Perdition Mods (perdition_mods) wrote in perdition_rpg, @ 2009-05-01 22:31:00 |
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Kingsley Shacklebolt vs Voldemort It was like a dance, fighting with Voldemort. A dance with three partners, a dance in which every movement had to be precise or someone would die. A dance with red and green and blue sparks flying, yellow and orange and red lights bouncing of shields and flying across the room. It was like a ballroom dance, though Kingsley had never learned ballroom dancing, and the dance was being watched, just waiting for one of the dancers to take a wrong step. He weaved around Slughorn and ducked under Minerva, slashing and fighting the whole way. They had a rhythm almost, a rhythm drenched in sweat and blood. Slughorn cast a Stunner and McGonagall a Blasting Curse and Voldemort blocked it with his own spell, a purple bolt, which bounced off the shield Kingsley was ready with. Green flew past his ear and he threw yellow, purple bounced off a shield and was parried with red. The duellers whirled and dodged, close hits and near misses at every turn, and Kingsely's only focus was the three people around him, aware of their every movement. A blasting curse just hit his shoulder but there was no pain - no time for pain - and Kingsley only pointed his wand straight back. Oppugno - a bear came out of his wand, but just as it reached the Dark Lord it disappeared into a flash of pink. Blue streams of light, crackling and popping, came from Voldemort's wand but two cries of Finite Incantatem cleared the air. Killing curses came from both sides, hitting each other with a bang and bouncing toward the ceiling. They weren't losing, but they weren't winning either. More Killing Curses flew, more green and red and purple and yellow; the duellers turned more, stepped more, ducked more, and Kingsley wondered if it would ever end. He felt no exhaustion, no pain, nothing, and he knew he would feel this way until one of them died, until -- "You - will - never - touch - our - children - again!" It was the first sound he heard in ages, but they all rushed in after that - the laughter that could only belong to Bellatrix Lestrange, the horrible horrible moments of silence, then the scream, and an explosion shook through him, throwing him backward into a wall, pain like a hot knife cutting through his legs and chest. He heard a crunch and things grew fuzzy a moment, but when his vision cleared he forgot the pain in his limbs and his now-broken rib and that his arm might be out of the socket because there was only one thing that mattered now, and that thing was standing right in front of him. Harry Potter. This was it. This was the moment Harry stopped simply being The Boy Who Lived, but The Boy Who Conquered Voldemort or, if the situation didn't go quite the way he intended, The Boy Who Died...Twice. Time had seemed to slow to a crawl. The clamour of the crowd as they reacted to the death of Bellatrix Lestrange seemed distorted as it crept towards his eardrums, which would have sounded almost comical to him had it not been for the murder on Voldemort's face. Just minutes earlier, he had agonised over the urge to protect Mrs. Weasley or to finally attack Voldemort and now those urges were one and the same. "Protego!" he bellowed, the spell coming out in a roar as he sounded every bit the Gryffindor lion he truly was. His Shield Charm rose in the middle of the Great Hall, halting Voldemort's advance. He watched as those red eyes flicked from face to face, surely searching for the person who had the audacity to impede his path. No longer a spectator, it seemed pointless for him to remain unseen and Harry threw off his Invisibility Cloak, bracing himself for what was to come next. The crowd reacted again, but Harry didn't really pay it much mind. Now faced with Voldemort, the shouts were simply a background noise and one that faded into a fearful silence as the two nemeses began to slowly circle one another. Harry was still hyper-aware of The Moment. Seven years. Seven years of watching his loved ones suffer at his side had led up to this. Seven years of his own suffering. He hoped that this moment would end it all. He had already sacrificed his own life. He had nothing left to give, nothing else he was willing to sacrifice. "I don't want anyone else to try to help," Harry said finally, his loud voice ringing in the still silence of the Great Hall. "It's got to be like this. It's got to be me." Voldemort let out a low hissing sound, mouth twisting with distaste. He'd seen the way Harry had used his friends in the past and didn't believe that he had any regard for them. As much as he'd have liked to kill all of them, his focus was Potter. He wanted that whelp dead once and for all, just like his stupid father and Mudblood mother and anyone else who dared defy him. "Potter doesn't mean that," he said, keeping his eyes pinned on Harry, growing redder with hatred with each moment that passed. "That isn't how he works, is it? Who are you going to use as a shield today, Potter?" "Nobody," replied Harry, not even bothering to dignify that question with a further response. It was Voldemort who truly needed a shield, after all, because Harry was the one with the upper hand, the knowledge that would be the so-called Dark Lord's downfall. "There are no more Horcruxes," he said, smugness creeping into his tone. "It's just you and me. Neither can live while the other survives, and one of us is about to leave for good..." He trailed off, but the look on his face indicated that he knew that it wasn't going to be him leaving for good. "One of us?" Voldemort jeered, seeming to grow taller with his building anticipation. His eyes glowed red as he tightened his grip on the wand in his hand -- the wand that would kill The Chosen One. He was ready to strike, simply waiting for the right moment when he would finally taste the victory he'd spent decades working toward. How foolish for Potter to think that he could ever defeat Him. There wasn't a chance.. "You think it will be you, do you, the boy who has survived by accident, and because Dumbledore was pulling the strings?" Harry would directly never say so aloud, but it annoyed him to have his own hard work and sacrifice diminished by the word 'accident'. And not only his sacrifice, but the much keenly felt sacrifice of his mother. He'd seen so much of her that night, burning brightly in Snape's memories and encouraging him as he'd marched towards his death in the forest. "Accident, was it, when my mother died to save me?" he asked, his voice bristling with annoyance and his stare hard as he kept his attention firmly on Voldemort as they circled one another still. "Accident, when I decided to fight in that graveyard? Accident, that I didn't defend myself tonight, and still survived, and returned to fight again?" " Accidents!" Voldemort screamed, holding himself back from killing the boy right then and there. The hall had been silent before, but it seemed to grow tangibly so now, as the Dark Lord began circling his prey, heavy black robes dragging on the stone underfoot, darkened with each step he took. Even the crowds' breaths could not be heard, perhaps because he was so intent on the situation at hand. It was as though there were only two of them in the room -- if Voldemort had His way, soon, there would only be one. "Accident and chance and the fact that you crouched and snivelled behind the skirts of greater men and women, and permitted me to kill them for you!" "You won't be killing anyone else tonight," Harry countered with calm certainty. Despite the annoyance still perched in his chest, he was certain enough of that fact. "You won't be able to kill any of them ever again." He paused in his speech, his legs still carrying him in that perfect circle with Voldemort. When he spoke again, there was a patronising note to his voice, as if he were speaking to a child instead of a ruthless murderer. "Don't you get it? I was ready to die to stop you from hurting these people --" "But you did not!" Voldemort interrupted, seething with hatred. If Potter had simply died when he'd killed him the first time, he'd already have his victory. He wasn't sure how he'd managed it or who had helped him -- well, Narcissa Malfoy had. He scanned a bit of the crowd to see if she was within his sights. He'd kill her as well for lying to him. But first, the boy. "-- I meant to," Harry finished impatiently, "and that's what did it. I've done what my mother did." How could Voldemort not realise what had happened to him again? That Harry's death or, rather, Harry's sacrifice had extended the same protection to every single person who stood at his side that his mother's had afforded him. "They're protected from you. Haven't you noticed how none of the spells you put on them are binding? You can't torture them. You can't touch them. You don't learn from your mistakes, Riddle, do you?" Voldemort's eyes flickered even redder than they had been when he heard Harry call Him by that name. No one showed him that sort of disrespect and lived. Even Dumbledore, the supposed greatest wizard since Merlin himself, had fallen in his name. And now, he possessed the Elder Wand and nothing was going to stop him. Even if he couldn't hurt the others now, it made little difference. He was going to kill Potter and then he could kill whomever else he wanted. When he spoke again, it was in a snake-like hiss. "You dare --" It brought Harry great pleasure to see Voldemort's reaction to his birth name and there was a smirk on his lips as he didn't hesitate to cheekily interrupt Voldemort. "Yes, I dare," he said. "I know things you don't know, Tom Riddle." He said the name again with relish, lingering over each syllable as he drawled the Dark Lord's name before launching back into his point. "I know lots of important things that you don't. Want to hear some, before you make another big mistake?" His eyebrows lifted with his question. Voldemort nearly struck when Harry uttered His given name, but his curiosity held him back. What if Harry knew something that he didn't know, he wanted to be sure that he had the information before he killed him. "Is it love again?" Voldemort said with a sneer to hide the doubt he was beginning to feel. "Dumbledore's favorite solution, love, which he claimed conquered death, though love did not stop him falling from the tower and breaking like and old waxwork? Love, which did not prevent me stamping out your Mudblood mother like a cockroach, Potter - and nobody seems to love you enough to run forward this time and take my curse. So what will stop you dying now when I strike?" Harry didn't speak immediately and instead let the knowledge that there was something he knew that Voldemort didn't settle in the circle they were creating. "Just one thing," he said finally, before falling quiet again. He wanted this moment to last. "If it is not love that will save you this time," Voldemort said, "you must believe that you have magic that I do not, or else a weapon more powerful than mine?" The idea was preposterous -- no wizard existed who was more powerful than He. There wasn't a chance that some little boy like Potter could have a weapon to rival his own. The Elder Wand was the greatest weapon there was and it was only fitting that He should have it in his possession. "I believe both," Harry answered, his tone matter-of-fact. He smirked again at the almost indecipherableplay of emotion across Voldemort's snake features. It almost amazed him that he'd managed to keep Voldemort's attention for so long, but Harry was choosing his words carefully, treading lightly around his bit of information, and he felt a smug satisfaction over how expertly he was controlling the situation. Still, he had Draco's wand clutched in his fist. His reflexes wouldn't fail him if he lost control, he was sure of it. At Harry's words, Voldemort began to laugh a maniacal laugh, throwing his head back and opening his mouth wide in spite of the fact that he saw nothing funny about this situation whatsoever. His red eyes glinted in the light of the candles and he stopped laughing a moment later too glare at him, lips twisted into a snarl. "You think you know more magic than I do?" he said. "Than I, than Lord Voldemort, who has performed magic that Dumbledore himself never dreamed of?" Harry felt a twinge of impatience. Voldemort still didn't see it, still didn't understand that he wasn't even half the wizard that Dumbledore had been. For all of his knowledge of great magic, Voldemort wasn't as intelligent as he thought he was. Harry knew things as well, but that didn't mean he was going to indulge his every whim simply because he knew how. "Oh, he dreamed of it," he said, the patronising note back in his voice, "but he knew more than you, knew enough not to do what you've done." "You mean he was weak!" Voldemort said, voice rising into a feverish scream. How dare anyone insult Him? He was ten times the wizard Dumbledore had been -- he was strong, cleverer and more powerful than all of the great wizards on earth combines. Dumbledore had been nothing but too much of a coward to build himself up to the level that Voldemort had acheived. "Too weak to dare, too weak to take what might have been his, what will be mine!" After the year of doubts that Harry had, everything he had discovered about Dumbledore that night had been something of a comfort to him and he felt his twinge of impatience become full-blown annoyance. Dumbledore wasn't weak. "No, he was cleverer than you," he said, voice firm and insistant because, if there was one thing Harry was absolutely certain of, it was this, "a better wizard, a better man." "I brought about the death of Albus Dumbledore!" Voldemort had put those plans into motion and found the appropriate person -- the one who was desperate enough -- to do His bidding, even if the weak boy could not complete it himself. He was the better wizard and better man. He'd devoted his entire life to dark magic and had done things beyond anyone's pathetic comprehension. Dumbledore had been nothing, compared to Him. "You thought you did," Harry said, "but you were wrong." Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed movement in the people watching as they reacted to his words. He'd forgotten that he and Voldemort weren't alone in the Great Hall, but the reminder of their presence didn't phase him. He was comfortable, slowly circling even though his body had been through hell already. He still had the upper hand and now he had the chance to reveal just the tiniest bit of what he knew. What he knew that Voldemort didn't. "Dumbledore is dead!" Voldemort said, hissing vindictively -- hoping that Potter would relive the pain of having lost his greatest, most hapless supporter. He had no patience for these delusions -- the boy must have been mad if he believed what he was saying to him. "His body decays in the marble tomb in the grounds of this castle, I have seen it, Potter, and he will not return!" "Yes, Dumbledore's dead," Harry said slowly, because of course Dumbledore was dead, "but you didn't have him killed." He let his words linger in the air for a long moment. He was being disrespectful and he had a good feeling that if it had been someone else, someone who hadn't just come back from the dead, he'd have been dead long before this juncture in the conversation. "He chose his own manner of dying, chose it months before he died, arranged the whole thing with the man you thought was your servant." "What childish dream is this?" Voldemort said, eyes shining even redder as he held them fixed on Harry. He wanted to kill him right there -- he was growing increasingly more impatient and he wasn't sure that he wanted to hear what the boy would say next, but his desire for knowledge, to find out exactly who had betrayed Him, was too much for him to deny. "Severus Snape wasn't yours," Harry said, shaking his head. "Snape was Dumbledore's, Dumbledore's from the moment you started hunting down my mother. And you never realized it, because of the thing you can't understand. You never saw Snape cast a Patronus, did you, Riddle?" He paused, a half-smirk on his lips as he waited for Voldemort to answer. It didn't really surprise Harry when he didn't, when they simply continued to circle one another. "Snape's Patronus was a doe, the same as my mother's, because he loved her for nearly all of his life, from the time when they were children." The thought of Snape loving his mother was still new to Harry. The entire time he'd known the former Potions professor he'd always thought him incapable of any warm feelings at all. Then to find out that he was quite capable and felt them for his mother left him feeling a bit queasy, even in the wake of the man's death and even with his newfound gratitude towards the man. Still, the information was a barb, something he could smugly toss at Voldemort. "You should have realized," he added, shaking his head again and then smirking again at the look on the Voldemort's face, "he asked you to spare her life, didn't he?" "He desired her," Voldemort said, thin lips twisting into a sneer, "that was all." He didn't want to admit to himself that he who had been considered one of his most loyal servents could have possibly been a traitor, working for Dumbledore all along. It wasn't as though he had a great deal of regard for him after all that had transpired, but the possibility of having been betrayed was too great an indignance for to acknowledge. The truth that Voldemort had chosen to believe made far more sense than what Harry was suggesting. Certainly, Severus had lusted after Potter's mother, but such urges were excusable and able to be remedied. He had been cured of his filthy desire for that Mudblood, Evans, long ago. "But when she had gone, he agreed that there were other women, and of purer blood, worthier of him - " Harry bristled at Voldemort's implication that his mother wasn't worthy of Snape of all people, when really the opposite was more true. "Of course he told you that," he spat impatiently, interrupting the so-called Dark Lord yet again, "but he was Dumbledore's spy from the moment you threatened her, and he's been working against you ever since! Dumbledore was already dying when Snape finished him!" It took a lot of effort not to add an immature 'So there!' at the tail end of his tirade and it took even more effort for him to reign his temper back in. He reminded himself that Snape wasn't so bad, that what he had to share with Voldemort was more important than loosing his cool. "It matters not!" Voldemort shouted, shrill in an attempt to silence the Boy Who Lived. He'd been hanging on each of his words, but now he was sure that he had no idea what he was talking about. He knew -- it all made sense to Him and none of what Harry said was relevant. "It matters not whether Snape was mine or Dumbledore's, or what petty obstacles they tried to put in my path! I crushed them as I crushed your mother, Snape's supposed great love! Oh, but it all makes sense, Potter, and in ways that you do not understand! "Dumbledore was trying to keep the Elder Wand from me! He intended that Snape should be the true master of the wand! But I got there ahead of you, little boy -- I reached the wand before you could get your hands on it, I understood the truth before you caught up. I killed Severus Snape three hours ago, and the Elder Wand, the Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny is truly mine! Dumbledore's last plan went wrong, Harry Potter!" He finished off with a self-satisfied smirk, reveling in the fact that the unfallible Dumbledore had greatly miscalculated the last moments of his repulsive existence. For once, Harry listened to Voldemort without interrupting, though he remained sceptical of what the other had to say. Harry didn't care about the Elder Wand. The temptation to reach it first had been there, but only briefly. He didn't actually need it in his possession for what was going to happen. "Yeah, it did," he said finally. "You're right. But before you try to kill me, I'd advise you think about what you've done... Think, and try for some remorse, Riddle..." "What is this?" Voldemort asked, narrowing his eyes in disgust until they were tiny slits of red like the pupils of his eyes. His face grew whiter, but he attempted to mask the shock in spite of it. He'd expected the grandeur and gloating, but he hadn't expected him to ask him to feel remorse. Now it was Harry's turn to give a self-satisfied smirk as he watched shock move across Voldemort's features. He really was enjoying this. "It's your one last chance," Harry said. "It's all you've got left... I've seen what you'll be otherwise... Be a man... try... Try for some remorse..." Who did this boy think he was, asking Him to 'try for some remorse'? His gall astonished him more each time they encountered one another, but this patronizing blather was worse of all. "You dare --- ?” Voldemort said -- hissed, his entire wand arm trembling as he tightened his grip on the Elder Wand, preparing to finish what he'd started seventeen years ago. "Yes, I dare," Harry said again, tone blasé at having to repeat that yes, he dared, "because Dumbledore’s last plan hasn’t backfired on me at all. It’s backfired on you, Riddle." His moment of revelation had finally arrived. He was going to share with Voldemort what he really knew, what he had figured out all on his own. Still, he held Draco's hawthorn wand at the ready, gripping it tightly in his fist. "That wand still isn’t working properly for you because you murdered the wrong person. Severus Snape was never the true master of the Elder Wand. He never defeated Dumbledore." Why was he having to spell this out for such a thick little boy? They both knew that Severus had killed Dumbledore -- what he was proposing made very little sense in accordance with what he knew about the Elder Wand. He'd killed Severus -- killed him and took his wand. The Elder Wand was His. "He killed --- " Harry's thoughts were moving in a very similar pattern to Voldemort's, only he was surprised that he was having to explain this in such detail to someone who was allegedly aware of so much great magic. "Aren’t you listening?" he inturrupted, his impatience with Voldemort at an all-time high. "Snape never beat Dumbledore! Dumbledore’s death was planned between them! Dumbledore intended to die, undefeated, the wand’s last true master! If all had gone as planned, the wand’s power would have died with him, because it had never been won from him!" "But then, Potter, Dumbledore as good as gave me the wand!" Voldemort said, voice rising in excitement. This was it -- he'd been proven right. It was exactly as he thought. He was the master of the Elder Wand. His beedy red eyes seemed to take on a life of their own, gleaming as though there were candleflames flickering behind them. "I stole the wand from its last master’s tomb! I removed it against the last master’s wishes! Its power is mine!" "You still don’t get it, Riddle, do you?" Harry didn't quite realise that Voldemort likely couldn't recognise the wand in his hand, nor could he possibly know every last detail from the night Dumbledore had died, but that didn't stop him from wondering why what he was saying didn't seem to be sinking in. "Possessing the wand isn’t enough! Holding it, using it, doesn’t make it really yours. Didn’t you listen to Ollivander? The wand chooses the wizard... The Elder Wand recognized a new master before Dumbledore died, someone who never even laid a hand on it. The new master removed the wand from Dumbledore against his will, never realizing exactly what he had done, or that the world’s most dangerous wand had given him its allegiance..." Feeling another flicker of that smug satisfaction, Harry waited before he dropped his final tidbit of knowledge, savouring the tense moment. Voldemort wanted to kill him, but he still had Voldemort's full attention. "The true master of the Elder Wand was Draco Malfoy." From somewhere in the crowd, Draco took in a sharp gasp upon hearing this particular revelation. That must have been a mistake. There was no way that he could have ever been the master of the Elder Wand. He hadn't even killed Dumbledore. But if what Harry said was true, then he would have far more to worry about than having lost his mother's wand after this was all over. The thought filled him with dread and he trembled, taking a step away from the two wizards in the center of the room. Equally shocked was Voldemort, whose features were rendered momentarily emotionless before he regained his composure. "But what does it matter?" he said in a soft hiss. "Even if you are right, Potter, it makes no difference to you and me. You no longer have the phoenix wand: We duel on skill alone... and after I have killed you, I can attend to Draco Malfoy..." That would be easy enough. "But you're too late," Harry replied lightly. "You’ve missed your chance. I got there first. I overpowered Draco weeks ago. I took his wand from him." He waved Draco's wand a little, but kept it pointed straight at Voldemort the entire time. He could feel the heavy weight of their audience's stare. "So it all comes down to this, doesn’t it?" He lowered his voice to a loud whisper, as if he was attempting to keep his next words a secret from the wand in Voldemort's hand. "Does the wand in your hand know its last master was Disarmed? Because if it does... I am the true master of the Elder Wand." From across the Great Hall, the fiery red sun made its appearance over the sills, shedding the pair and audience in a brilliant, crimson light. Voldemort's pale face reflected off the light in a pinkish blur, Harry squinting against the glare on his glasses. And then it happened -- Voldemort's high-pitched shriek sounded in his ears and Harry pointed Draco's wand back at him, yelling as loudly as he could. "Avada Kedavra!" "Expelliarmus!" The sounds of their two spells colliding shook the room, emitting flickers of gold between them in flames that licked the air and coiled in a furious battle against some invisible force of magic, like that that began to impress upon them, drawn and sucked out of every crevice in the school, heavy in the morning sun. The tell-tale green of the Killing Curse struggled against Harry's spell for several long moments of stand-off before the Elder Wand was ripped from Voldemort's hand and flew high across the room that reflected the dawn, finally landing in Harry's outstretched hand. Voldemort's expression went white with shock -- fear, for the first time in so many years -- and he fell backwards, limbs splayed helplessly in all directions. His flickering red eyes rolled back into his skull and every muscle in his withered, debilitated body went slack. The horror and confusion left his face, which fell into a blank stare up into the mess of enchantment hanging heavily in the air above them. Harry was the true master of the Elder Wand and Voldemort was dead. |