The End of All Things: Harry Faces Voldemort The pain was nearly unbearable now, and Harry had the sense to know what it meant. Voldemort had come to Hogwarts. His friends, his loved ones, and complete strangers were risking their lives for this moment.
Either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives.
He had to face him, once and for all. No matter what he'd told Teddy, the Prophecy stated that it would be Harry, in the end. This wouldn't end the way the graveyard had. One of them would get away; one of them would die.
Neither can live. Truer words never spoken. Surely Voldemort didn't think what he'd been doing, in his half of a form, was living. Soul torn to pieces. Pieces Harry and his friends had disposed of. And Harry knew what he'd been doing the last three years wasn't living. Watching his friends and loved ones die one by one. Always in fear of what was around the next corner. Holed up in a house because no one wanted you too far for fear of you being attacked.
No. It ended tonight. Whatever happened, one of them would come out alive. And, if it wasn't him, the Prophecy would be fulfilled and, with any luck at all, someone else would get a chance at killing Voldemort. They'd be successful, too. He just hoped no one else died in the process. It was getting too hard, losing the people he cared about. Even if he had to be the next, he didn't want anyone else to follow.
That was why he was trying to slip away from the war being waged around him. It was horrifying to watch. Despite Teddy's words, Harry couldn't stay away. For one, he'd feel a coward, letting the most powerful wizards alive fall in his place. And, for another, he'd go mad waiting, wondering what was next. But mostly, he needed to see. He needed to know the moment Lord Voldemort entered the scene.
The wait wasn't very long. His side was starting to see casualties, and Harry knew Voldemort would appear when he was at his most vulnerable. A few gasps and screams filled the air, and Harry knew.
Despite everyone's expectations, Harry didn't step out, wand drawn, determined expression on his face. He drew back, stepping further into the Forbidden Forest, slipping into mostly hidden territory. For the most part, he felt awful. As if he were going into hiding; it felt like he was running away like a coward. Sirius wouldn't have run away. His mum and dad wouldn't have run away. Dumbledore, Snape, hell, even those living, the people he surrounded himself with every day: Remus, Tonks, the Weasleys. His friends, they were all out there, fighting, casting every spell he had thought to teach them, and a few he knew they'd picked up themselves. The DA was doing exactly what he'd trained them to do.
And he was hiding in the Forest, as if he were afraid.
It was just the opposite, though. Harry wasn't afraid. Not any longer. Fear had left him, sitting in Severus Snape's hidden dungeons. Worry, yes, and sincere amounts of guilt and sadness. But there was no longer fear. Harry had reached a point of bitter resignation. Sybill Trelawney had made his fate for him, and the silly bint would probably never even know it. 'Neither can live while the other survives'. One of them would not come out of this Forest.
But there'd been more to that Prophecy.
The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not.
If only Harry had fully grasped what that power was. He vaguely understood. He understood that it was, indeed, the friends surrounding him, willing to face this final stand with him. But Voldemort had his Death Eaters. And it wasn't just that his friends were willing while Voldemort had power over his fighters. Harry knew, simply from his few exchanges with the likes of Bellatrix Lestrange, that many of Voldemort's followers would happily die for a chance to work at his side.
So what made Harry so powerful?
He considered it, only briefly, as he stood in an open clearing. He wasn't ducked under bushes or tucked behind a tree. That would have been cowardice. Harry stood, wand at his side, as if fully ready to surrender. Here, away from the others, he had a chance at saving his friends. They'd have to face the Death Eaters, but he wouldn't allow them to face him if they didn't have to.
His wait didn't last long. Voldemort actually had the bollocks to walk through the Forest. Though Harry didn't really doubt Dumbledore (or Hermione) when it was said that apparating was impossible on school grounds, Voldemort seemed the type to figure a way around it all.
But he walked as brazenly as any student, the hissing voice singing out as if calling a child from a game. "Harryyyy," he called, the tone bordering on playful. Maybe he was playing. He was a cat, and Harry was just the sock to be batted around until it was time to rip the poor sock to pieces. "Come out, Harry. You're going to die anyway. Why run?"
"Who's running?" Harry called back defiantly. He could almost hear the voices of his friends scolding his flippancy, but Harry no longer cared. A part of him had been prepared to die from the beginning. He'd faced death more than so many his own age. At eighteen, he was ready to die, so long as he took this monster with him.
Stepping out, he lifted his wand and narrowed his eyes. He noticed with a glimmer of pride that Nagini wasn't slithering along at the creature's side, the way she normally might. Maybe, just maybe, they could still win.
"Oh, Harry," Voldemort replied, his voice condescending. His own, bone thin hands held his wand almost casually. Clearly, Harry was the only one prepared to truly battle. Voldemort honestly believed he was going to walk away. "Your father was just as careless. He really thought standing in my way would stop me from killing you."
Harry forced a quirk of his mouth. "Worked at the time, didn't it?" he shot back.
The cold, cruel laugh echoed so brilliantly through the trees that Harry heard birds scatter overhead. "Not really," Voldemort said with a careless shrug. "Your filthy mother died, too, or have you forgotten? Pleaded to save you. Begged. Not for her own life, but for yours. And this is how you repay her? Hiding in the forest, jumping out at me. As if I'm not going to kill you anyway."
Gritting his jaw, Harry merely stared. He knew what Voldemort was trying to do. He was luring him. Baiting him. The moment Harry let his anger win, he was dead. "Her begging for my life-giving up her own-is what brought us here today. And if it weren't for a sniveling servant, you'd still be a ghost of yourself."
"Hardly a ghost, Harry." Harry fought the urges to wince every time the man said his name. For one who was so against others saying his name... And then Harry had an idea.
"Ghostly enough, Tom," he replied, much in the same manner Dumbledore had addressed him. "No body, not even a soul, just a spirit."
He knew his time was on a countdown when the being--because Harry truly had a difficult time calling the creature in front of him a man--flared and rose, arriving at Harry's side before he even had time to utter a spell. Before he could budge, Voldemort's wand--the wand so close to his own--was at his throat. "I am no muggle," he said, his voice dripping the anger he was clearly feeling. "And you'll not address me as one. You could have joined me, Harry. So much power. And you've such influence over these people. Of course, your little mudblood friends would have to suffer, but we all make sacrifices, do we not?"
Harry didn't reply. There was no way to, not when the pressure of the wand's tip was cutting off his air supply. He'd always thought it would be the avada kedavra to kill him. The idea of it being plain strangulation made him want to chuckle. "Alas," Voldemort continued, his voice filled with mock sympathy, "you chose Dumbledore. Your loyalty wouldn't go unrewarded, were he here, but he isn't, is he, Harry? Your professor, your parents, even your blood-traitor godfather. They're all dead, and it's your fault, isn't it?"
Not caring whether or not he died in the process, Harry yanked himself away, whirling around with his wand drawn. Guilt was flooding him, the emotion gripping deep in his stomach and refusing to let go. It was going to kill him. "No!" he shouted, bitterly. "It's your fault. You took them!"
And yet a snide smile crossed Voldemort's features. He didn't seem to care that a wand was pointed directly in his face. "Because of you. You know that. If they'd just all handed you over from the beginning, none of them would have died. One of you for all of them. Hardly a fair trade, is it? Especially when you're about to die anyway."
Before Harry even had a chance to react, the wand pointed at him was flicked and, the words completely careless, Voldemort murmured, 'Avada Kedavra'. All Harry saw before hitting the ground was a flash of green and the comforting sound of his mother's voice.
***
The first thing Harry noticed was that he felt better than he had in years. Possibly even ever. Nothing hurt. Not the scar on his forehead, not the constant twisting and turning of his stomach. Not the shoulder injury he'd received fourth year, and not the headaches he'd been having for years. He felt great, actually, like he'd never been hurt at all.
It also wasn't cold any longer. Only moments before, it had been November, and he was outside in his autumn robes. Now...well. He wasn't outside. He wasn't entirely sure where he was. It was dark, sort of, and a bit gray. Curious.
He was on his feet, too. That surprised him. He knew, when struck with the Avada Kedavra, that one usually wound up on the ground, spread-eagle and wide-eyed, as Cedric had been. But not him. Not this time. He was up and about and how had that happened?
Moving carefully, testing all of his bones and muscles, Harry found he really was fine. And he was even willing to give a smile to the first face he saw. "Professor!" he exclaimed, a bit stunned. "I...but you're dead."
"So I am, my boy," Professor Dumbledore replied jovially. It was definitely him, though the scars he'd picked up through various battles were gone, and the once disfigured hand that had held the Slytherin Horcrux had returned to normal.
"Does that mean... Well, I'm dead, too, aren't I?" It was a surreal thought. Harry had been preparing himself to die for so long that he hadn't even thought about what it would actually be like when it happened.
Dumbledore, however, studied him carefully. "In a manner of speaking, I suppose."
It sounded like an answer Luna would have given, and Harry stared at him. "What is that supposed to mean?" he questioned, eyeing the man.
His kindly old professor, the man who had shaped Harry's life for the last eighteen years, looked back over at him. Literally shaped his life. From being the first to hear the Prophecy that had marked him as Voldemort's equal to arranging his childhood with the Dursleys, all the way to the year before, hiding away and hunting Horcruxes. It was pitiful, really, how Harry had been puppeted his whole life. It angered him, but he also felt pity. He couldn't imagine having so much of the wizarding world lying in your hands. Not the way Dumbledore had. Saving it was one thing, but having people depend on you for a war or plead with you to be Minister? Much harder. Harry just knew it.
"Oh, it seems to me, Harry, that you're quite well. A body, a mind, and a soul. What an amazing thing, the human soul, don't you think?" Professor Dumbledore's eyes twinkled even in death, a bright smile on his face.
Looking puzzled, Harry only nodded. A soul was what had started all of this. One soul into seven pieces. It also didn't pass his mind that Dumbledore was the only of his professors to address him by his first name, except for Remus. The bond that lay between them fascinated him. It was true that Professor Dumbledore had taken him under his wing in ways no one else had.
But the man had also laid his own claim in Harry's life. "A mind?" he questioned, bitterness tinging his tone. "As in, the ability to think for myself? When was the last time I was able to do that, Professor?"
The older wizard didn't look at all put off by Harry's words. Instead, he seemed sympathetic, his eyes dropping and a hint of a frown pulling at his lips. "I'm so sorry, Harry," he began softly. "It had to be done. All of this--"
"You knew!" Harry interrupted with a shout. At that time, he could no longer even care if he sounded like a child throwing a tantrum. He was angry, he was hurt, and he was dead. And the only other person who had any blame in that, besides Lord Voldemort, was the wizard standing in front of him at that moment. "You knew how this was all going to end and you let it happen! You let me trust you!"
The bright blue eyes of his former professor grew somber as he nodded slowly. "I had no choice, Harry. You have to know that. What would you have done if, at eleven years old, I had told you that this was your destiny?"
Harry paused. He knew the man was right, but that didn't make it easier to hear. "I'd have done it anyway," he replied defiantly.
Dumbledore stepped closer, resting a hand on Harry's shoulder. He felt solid, just as he had before his death. The thought did little to ease Harry's mind. "Would you?" he said softly. "I couldn't tell you. You were so small when you arrived. You'd been hurt so badly, but you stayed strong. I knew, then, that I had to let you grow on your own. You'd done well enough without my interference."
"Without your... You're the one who sent me to the Dursleys," Harry reminded him snidely. "Maybe if he'd had me to look after, Sirius wouldn't have... And Remus already said that... An orphanage, even, anything had to--"
"Shhh," Dumbledore whispered, touching Harry's cheek lightly. "You were safe. You weren't nearly as cared for as I'd have liked, but I always knew you were safe there. And look how far you've come."
Harry stepped back, frustrated. "How far I've... I'm dead!" he reminded his mentor, bitterness dripping in his voice. "He won!"
But Dumbledore only smiled. Instead of unnerving him, as it might have ordinarily, Harry found himself relaxing slightly. "He hasn't won, Harry," Dumbledore said, his tone still low. "How many Horcruxes are left?"
Stammering, Harry replied, "I...none...I don't think...I'm pretty sure...the snake..." As he noticed Dumbledore's slow nod and twinkling eyes, Harry lifted his eyebrows. "So you know, then? You... I mean, do you see things here?"
"Not everything," he admitted. "But plenty. The important moments of your life. You've grown up so much."
Harry gave it a bit of thought before biting his lip. "Do umm... I mean, is it just you here? Or..."
Instantly, Dumbledore seemed to know what he meant. "We're all very proud of you, Harry." At the stunned expression on Harry's face, Dumbledore smiled brighter. "James, Lily... She was especially pleased with how you handled Severus. He's quite proud, as well, though I don't know that even know he'd say so." Harry felt a choking sensation that resembled a sob, but he couldn't possibly cry, not then. "Sirius, too. He thinks you've become what he couldn't be. I think he'd thank you for that."
It was true, what Luna had said. That he'd likely see them all again someday. But-- "So... Do I... I mean, is this it?" Harry asked, waving his hand to gesture to the area around them.
Dumbledore shook his head, gazing somewhat forlornly at Harry. "No, not at all," he told him, shaping his words carefully. "You've a choice, Harry."
A choice. That--didn't seem possible, not after such an end. "What do you mean?" he asked warily.
"I mean," Dumbledore began, as it if were all perfectly obvious, "that you get to choose. You can move on. Go forward, stay here. After the fight you've waged, no one could fault you for that. Or, you can choose to go back."
Harry felt floored. Surely he hadn't heard him correctly. "Go back?" he asked, stunned. "Back to...the living?"
Dumbledore only nodded slowly.
It should have been an easy choice. Back to Ginny. Back to Ron and Hermione. Remus and Tonks, and Harry's own goddaughter, the little girl with the many coloured hair. The Weasleys, Neville, Luna, and his slowly developing friendship with Teddy and tolerance of one Draco Malfoy.
But going back also meant going back to the war. The fight he'd been fighting, or maybe a long period would have passed and he'd be going back to find Voldemort already in power. Going back would mean answering questions, facing the Ministry, attempting to find where he'd fit in in a world where he'd been fighting for so long.
It wasn't so bad where he was. It was comforting, and peaceful. He didn't feel pressure here, nor did he hurt. And Harry was so tired of hurting. "What should I do?" he asked quietly, seeking guidance once again from the man who'd led him for years. For all his anger, Harry knew he couldn't have done any of this alone.
Dumbledore didn't answer quickly, however. He gave it a moment's thought. "You've done more at eighteen than we could have dared hope," he began carefully. "You've come so far, grown up so much. We asked you to become a man far too soon, and you've done so with grace and dignity."
Dignity. Is that what the constant sensation of feeling all of ten years old and being beaten up by Dudley's friends again was? Is that why he repeatedly ran to his friends for help? Was that why he dropped insults whenever and wherever he could?
As if sensing his thoughts, Dumbledore smiled. "You're human. You have faults. We all do." His face clouded slightly, and Harry knew almost at once that he was thinking of the mistakes he'd made in Harry's own upbringing. "But you've such a good heart. So many would have left that fight out there, with their friends there to back them up. You sacrificed yourself. You lured Lord Voldemort away from where he could harm others."
Where he could... "I have to go back," Harry said quickly, his heart suddenly pounding. Pounding with life, Harry knew. His job wasn't yet finished. He intended to end this once and for all, and the Prophecy had been fulfilled. One of them had murdered the other. It was time to finish it. "I... Will I get this again? I mean, if...no, when I do...die?"
"Of course, Harry," Professor Dumbledore told him, and his face lit up at knowing that Harry would, indeed, return to his living form. "Go," he said quietly. "Go and continue to be a man we're all proud to know." As if on instinct, Dumbledore took Harry's shoulders in his hands and squeezed. "So very proud of you."
***
The first thing Harry felt was cold. It was, after all, nearly winter and he was lying face down in the dirt. Then he could smell. The soil beneath his head, the crisp air around him, and a stench he couldn't quite recognise in his only semi-conscious state.
And then, he could feel. Actually feel. It hurt, really, but he noticed almost immediately that his forehead wasn't burning for the first time in years. Not a dull ache, not a throb, and no actual pain. Nothing. The rest of him ached, but not the scar.
Slowly, he opened his eyes, peering through his eyelashes. He had a pretty sincere feeling that if Voldemort was still around, Harry wouldn't live long enough to reach for his wand. The dark wizard stood several feet away, however, at the entrance to the Forbidden Forest, watching the battle continue on, a look of delight on his badly warped features. Harry knew he didn't have long, however. He'd tire of the sight soon, and insist on showing off his prize. A dead Chosen One? How could he turn it down?
As quietly as he could, Harry pulled each leg under him. Gritting back a grunt of pain, he pushed himself to his feet. He found, with a surge of pleasure, that the wizard hadn't touched his wand. A shame, too. For him, at least. Retrieving it from the pocket of his robes, Harry inhaled sharply. It felt warm. Strange, but comforting just the same. The wand was ready to duel, perhaps. "Now," he said, his voice dripping determination, "are you ready to finish this for real this time?" He probably shouldn't have been taunting. He was relatively sure that if Voldemort could manage to kill him again, it'd be over this time. But Dumbledore had given him a bit of courage and strength, and he felt no shame in lifting his chin in quiet bravery.
Voldemort whipped around, his robes snapping with the speed in which he turned to face Harry. "No," he hissed. He looked ready to rush at Harry again, but Harry's wand was drawn proudly this time. His stare was penetrating, his jaw set. This time, he called the shots. "You're supposed to be dead," he continued savagely. "I did it myself!"
A look crossed Harry's face. A look that was, quite honestly, somewhat smug. "You know, that's twice now. Clearly, you're doing something wrong."
The howl of rage that Voldemort released sent chills down Harry's spine, and he knew if they didn't finish this soon, they'd be joined by Aurors and Order members alike. If any of them arrived, Voldemort would use them against Harry. He couldn't have it. "You're weak," Harry declared firmly. "Your powers? Let's face it, not at their best now, are they?"
The creature in front of him was seething, nearly well hissing. "Weak?" he replied with his vile laugh. "I've got powers you know--"
"Oh, I do," Harry interrupted, and his smile turned downright smug. "And I know that they're gone." Merlin he hoped someone had been able to get the damn snake. "Every last one." He hoped he was right about that part, too. "You're just as mortal as I am."
"Impossible!" Voldemort shrieked. He seemed thrown off by the announcement, and it was with that that Harry began to circle. Almost like a creature hunting its prey. Harry was done with this nonsense. Yes, he was still angry. He was hurting and he was bitter. But most of all, he was determined. He was determined no one else was going to die at this man's wand tip.
"Is it?" Harry asked, as Voldemort's eyes followed him warily, suspiciously. "Is it so impossible? Why do you think you couldn't kill me? You, who've killed so many before me? Famous killing curse and all. My mum and dad, the McKinnons, how many others?"
The eyes of the Dark Lord narrowed, and he sneered. Despite the distortion of his features, the expression was most definitely a sneer. "Your 'mummy' and 'daddy'?" he taunted. "I killed them, alright. It's either that or make them beg for mercy. You know how that feels by now, don't you, Harry?" Harry braced himself, knowing what was next. "Crucio!" Voldemort yelled.
But the violent surges of pain didn't follow. Harry felt twinges, reminiscent of what it did feel like to fall under the cruciatus. But not the gut-wrenching, bone-cracking, viciously piercing pains as before.
"Looks like that didn't work, either," Harry taunted, his confidence building. "See? Weak. You've no power over me any longer."
Voldemort looked stunned for a moment, but his reptile-like face soon settled into a smug expression. "You're right, it seems. You're powerful, yes, but dark. That's a dark magic you're wielding, returning from the dead, resisting the Unforgivables. You ought to be on my side, Harry. Imagine what we could do together. There'd have to be sacrifices, of course, but you? You ought to be mine. I'd train you, raise you. You'd not miss your old life for long, you know. I'll let you live. Just come fulfill your destiny."
Harry refused to let him see the cringe cross his face. How was the Dark Lord to know that he'd just struck on Harry's biggest fear? "That's a lie and you know it," Harry replied bitterly. His eyes flashed a green they never had before, and he pulled himself up to his full height. "You heard the Prophecy. The part you needed to hear. Why else would you have chosen me? Neither may live while the other survives?"
Both wands were drawn, now. They were pointing at each other, but Harry was still the one making the circle, Voldemort simply following him. Harry knew he was waiting to strike.
"And it's just you and me out here. Shouldn't have come alone. That, Voldemort?" He noticed the eyes pop when Harry had the nerve to say his name, "That is what separates us. That's what makes me more powerful. My friends will come when I need them. I know to rely on them. You, clearly, don't."
He was ready for it to just be over. "Expelliarmus!" he shouted at the same time that Voldemort yelled, "Avada Kedavra!"
It was going to be the graveyard all over again, Harry fighting for borrowed time. But he was surprised. The dual beams that shot from each wand met, but didn't fight the way they had before. Harry's curse penetrated. Voldemort's wand did, indeed, get pulled from his grip.
Voldemort's spell, however. He'd never seen anything like it in the nearly eight years he'd been doing magic. It crossed with the beam of the spell Harry had cast. And rebounded. Harry knew he'd realised what was about to happen at the same moment as his opponent. In a moment of open-mouthed horror, Voldemort's body flew backwards by his own curse and lay, spread-eagle, on the ground.
Harry watched in silence. The voices were getting louder, and he could hear the footsteps running towards him. But he didn't want to put up with words of praise or congratulations. He walked towards a tree, slumping against it and sliding to the ground. From the distance, he could hear Grawp playing and centaurs gathering. But he simply turned his face from the broken body near him, buried his face in his hands, and finally allowed himself to sob.