Blurred Lines Mods (blurred_mods) wrote in blurred_lines, @ 2009-05-01 02:21:00 |
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DUMBLEMORT DUEL
Voldemort's entrance onto the grounds of Hogwarts was like a dark cloud descending upon stormy waters. He took a delicious satisfaction in watching the pathetic children run as he passed through the gates, swathed in black and pale face shining in the cold moonlight. A hex came at him from someone with more gall than brains, and he flicked it away as easily as he might a fly. Peasants. He was their Lord, and they would all bow upon the ground in His presence before the night was through. And there upon the threshold of Hogwarts, the threshold of the place that rightfully belonged to Him, was the fools' leader himself. Dumbledore. He sneered at the notion that a doddering old man could best Him, but even as he did so the meagrest convulsion swept down his spine, enraging him. He was not weak. He was not afraid. As if to prove this point, he swept his wand out, pointed squarely at one of the women fleeing his approach. Did she think so little of His death eaters that she wore a silly rabbit mask to this battle?
Avada Kedavra.
The flash of green did not meet its mark, and Voldemort's face snapped back ahead of him, blood-red eyes fixed ahead to where Dumbledore's paternal smile had been wiped clean in place of a cool calmness. The headmaster's own wand was out, guiding Tabitha Bagnold gently toward the castle to safety. He made no further move, clearly not finding the Dark Lord's slow march towards his castle worth getting into much of a fuss about. This only infuriated Voldemort more, but he would not increase his pace. He would not hurry. Instead, he turned a glance out towards those battling in his periphery. There he spied the red-headed girl he's seen so often (too often) in Severus's thoughts.
Avada Kedavra.
Again, Dumbledore moved, silently, magically carrying Lily to the safety of his side. He knew that Voldemort gained a petty satisfaction from forcing his hand, but he regretted no action that saved the lives of these brave men and women. Unlike, his opponent, he knew the value of his allies. He knew that apathy and contempt were no match for love. Voldemort was close enough to duel properly now, but Dumbledore did not bow, merely spoke -- words calm and stern -- the professor chiding his wayward student. "You made a mistake in choosing Hogwarts to be your battleground, Tom," and here he shook his head, in pity. "These walls will not allow you passage."
Voldemort's fury erupted in a sharp, high pitched laugh, but there was nothing of humour in his malevolent stare, in the way his lips curved angrily upward in mockery of Dumbledore's gentle demeanour. "These walls will be mine tonight, Dumbledore. And you may give them to me. Or die." His hiss was strangely loud, for all fighting had stopped, all eyes were upon the two men. Dumbledore's brilliant purple robes seemed laughably out of place against the stark greys and intimidating angles of the castle behind him -- against his opponent, red and black and white with malignance. No one laughed.
"Not even then, Tom," Dumbledore replied, with a familiarity that fueled Voldemort's ire. How dare he be spoken down to? Did Dumbledore not know who He was? Did he not know that the Lord Voldemort had powers beyond these insects' imagining? He had cheated death. He was immortal. Narrowing his eyes, Voldemort slashed once with his wand, elation ripping through him as a jet of burning red light flew at the old man. He wanted to see Dumbledore upon the ground. He imagined the sweetness of screams, of his pleas for mercy. And perhaps Lord Voldemort would grant them...
Dumbledore did not make any effort to avoid the curse, but watched with a quiet sort of patience as the space around him shivered, as scarlet surrounded him in a flash of menacing persistence and then bled away, burning the stone at his feet. He redrew the protective rune in the air before him and stepped forward through it, descending the steps onto the grounds. Here, he bowed, acknowledging that the duel had started, on his terms. "There is still time to retreat, Tom," he offered quietly.
His generosity earned him only another laugh, but Voldemort took an instinctive step backward, as though Dumbledore's proximity might taint him. A jet of green, now, flew towards the headmaster, and there were screams from the assembled audience that tantalised him, that filled him with a slurry of joy and poison so entwined he could not tell one from the next. He had no desire to. His only wish was to watch his former Professor crumble by his hand. To fall at his feet.
Dumbledore would not be bested so easily, however, and a conjured shield exploded into flames beneath the spell, so easily discarded that it made the most heinous of magic seem almost childish. He lashed his arm outward, surprisingly spry for such an old man, and from his wand shot forth a ball of golden flame; it reflected across Voldemort's eyes in malicious pinpoints of light before a conjured serpent sprang forward, swallowing it whole.
They moved almost unconsciously in a wide circle about one another, single spells becoming two, three. Dumbledore carved out runes that burst forth a great lion; it fell before the Dark Lord's silver flamed whip. Voldemort's black fire curled angrily across once-green earth, reduced to pitiful wisps by the headmaster's powerful shields. Blasting curses erupted between them in deafening shards of white and red, consumed in their own violence before ever reaching their targets. The castles defences did not sit idly by, either, but hurtled into the circle, sacrificing themselves to rubble to save Dumbledore from the green smears of murder that swept towards him again, again again. High pitched laughter had long since turned into snarls of malice, and eventually rage as one of Dumbledore's spells caught Voldemort across the shoulder, knocking him back and curling red and fast and hard around his arms, around his throat. He struggled briefly for breath and took a step forward as the red twine fell from him, transforming into razorlike daggers that launched themselves at the Professor. A single, almost serene, wave of Dumbledore's wand sent them flying past him, where they tumbled harmlessly into the soft earth.
"I give you one last chance, Tom. Save yourself. It is still possible."
Voldemort's sneering laughter came out clipped, almost a bark of disdain. Save Himself? Did Dumbledore truly believe that He could be killed? "It is you who will need saving, Dumbledore," he growled, a strangely high noise that chilled to the bone. He was growing weary, but he refused to accept defeat. Not when he was so close to that which he desired most: Hogwarts. Another spell deflected, another spell riposted. Voldemort was, despite his strongest efforts, beginning to lose.
Atticus watched, first with the satisfaction of impending victory and then with some concern as his Lord and Master duelled with Dumbledore. His confidence that the Dark Lord's arrival would bring a swift victory began to falter and there was a long moment in which he was too stunned to do anything but stare at the two wizards. And then he raised his wand. He was not some powerless child who came to be nothing more than a spectator at this fight, he reminded himself. He was a member of his Lord's Inner Circle, one of his most devoted servants and they had not come this far only to see defeat. Whether or not the man he had once known as Tom Riddle would appreciate his intervention was a question that would undoubtedly be answered later. It did not change the fact that assistance was clearly warranted.
As Dumbledore was focused on his fight with the Dark Lord, Atticus was hoping for at least some element of surprise as he held his position in the circle of onlookers and cast a silent Saevio Verbera. The bright purple fire was quickly followed by a jet of white lightening and only then did Atticus step forward in the hope that the others would follow his lead and he would not be the only one joining in this fight.
The first of Voldemort's servants had thrown in his lot, and the headmaster's only surprise was that Tom had not protested. Perhaps he realised he was not on the winning side -- though Dumbledore doubted he recognised any such weakness in himself. It was among the Dark Lord's greatest failings, this blindness to his faults, and Albus was certain it would be his downfall; if not tonight then soon enough. Soon enough.
Purple and white glowed harsh across Dumbledore's white face, and it seemed he was not going to shield himself against Atticus -- too focused on combating a vicious snake Voldemort had conjured...
...and then time seemed to stop a moment as the headmaster blurred out of existence. He was gone only a few heartbeats, so that fire and lightning slammed into the ground where he had stood, and then was present again: a smear at first, now whole. Anger flickered at the edges of Dumbledore's lips and when Voldemort's snake lay in glittering fragments at their feet, he turned his wand upon Avery. A thin, purple sliver of light poured from it, hovered, and then burst into thousands of shards that beelined for the death eater.
Abe had felt a certain amount of satisfaction when Albus had finally emerged even as he'd muttered imprecations under his breath for how much damn time it had taken and how typical it was that Albus would wait for the most dramatic moment. He was working his way around the watching crowds, sliding into the shadows at the base of the castle. He wanted a place that would give him a good, clear view of the battle. Not because he particularly wanted to watch but because he didn't trust Voldemort's little lapdogs not to interfere.
He finally found a place then he glanced over at the fight between Albus and Voldemort for a moment before turning his attention to the Death Eaters. Severus was out there somewhere and Abe hoped he would have the good sense to stay out of this. It seemed though that someone else didn't.
Abe watched the Death Eater step forward and cast his spells. In return he didn't bother to attack the Death Eater or even attack Voldemort, all he did was do his best to deflect the spells.
Observing the Dark Lord battle Dumbledore - their greatest enemy - was perhaps the most glorious thing Bellatrix had ever seen. Voldemort was masterful. Voldemort was in control. She would come to the aide of he who plucked her out of such obscurity.
With a wrenching twist of her wand and her free hand clawed like a talon in the air, the ground before Dumbledore was Transfigured into a massive fist that sought to smash him flat (or at least hold him down).
Simultaneously, it seemed, did a long orange jet of light shoot out of Aeneas Nott's wand, the silent suffocation charm aimed straight at Dumbledore. Aeneas, too, would not stand silently on the sidelines while his master struggled, so once Atticus lifted his wand in aid, Aeneas followed suit. No matter what punishment he may endure for his involvement, the Dark Lord's loss to Albus Dumbledore would be much worse.
Walden was not a young man and he'd seen things. This wasn't his first battle and it was safe to assume, barring any sort of disaster, that it would not be his last. He had spoken to his Lord many times, was a trusted member of the Inner Circle, and had dedicated his life to the man that was before him. Despite these things he was nervous, which was a weird feeling.
Kate exited the castle again. She felt almost no pain her arm, which was odd, considering she knew it had to be broken, but there were larger issues at stake here. Somewhere in the grounds she knew Gawain was out there - Out there with him - and Kate was terrified that Gawain was going to be injured, hurt, killed. Nothing but sheer adrenaline and the desperate need to find the man she loved would have pulled her back out into the castle grounds again. As she pulled up, she could see Professor Dumbledore and the - him - fighting and as she watched her eyes widened, distracted from her pursuit of Gawain by the battle in front of her, and she suddenly became aware of Death Eaters joining into the fight.
But that wasn't fair - and no matter how proficient Albus Dumbledore might be, this was not a fair fight. She waved her wand at the Death Eater nearest her before he could move into the fight. "Incarcerous!"
He was so consumed with the two wizards duelling before him but he spotted Kate out of the corner of his eye and he quickly spun on his heel and blocked her ropes. No, he'd already been bound by ropes once that evening and he wasn't about to deal with them again. "Deprimo!"
As he fired off the blast he squinted, recognizing the woman as the sparks illuminated the area. This was the same woman that he had dueled earlier in the night. His eyes shot to her arm, still hanging useless at her side, and he smiled. Now he would get the chance to finish what he'd started.
Kate really hated the blasting curse, and the force of it, although it didn't actually hit her, pushed her back, and reminded her of the useless wand at her side. She was fighting with not her typical wand hand, she suddenly realised. What the bloody hell had she been thinking?
She quickly cast a shield charm, around her, and stepped back to take a different angle at the Death Eater. She wasn't going to take time to be terrified of the fact that a hugely dark wizard was not all that far from her, or that the Death Eater she was fighting - was the same one who had broke her arm? He wore the same mask, and was the same height, and she cursed under her breath, slashing a series of diffindo's towards the Death Eater with her wand.
There was so much going on around him but Walden stayed focused on Kate. He cast a shield but the warmth on his leg was enough to tell him that he hadn't been entirely quick enough. His thigh had two minor gashes and he could feel the blood pooling against the fabric of his trousers. He was frustrated with his hand in this battle. He'd been tied up, attacked by a statue, cut open by a woman, and he'd even been standing at the edge of his Master's battle, too afraid to step in where the others had no fear.
He was frustrated and angry with himself. Walden rolled his shoulders and stared across the space at the girl. He threw his arm froward with as much force as possible and he growled out his next attack. "Avada Kedavra!"
Kate moved flying towards the ground in a way that was almost unnatural considering how badly her arm hurt. She hit the ground on her good side the green light flashing past her overhead. She lifted her head back up, rolled so that her wand could actually point at him and cast an - admittedly rather poorly cast - "Levicorpus"!
He dodged Kate's levitating spell and once he regained his footing he rounded on her once more. He wanted to wear her down, make her weak, and then he would tear the world out from under her. The battle raging behind him was quickly getting out of hand and Walden suddenly felt like his duel with this Auror was not important. If she wouldn't die he would just put her on hold.
"Stupefy!" The spell was cast with his left hand and he was distracted, but he didn't worry about the strength of it. His only concern was that none of his friends were killed and that their Lord succeeded.
Kate moved to duck, but not quickly enough, and she found herself hit by the beam of light from the Death Eaters wand. She fell onto the ground, pain shooting through her arm, and it was at that moment she realised that the spell hadn't been cast at full strength. She closed her eyes - trying not to think about if he decided to hit her with another spell, and tried to concentrate, muttering the counter-curse under her breath. She couldn't precisely hold her breath to see if it would work, but if sh had been able to, she would have.
She began to feel in her extremities again, and then she could move her arms, her legs, and she managed to roll over - her arm even more painful than before. The adrenaline that had pushed her to jump in was seeping away in the aftermath of near death, and she still had not found Gawain.
Kate pushed herself to her feet, waving her wand at the Death Eater, she exclaimed "stupefy!" and then without checking to see if the spell hit, she made her way quickly back towards the castle, hoping to not draw the notice of the powerful two wizards facing off, and praying to all of the Saints she could think of her mother reciting, that Gawain would be safe.
Atticus and Aeneas seemed comfortable enough to charge in and aid their Lord and Master but Walden stood completely frozen with his wand at the ready. On the outside he looked calm and calculating as he watched the four man duel but on the inside he was panicking. He wondered if the others would call him a coward for not stepping forward. He decided that he didn't mind if they did, in the end.
He would hold his position and watch and, if he was absolutely needed, he would act.
Despite the seemingly reckless action of rushing into a battle with the two most powerful wizards alive (and despite his disdain for the man, he was forced to recognise Dumbledore as such) Atticus was not so senseless as to leave himself unprepared for a counter attack. He had hoped that Dumbledore would be distracted enough that not only his attacks would hit but he would not bother with him.
He was clearly not so fortunate.
Still, his shield had been thrown up mere seconds after his curses had left his wand and Dumbledore's attack crashed harmlessly into the forcefield that protected him. At least most of it did. The sheer force of the impact sent Atticus reeling back and his shield faltered, letting the last of the razor-tipped shards of his spell through to pierce his arms and chest. With a wordless shout of both anger and pain, Atticus conjured a phalanx of spears and sent them flying back at Dumbledore before taking a moment to pull the fragments of the older wizard's spell from his body.
Abe had managed to find himself a protected spot. He didn't want to draw too much attention to himself. He trusted Albus' ability to defend himself and he didn't want Albus being distracted with the need to defend his brother. He wasn't going to let the cowardly attacks by the Death Eaters go unanswered however and when he saw the spears shooting towards Albus, he cast an Incendio at the spears, watching them burn harmlessly to ashes. He then pointed his wand at the Death Eater responsible for them and cast Silencio.
Though Dumbledore seemed to take the interference in stride, Voldemort's eyes narrowed at his servants' attacks, flashing red as he turned to regard the uninvited assistance. Though he approved of their willingness to sacrifice themselves for Him, there was a petty, subtle anger that ripped through him, begging to be manifested. He would discipline them later, he told himself again, again. After they aided in Dumbledore's downfall, for he knew, in his heart of hearts (or whatever it was that now existed deep within him), that he could not win this battle alone. In all his arrogance, he still feared the Professor, with or without the assistance of his minions.
Selfish indignance turned quickly to dark pleasure as Bella's spell exploded before them, and Dumbledore was forced to step backwards to avoid the brunt of the impact. Voldemort's jaw dipped and scarlet eyes glowed with malignance beneath Aeneas's attack, which, though easily deflected, provided the perfect opportunity for the Dark Lord's own.
A high and clear laugh chilled the air before Voldemort dragged forth His next spell, arms dripping purple and black with the blood of dark magic. Two of his werewolves, now paper-white, dropped dead behind him, and a slash of his wand upwards drew blood from the very air itself. Soon every breath turned to copper, every smear of blue sky to crimson; even the ground seemed to bleed for one, three, ten heartbeats, and as Dumbledore destroyed the vestiges of Bellatrix's earthen hand, Voldemort cast.
Blood blossomed over the Headmaster's robes, wet and dark and virulent, and it seemed for a moment that Dumbledore could not respond quickly enough; it seemed that his attentions had been pulled too hard towards the others. It seemed he would, in barely the blink of an eye, be caught, thrashing beneath Atticus's spears. It seemed it would be over. But no, Aberforth's incendio saved him that fatal inconvenience, and Dumbledore's wand was now dancing in the air, carving out runes a millennia old, dipping into the earth's life energy to save himself and mend the cursed wounds that burst from his insides out.
"This is old magic," Voldemort shrilled, voice almost giddy, if one could ascribe so benign an adjective to it. "Older than you. Older than even Merlin himself!"
"Love is older than your hatefulness, Tom," Dumbledore replied calmly, and the blood escaping the corner of his mouth dissipated into nothing, healed. "And you will never understand it. You will never conquer it."
His gentleness was met with a howl of fury, and another flash of green escaped Voldemort's wand. Dumbledore did not waver from his position upon the threshold of his castle, and Voldemort wondered if, perhaps, he had finally won --
-- and rage tore through him anew as a flash of orange and red tumbled before the Avada Kedavra, swallowing its sadistic green and bursting into a thousand shards of feather and flame. Dumbledore's phoenix. It was outrageous. It was... it was...
It wasn't fair.
A flick of Dumbledore's wrist tore the ground apart between them, and brilliant ribbons of green and blue flew for his enemy. Surely Tom would pay for his folly. Surely now he would understand what came of arrogance and selfishness. Instead, Voldemort was jerking his wand left, dragging one of his followers into the arena to take the blow for him -- a macabre distortion of the phoenix's sacrifice. He barely knew the face. Gibbon. Someone who would die for Him. That was all that mattered. Blue and green wrapped around the boy and Voldemort threw him carelessly to his other side as the ribbons exploded razor-sharp across him. Discarded. As they would all be if needed.
Augustus, for the longest of time, could do nothing more but watch in a possessing sort of awe at the battle that raged between his his Lord and Dumbledore. Even as those around him began to join in, he couldn't help but be transfixed by the battle between dark and old magics -- fascinating, in the most horrid of understatements.
His awe ended quickly as Ferdinand - his nephew was cast before them as a chosen sacrifice. Augustus' hand tightened around his wand as it raised. Anger tore through him, not at his Lord (for really any of them were prepared to give their lives for Him), but at Dumbledore. Black flames curled through the air, a dangerous sort of dance sent with a sharp flick of his wand towards the wizard.
Bellatrix, her eyes never leaving her Lord and his opponent, was quick to follow Augustus's spell with one of her own. She drew on deep reserves of strength and even as her arms shook with the effort of it, she produced what she hoped would silence this enemy. Deep within the black flames, a dragon shaped smoke-monster, its eyes glittering crimson, snapped and jawed its way toward either Dumbledore to rend and tear his flesh.
Aberforth's silencio connected and Atticus was rendered mute for the moment although it hardly mattered as he too stood transfixed by his master's display of the ancient dark magic. He had seen a great many things in his years of service to the Dark Lord but that- that curse was a thing of wonder. For a moment it seemed as if this was going to be the end of their fight. The world seemed so perfectly still as they hovered at the edge of victory. And then the battle was raging yet again.
Atticus was quite acutely aware of the pain radiating across his chest, the warm, sticky blood - his own - spreading across his robes and the thought occured to him that perhaps it had been a mistake to get involved. Likely so. But there was no turning back now. He was a man who believed in finishing what he started and although his own attacks seemed quite like the pathetic attempts of a third year in comparison to the magic their Lord was calling forth, he cast a quick, silent finite incantatem on himself to restore his ability to speak before a flash of crimson exploded from his wand and several long tendrils of light flew towards Dumbledore intent upon curling around the man and tearing whatever flesh they touched.
Powerful a wizard though Dumbledore was, facing one of the most talented wizards that Britain had seen in a very long time, and several of his protégés, was challenging -- and he could feel the first smear of protest in his old bones as he whipped around, thrusting one palm out towards Rookwood's fire. His hand burned raw as fingers tightened into a fist, extinguishing the flames en route. When he opened them again, black dust sprang forth, caught on the wind, and it circled him once, twice, forming the shape of a phoenix before flying for Rookwood, each beating wing scattering deadly particles into the inner circle.
Voldemort took advantage of the situation, and as Dumbledore fought off the gnashing teeth of inky black dragon and the insidious scarlet tendrils that sought to rip his flesh from his bones, the Dark Lord again summoned forth a murderous streak of green. Dumbledore hurtled backwards, intent on forcing the dragon into the line of fire, but as it burst into ribbons of obsidian that shattered to the ground, he was caught across the throat by one thin, brilliant finger of light.
In an instant, Dumbledore staggered and choked, breath rattling out hard as his throat was sliced open, mere inches away from an untimely end before he tore it away with his bare hands. The flesh of his already seared hand fell away, and Albus reared to his full height, hair billowing white beneath the harsh moon. With a roar of anger, the likes of which had not been heard in decades, he riposted another spell from the inner circle, and lunged, wand slashing the air.
"YOU WILL NEVER HAVE HOGWARTS," he bellowed, and seconds before the headmaster's spell hit, the mighty Lord Voldemort deigned to cringe...
... and a column of white burst into existence, engulfing him; frozen, Voldemort struggled to free himself, anger and fear building within him as his surroundings bleached out of his periphery. He could see nothing. Hear nothing.
Until Dumbledore followed with a blasting curse, and the battlefield was overcome with a deafening scream and the blinding glitter of shattering glass.
Graley had been watching the battle, sticking to the side for the moment. He would come to his Master's defense, but only when he really needed it. He wasn't the kind to stick his neck out uselessly unless he needed to. And right now, from the looks of things, they were handled. Mostly at least until he heard the sound of his Master screaming and he stepped forward, wand outstretched as he cast a Expulso at Dumbledore's feet, followed by Deprimo aimed for his stomach.
There was the briefest, all too fleeting sense of satisfaction as Atticus saw his spell connect with Dumbledore's throat. And then a flash of concern, not for the old man but for himself. However unappreciated his intervention might be by his master - and he was quite aware that retribution was a distinct possibility for merely stepping into the fight - he knew that to deprive the Dark Lord of the privilege of being the one to kill Albus Dumbledore could very well be the last thing he did on this earth. He simply had not even considered the possibility of such success, if it could even be called that.
Frozen in place, it was only the sound of his Master's blood-curdling scream that jarred him back into action. His head swung first towards the source of that terrifying and chilling sound but he could see nothing through the flashes of light reflected off broken glass. Nothing to quell the fear creeping through his mind that perhaps, despite how impossible it seemed, the worst had happened. No, it was unthinkable. But despite the concerns and reservations that had plagued his mind just moments earlier, the situation had clearly changed. Whatever had happened to his Master, one thing was clear. Dumbledore must be stopped. In a move that could only be described as uncharacteristically reckless, Atticus stepped further into the circle and a giant ball of fire burst forth from his wand, followed by another onslaught of the scarlet tendrils. Oh, he was so going to die. He wasn't sure which of the two wizards was going to kill him at this point but he was so dead.
Bellatrix, who had been riding this duel with white knuckles, felt her heart shatter with that glass as Voldemort's danger seemed to grow more and more mortal. He could die. How was that possible? The best of them, the greatest of their ranks ... Gone. She could not live through the death of him (as she thought she could not live without Cygnus's staid, guiding presence), did not want to, wondered if the world would continue to revolve on its axis. Tears, hot and blinding streamed down her face. A trebled cry of pain, high and mournful rose from her throat. Albus Dumbledore, bloody buggering old fool, would not live much past her master!
She would make him pay! The other Inner Circle devotees had sent their spells against Dumbledore and as she watched Atticus's bright ball of fire, she shook her head. This was his element. They needed the exact opposite; earth, where the fire crackled, water where it raged the highest. She had already given Lord Voldemort her earthen hand. Flinging her gaze from side to side, desperate for some inspiration, she shattered the whole near wall of the greenhouse, the glass shards coming alive to speed right behind the fireball, to become molten so that they would burn and cut. "Water!" she cried to her nearest comrade, "follow it up."
Aeneas was never one to take orders from an equal without at least an internal grumble, but on this night his pride was forgotten, an easy sacrifice to make for his master, the Dark Lord to whom he pledged his entire life and his entire soul. Nothing was too much for the Dark Lord to ask and nothing was too much for Aeneas Nott to give. He would not lose tonight, even if Aeneas' own life was forfeit for interfering. He pointed his wand at the lake in the distance, not entirely visible but Aeneas knew instinctively where it was located, and before long the water was vanishing from the lake and congregating at the end of Aeneas' wand. With a scream the water seemingly exploded, litres upon litres of high-pressured water pouring out of his wand and straight at Dumbledore.
Rodolphus had not moved until this moment; he did not wish his master to fall, of course, but he could not conceive of such a thing -- he could not bring himself to doubt, to fear. He also could not bring himself to raise a wand against Dumbledore until the very last moment --
-- and now his Lord was gone, in great smashes of glass and agony and he did not know how to think, how to breathe. He did not know how to survive without the man who had given him purpose for nearly forty years. With a bellow of grief and fury, he flung himself at Dumbledore, wand forgotten, all fists and teeth and rage, wishing to feel the old man's robes and throat beneath his hands, his breath quenched at last. He did not care if he were slain, he was dead already, and if he could just take this meddling bastard with him, if could only end this and make Them feel the pain he suffered now. They had taken his father and nearly his wife and his library, and now they took his life.
The fragment of emotion sifting through Dumbledore (relief, joy, freedom, vindication) was short-lived. From all sides he could feel the magic swelling, and though he was tired, so tired, he lifted his spells again, wand slashing the air so quickly he might have been flailing. But he was not so erratic -- every spell was masterfully created, every defence flawless for one second, two. His shields held against glass and water and even the hulking form of Rodolphus Lestrange, whom he sent flying into the decimated grass; red tendrils bounced around him, and the blasting curses shook him but did not damage. He summoned his strength to rebound them, but he could not throw them hard enough, fast enough, and slowly cracks in his magic began to appear. As quickly as he bound them together again, seams ripped open, runes were torn apart, and blood began to spring across Dumbledore's robes in vivid blossoms of colour, in long ribbons of pain.
His beard burned red a moment before he twisted Atticus's and Bellatrix's spells, two steps taken backward until he had strength enough to launch them back at the two, quickly forgotten as glass rained in on him. It burned across his already bloody throat, his jaw, and then one eye was gone to the ether, and then his shoulder tore away from its socket. He could not heal, there was no time.
With power he had not felt since Grindelwald's day, Dumbledore reached deep within himself for every shred of knowledge he had, for every desire he possessed to end. this, and lanched a brilliant shield. Magic exploded from it at all angles, burning grass, burning flesh, dragging blood from even the stone beasts that protected the castle. In one breathless moment, time stopped, and he shivered (so tired, so tired), and then there was silence. All magic drained, all energy returned to the earth. All noise sucked away to some Other Place.
And in those seconds of silence, a black mist formed above the glassy remains of Lord Voldemort. In those seconds, a body was pieced back together from all that was evil and wrong in the world. Tom Riddle stepped forward into his place before the headmaster, into his place before history.
In one triumphant hiss, he changed things forever.
"Avada Kedavra."
There was a flash of green and Albus Dumbledore sunk to the ground, wand still pressed against an undamaged hand.
Some would claim, upon recollection, that there had been a twinkle in his one remaining eye.