that."
Inside Harry something stirred.
Pride.
He would finally become what he was meant to be.
He would be free.
He would be powerful.
Bellatrix leaned back in the chair now, her demeanor shifting. Her smile remained, but the edge of it dulled. Her voice, when she next spoke, was no longer that of the Dark Lord's representative — it was something more personal, more dangerous in a different way.
"Now, for the second reason," she said. "I want to talk to you as a mother."
Harry tensed slightly. He had known this day would come. Sooner or later.
"I know about you and Lysandra," Bellatrix continued, her tone light but unmistakably watchful. "And I am not blind to how often she talks about you in her letters. There is a possibility that this is maybe more than a passing crush."
She watched him closely. "Do you care for her?"
Harry nodded once, steady. "Yes."
Bellatrix tilted her head, studying him. For a moment she was silent, as if measuring the weight of his answer.
"Good," she said at last. "Because Lysandra is my only daughter. My blood. She is the one thing I have put more of myself into than any cause, any wandwork, even more than I ever gave to my sons."
Harry's eyes flickered, but he said nothing. He understood the meaning behind the words.
"I won't insult you by pretending you're not worthy," she continued. "You've carved your place by your own hand. You've shown promise most adults couldn't muster. And very soon, you'll be one of us. The Dark Lord believes in you — and I trust his judgment."
She set her teacup down softly. "But if you ever hurt her — in any way — I will show you what it means to be hunted."
Harry didn't flinch. "I would never even think about hurting her," he said, his voice calm, deliberate.
Bellatrix watched him for a moment longer. Then she smiled.
She stood up when she felt satisfied, and with a flick of her wand, the Floo behind him roared to life, casting green shadows across the stone walls.
"Good," she said. "Then come. The Dark Lord is waiting. It's time you are welcomed properly."
_______________________________________________________________________
Green fire curled around his boots, cold and wild, and then it spat him out into a dim, ancient chamber. Stone walls loomed high, lit by black iron sconces that burned with eerie, steady flame. The ceiling was lost in shadow. The air smelled of ash, old incense, and something darker—like scorched bone and blood long dried.
Harry staggered only slightly before regaining his balance. A breath. A blink. Then Bellatrix stepped through behind him, soot clinging to her robes. She brushed it off with a casual flick, her expression calm—pleased, even.
"Follow me," she said. "And show the Dark Lord proper respect."
There was no door ahead, only a tall archway carved into the stone. Beyond it, a wide, circular chamber waited, its heart dominated by a black throne.
And on that throne, the Dark Lord sat.
He looked like the stories—worse than them. A figure sculpted from shadow and death. His red eyes shimmered in the gloom, luminous with restrained power. His long black robes whispered against the floor, curling at the edges like smoke alive.
Death Eaters ringed the chamber in a perfect circle. Tall. Silent. Masked. Still as statues. Yet Harry could feel their eyes on him—beneath the silver and bone.
He had never seen a more terrible, and beautiful, sight.
Bellatrix dropped to one knee, bowing her head low. "My Lord."
Harry followed without hesitation, sinking to one knee beside her, his gaze lowered in submission.
Voldemort did not immediately look at him.
"Harry Potter," the Dark Lord said. His voice was quiet—barely more than a breath. And yet it echoed through the chamber like a command etched in stone. "Step forward."
The weight in Harry's chest threatened to crush him, but he obeyed.
He stood and walked slowly. The torches didn't flicker—the flames held as unnaturally still as the Death Eaters. Every step he took sounded like thunder in the silence. His pulse roared behind his ears.
He reached the foot of the throne and stopped, and kneeled with his head down.
Voldemort studied him in silence, eyes narrowed slightly, reptilian and sharp.
"You are very young," he said. "But Barty has spoken highly of you. Bella was ordered to bring you here, if, she confirms it. I have also read the reports about you. And I am impressed."
Harry kept his head bowed, saying nothing.
A beat of silence.
"Tell me," the Dark Lord continued, "do you know what is happening beyond Wizarding Britain? In the other magical nations?"
Harry's voice was steady, measured. "From what I've read and observed… I can only guess, my Lord."
"Then guess," Voldemort said.
Harry took a slow breath. "There's been a lot of unrest lately," he said, voice steady. "In almost every country. Riots, attacks and heightened political tension are becoming norms. Violence is starting to break out more openly. People are scared and divided."
He looked up at the Dark Lord.
"From what I've heard… governments are cracking. Societies are splitting from the inside. Even the places that used to call themselves so called liberals—places that used to pride themselves on tolerance of muggles — they're changing. Anti-Muggle sentiment is rising everywhere."
He paused, choosing his words.
"If I had to guess… it won't be long before you move beyond Britain, my Lord. You'll take the war to the rest of the wizarding world. Like you did here. And this time… there's no one like Albus Dumbledore left to stand against you."
Voldemort said nothing for a moment, only watching him. Then, he spoke softly:
"Tell me, then. Why didn't I begin that war right after I took control of Wizarding Britain?"
Harry didn't flinch. "Because Albus Dumbledore had cast a long shadow over the whole wizarding world, even after he was gone," he said. "He kept telling the world again and again that if you won, you would destroy everything. Burn it all down."
Harry glanced briefly around the chamber, then back at Voldemort.
"But you didn't. You waited. You reshaped this country instead. You gave people a chance to see what your vision looked like."
He exhaled. "I think that was the smartest move, my lord. Because now, they're not just hearing your enemies say what you'll do. They're watching what your vision really is with their own eyes. And many of them who would have opposed you… they now think that Dumbledore was wrong."
Voldemort's expression didn't change, but the silence in the room grew heavier.
"It also gave you time, my lord," Harry added, "to grow your forces and make connections all over the world. I think recruitments have been done in other countries as well. I don't have any experience in warfare, so, I can't tell how long will it take. But you will win the war, my lord"
A long pause. Then Voldemort spoke again, quieter, but no less sharp.
"I see now why Barty vouched for you," he said. "You're not just skilled with a wand… you have the clarity to see beyond what the average wizards and witches can't see. That is rare."
Voldemort said nothing more. He merely raised a pale hand, and a Death Eater stepped forward. The Death Eater bowed once, then flicked his wand toward the side passage.
Two masked people emerged dragging a bound man between them — a middle-aged man, shaking, his clothes were torn and bloodstained. His wrists were raw from rope burns, and his eyes darted around the chamber in blind panic. He had no idea where he was. No idea who these people were.
But he could smell death in the air. And he could feel that whatever was about to happen, he would not leave this place alive.
They forced the man to his knees, pressing his face to the cold stone. His chest heaved. Muffled, animalistic whimpers leaked through the gag in his mouth.
Voldemort's voice sliced through the silence like a dagger.
"For your initiation, Harry Potter… you will make this Muggle die screaming."
Harry had known. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he had known. He had spent enough time with Professors Crouch and Rosier to understand how Death Eaters were truly made. Not by ceremony — but by choice, by the willingness to kill for command.
He stepped forward, slowly, wand in hand.
The Muggle turned his head toward him as if he could sense him, trembling so hard his shoulders shook. His entire body was shaking like a leaf in a storm.
Harry stood a few paces away and looked down.
His heart was pounding. His palms were sweating.
He was far from calm.
His mind reached back to all those late nights in the abandoned classroom. The sharp crack of spells against transfigured rats. The bone-snapping curses he hadd tested on birds. The ones that made them shudder and bleed and scream without voices.
But this… this was different.
This Muggle had a soul.
He raised his wand slowly.
The Muggle whimpered louder, twisting against the unseen bindings.
Harry's voice was low, and little bit steady. "Infractum."
A violet flash burst from his wand. The man jerked violently as the spell struck his back. Bones cracked beneath the skin, the shoulder blade twisting visibly beneath the torn fabric. A scream tore from his throat — high-pitched and real and awful.
Harry took another step closer, watching the Muggle convulse and writhe, scraping his bound hands uselessly against the stone.
"Os Frango."
The man shrieked. His right leg snapped backward at an unnatural angle, and he collapsed sideways, choking on his own breath.
Harry stared and circled around the man now, slowly, wand still raised. His voice was colder now.
"Contremesco."
A cruel spell. It turned fear into pain, and the more terrified the victim, the worse it got.
The effect was immediate.
The Muggle's body spasmed. His scream stuttered and turned into a choked howl, his limbs shivering uncontrollably. His skin flushed red, like the pain was boiling from underneath.
Harry knelt beside him.
He whispered now. "Dolorem Cresco."
A black pulse passed from his wand to the man's chest. At first, nothing. Then the man arched off the ground as if electrocuted. A strangled, continuous scream burst from him — no breath, just noise, a long trail of agony that echoed off the chamber walls.
Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. His eyes rolled back.
Harry stood, watching him.
He could feel his magic thrumming just beneath the skin. It was alive. Hungry.
The Muggle's cries were weaker now. His body convulsed once more, then slumped — not dead, but close.
Harry tilted his head.
And ended it.
"Sanguinem Solve."
The final spell whispered from his wand like a promise. The man's veins ruptured beneath his skin — thin trails of blood running from his eyes, nose, ears. Then he was still.
The silence returned.
Harry slowly lowered his wand. His breathing was steady, though something in his chest ached — from the sheer magnitude of what he had done. Not a rat. Not a bird. A man. A soul. Reduced to twitching meat and blood on the floor because he had been asked to do it.
Because he could. And he liked it.
He turned toward the Dark Lord, standing tall, his wand still in hand.
The Dark Lord studied him.
Then, slowly, he gave a single, approving nod — and the faintest hint of a smile, cold and thin.
He stepped down from his throne, robes trailing like shadows across stone. His presence filled the space between them like a tide rising.
He raised a pale hand, long fingers curling like the talons of a waiting predator.
"Kneel."
Harry dropped to one knee, his gaze fixed on the hem of Voldemort's robes. The moment hung in the stillness, thick with magic and firelight.
Behind him, Bellatrix watched with gleaming eyes, for some strange reasons pride flickering in her eyes.
The circle of Death Eaters had grown closer. They were silent — utterly, reverently silent.
Voldemort's voice cut through the quiet.
"Do you come here by your own free will?"
"I have," Harry answered, his voice low but steady.
"Do you renounce your family, it's past, it's ideals, and all those who would see us broken and weak?"
"I do."
"Do you swear your loyalty to me — your wand, your life, and your death — until the end of your days?"
"I swear," Harry said. Without hesitation.
Voldemort nodded once.
Then he raised his wand — not to Harry, but to the air — and hissed a spell that was not meant for words. Magic thickened, coiled into the chamber like smoke in a tomb. The torches flickered, and shadows stretched long and sharp.
The robed figures watched in perfect stillness.
"Give me your left arm," the Dark Lord said.
Harry raised his left arm, exposing the pale skin above the wrist.
Voldemort did not look into his eyes — his focus was absolute. Two fingers pressed lightly against Harry's forearm, cold as stone. Then he lowered his wand.
"Morsmordre"
Then came pain.
Agony ripped through him — white-hot, blinding. Not like fire on flesh, but something deeper, something elemental. It felt like every nerve in his body was screaming. His vision blurred. His spine arched against the force of it, mouth open in a silent scream that tore free before he could stop it.
His skin burned from the inside out. His veins turned black, slithering under the surface as the Mark carved itself into him — slow, deliberate, precise.
A skull.
A serpent.
And then, finally — it ended.
The magic receded like a wave.
Harry collapsed forward, bracing himself on one hand. His lungs gasped for breath. Sweat ran down his back in rivulets. The pain echoed still, like a phantom just under the skin.
The Mark was there.
Fresh, dark, pulsing with power. Almost alive.
Voldemort looked down at it — then at him.
"Welcome to the ranks of the Death Eaters, Harry Potter," he said. "Your oath is accepted. May your service be long… and fruitful."
He stepped back and raised both arms with effortless authority.
"Rise, Harry Potter."
Harry stood, slowly. The chamber spun, but he stayed steady.
"Thank you, my Lord," he said, voice hoarse but clear.
Voldemort inclined his head, then gestured toward the ring of masked figures.
"From this night onward, you will train regularly with Barty," he said, and turned slightly toward the man with the manic eyes and wolfish grin. "And Evan." A nod toward Rosier, tall and composed, arms folded behind his back.
"Barty will guide you in Duelling and the Advanced Dark Arts. Evan will teach you Battle Transfiguration and Occlumency… and, in time, Legilimency."
Harry bowed his head. "Yes, my Lord."
"During holidays, Bella and Rodolphus will test your progress in Duelling, the Advanced Dark Arts and Battle Transfiguration. And when your mind is ready, Augustus" — he pointed toward the quiet figure at the edge of the ring, eyes like cold glass behind his mask — "will test your Occlumency. And later, train you further. He is gifted in various fields of magics. When your schooling will end, he will guide you in those paths."
Voldemort paused. "You will have to work harder from this point onwards."
Harry nodded "I will give my all, my lord"
The circle slowly broke.
The ceremony was over.
Bellatrix was the first to step forward. Her expression softened — just barely — as she looked at him.
"You did well," she murmured, brushing imaginary soot from his shoulder. "And… as Lysandra's mother, I am pleased that you are one of us."
Harry gave her a small smile, bowing his head slightly. "Thank you, ma'am."
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder.
Rodolphus Lestrange, chuckled deeply. "Well done, Potter. Honestly, I never thought I would see a Potter among us. But fate's got a twisted sense of humor, doesn't it? I suppose your parents' ideals didn't stick."
"Some things are better scraped off," Harry replied with a small smile.
That earned him low chuckles.
One by one, the inner circle approached him, and was introduced to everyone.
And just like that… he was one of them.