Goodbye Tom
His eyes were scarlet and menacing, challenging the now young man. "Harry" he rasped.
"Don't patronize me" spat Harry, wiping a bloody lip.
"Oh Harry, Harry" scorned Voldemort, "didn't your mother teach you not to talk back to your superiors?" The pain mingled with fury shone in what had once been innocent emerald eyes. "Don't talk about my mother, you lost the battle, she won" he sneered, eyes glistening.
Voldemort stared intently at the young man's eyes, still glowing from his powerful revelation. Carefully, he chose his next words. "What are you talking about boy?" he sneered, referring to Harry with pure venomous loathing. Harry let out an unrestricted laugh, eyes dancing, as if to a tune you could not hear.
He licked his lips, and then spoke. "You have been mistaken, Tom. You have no power, you have no magic, you are no one" the words reverberated, so powerful and yet so truthful. He managed a scornful snort through his slit, beyond human nostrils. "What are you talking about you poor misled boy?" he almost laughed. "I'm talking about this" he answered, practically a whisper, pulling up the right sleeve of his robe.
There on his pale skin, was a birthmark, almost mistakable for a tattoo. Voldemort's eyes, had fear written deep into their cores. He had been mistaken.
Harry slowly chanted in soft Gaelic. The magic was weaving between them, sucking at Voldemort's body, seeming to reduce his solidity. Louder and louder Harry chanted. Voldemort's body seemed to be ageing, dying, like his magic was being stripped from his snake-like body.
As Harry's chanting flowed, so did Voldemort's magic, away from him towards the sky, brightening the stars. Voldemort was kneeling now, his eyes pleading, wide, a kaleidoscope of emotion. Harry sensed he was weak; being stripped of his powers was too much. His chanting ceased.
Slowly, walking over to the cowering man, he gazed into his eyes. Simultaneously, from underneath his robe, he drew an athame, Celtic knots roaming its handle. "You are marked" Voldemort established. The birthmark was gone, unleashed as the athame Harry now held. "As are you" he said in a thundering whisper, and brought the athame to Voldemort's face. Slowly, he traced along his jaw line, a long running wound of blood.
Chanting the last words of his Gaelic song, Harry ran his fingers over the wound. He brought his blood dripping fingers to Voldemort's forehead. Carefully, he traced the fish hooked rune. Yr. Death. "Goodbye Tom" he whispered, dropping the man's head to the ground.
The pain coursed through Harry's eyes; Pain for his mother, pain for his father, pain for himself. Cautiously, Harry bent down, touching Voldemort's cheek. "And you have lost this battle too".
Voldemort was dead, and it had cost. It had cost him his freedom. He would never be free of this. Voldemort would continue in death, to haunt those emerald eyes.