Expelliarmus!
A blast of red light erupted from the end of Harry's wand.
Harry's red met a green beam of magic that was streaming out of the Elder Wand, currently wielded by Voldemort. A bright white spark of magic, resembling a firework, exploded to life from where the two streams of magic collided.
Harry, to the best of his abilities, attempted to focus on one thing, and one thing only. Taking Voldemort down was not only for his sake, but for the entire wizarding community. It wasn't an easy feat, however.
His mind was corrupted, all the traumatic experiences all tossed into the mix of crazy thoughts in his brain. It wasn't a healthy mindset, especially when performing a spell. Spellcasting meant to focus on the spell and the spell only.
With everything that had happened to him in the past year, Harry found that extremely difficult.
He was exhausted. The journey that had resulted from the quest to take down the very wizard that was standing in front of him was perilous, dangerous, not to mention horrendously long. And to think he'd come this far...
Harry could see the green from Voldemort's wand reflected in his eyes, sending shivers down his spine. His teeth were bared and gritted like a vicious predator approaching its prey, focusing intently on one thing.
Taking Harry down.
And Harry knew that. He tightened his grip on his wand instinctively, surging a pulse of power through it. Energy prickled all the way from his elbow to his fingertips, a sensation of paresthesia gushing through his veins. The red light from his wand advanced on Voldemort's for a moment, causing the other wizard to growl in fury and retaliate with another wave of magic of his own.
"I have the Elder Wand! You can't take me down!" Voldemort shouted at Harry, almost desperately.
Harry chose to ignore him. Instead, with as much force as he could muster, he shot out another spark of red from his wand. In place of the furious reaction from Voldemort he'd expected, the man paused for a minute, clutching his heart as if he'd been stabbed in the chest. His snake-like face was contorted into and expression of pain. The torrent of enchantment between the wizards dissipated, leaving a trail of dying sparks and trail of red and green smoke in its wake.
Harry stared at Voldemort, confusion written all over his face. The sudden weakness that Voldemort was showing was definitely unfamiliar to him.
Unless...
The Horcrux.
Realization hit Harry like a slap to the face.
The Horcrux. It must've been destroyed. But who had destroyed it? It couldn't have been Ron or Hermione, could it?
He didn't have too long to dwell on it, however, before a flash of green was heading straight at him. His heart skipped a beat, and he felt his stomach lurch in panic as he shot back an alarmed light of red in defense.
To his absolute surprise (and Voldemort's utter mortification, as it was evident on his face), the beam of red grew stronger, more pronounced, flickering into the color of vermillion. The white blast from where Harry's spell met Voldemort's was beginning to take on a yellowish hue, a clear sign that the red was leaking into it. It grew larger, brighter, swallowing all the darkness in its vicinity. The light was so intense, flashing off Harry's spectacles, the contrast between the sharp red and the dying green nearly blinding him—
Harry's breath hitched in his throat.
The green light was barely visible among all the red that surrounded it, Voldemort growing visibly weaker by the second. He plunged his wand into the air as a weak attempt at counterattacking his opponent.
Harry felt his lips curl into a smirk, his expression resolved. He flicked his wand expertly, the magic intensifying beyond comprehension.
That was the finishing blow.
Voldemort's countenance morphed from forced confidence into a desperate, pleading one that was shocked all the same. The white bubble that was once the connector of both the magic spells was forced into him, exploding against his chest in a shower of white and green sparks. His figure was locked in a frozen stance, eyes bug-eyed in terror and jaw hanging open as the Elder Wand launched itself out of his grasp, somersaulting elegantly in the air.
Without hesitation, Harry rushed up to catch it. On impulse, the wand fell cleanly into Harry's palm.
He curled his fingers around it, feeling the smooth, polished finish that felt brand new despite its age. It was sleek, longer and slightly thicker than a regular wizards wand, no doubt due to its ability to produce the best quality magic. That was why Voldemort had wanted it in the first place. The wand was more trouble than it was worth.
Harry panted, blood roaring in his ears as one, two, three heartbeats passed. He took a few trembling steps forward, pleading with whatever forces ran the world that this was Voldemort's demise.
His pleas, surprisingly, were not in vain. Voldemort's abrupt screams filled the clearing, echoing across the landscape and bouncing off the remains of Hogwarts' crumbling walls. His pained shrieks nearly had Harry clapping his hands over his ears, sounding like a wounded animal.
And for quite a good reason.
Harry watched as the former villain's skin began to crack, floating upwards in tiny flakes. It was as if his whole face had been turned into a shattered glass window. The sight alone was unnerving, and what Voldemort was currently going through was excruciatingly agonizing. There was no doubt in Harry's mind about that.
Awe-struck, Harry gasped softly. Watching the death of the very wizard who had torn his life piece by piece was Harry's sweet revenge. He deserved every minute of the agony, any witch or wizard would say. If he was completely honest, Harry couldn't argue with that.
He'd done a great deal to Harry, first introducing his sinister self to him at the age of one. Harry's introduction to Voldemort was a failed murder attempt.
And then he'd gone above and beyond, the list growing longer and longer. The murder of his parents, causing him to go live the first eleven years of his life as an outcast; the scar on his forehead that wouldn't let him go unnoticed; the endless praise to his name that he figured he never deserved...
He had a recollection of memories, ones he desperately wished he could forget, all caused by the crumbling wizard in front of him.
Voldemort continued to scream, ear-piercing screams that shattered Harry's eardrums. When it had finally died down, the flakes in the air had increased in quantity, forming a large cloud of his remains that hovered just above the robes of who used to be the most feared wizard of his century. Whose name people feared to speak.
He was now reduced to ash and dust.
Literally.
Silence pressed in on Harry from all directions. Silence it was, but at the moment, nothing seemed louder. Harry had gotten so accustomed to silence being something to be alert about, something that meant trouble was on the way, that he just couldn't seem to process that this silence was of peaceful tranquility. Nothing was going to hurt him here. Nothing could hurt him here.
He tucked both the Elder Wand and his own wand into his back pocket, still finding discomfort in the eerie lack of noise.
And then, without warning, those very flakes that had once been Voldemort settled slowly to the ground in groups. Many, many groups. And as Harry looked closer, he could've sworn that those groups were taking the shape of human silhouettes.
He squinted at them in confusion, any bliss of his recent victory gone without a trace and suspicion quickly taking its place. He tentatively took a few steps forward, letting his hands lower to his sides as he inspected the floating figures.
"Hello, Harry dear."
Harry, despite being a nearly-full grown young man, resisted the urge to jump five feet in the air at being addressed by such an unfamiliar voice.
"I'm sorry. Did I startle you?" the voice asked worriedly. It was high-pitched and adenoidal, and the tone was a tie between strangely welcoming and grateful.
Harry whipped around, immediately met with the sight of a short, plump old woman with a delicate smile and kind eyes.
"Uh...do I know you?" Harry stammered. Sure, it wasn't the politest thing to ask, but it was a valid question.
"No," the woman replied bluntly. "But perhaps you know of me?"
Harry looked confused.
"Does the name 'Bertha Jorkins' ring a bell?"
When Harry continued to stare blankly at her, she continued, "Known to be foolish? Nosy, people would call me? 'Snoop' they'd call me," she grumbled the last part furiously under her breath and crossed her arms.
Bertha Jorkins...Harry could've sworn that he'd heard that name somewhere. Perhaps—in Sirius' voice? "Wait. Did you know-?"
"Sirius Black and James Potter? Well, as a matter of fact, I did," she said. "A few years below me, they were. Quite the pair of troublemakers if you ask me."
And that was when it struck him, Sirius' words from a few years ago flooding back to him.
Listen, I knew Bertha.
He couldn't possibly have been talking about the woman in front of him, could he?
She was at Hogwarts when I was, a few years above your dad and me.
Ah. That would explain the age.
She was an idiot. Very nosy, but no brains, none at all.
"But...but you're—" Harry spluttered, unable to find the right words, "—but you're dead!"
To his relief, Bertha didn't seem to be offended at all. In fact, she smiled kindly at him at gave him a knowing look. "Are we?" And she gestured for him to turn around.
'We'?
Reluctantly, Harry spun on his heel. His green eyes widened at what he saw.
People.
A whole crowd of people surrounded him, all with grateful smiles on their faces. There were so many of them, all unique heights and a variety of faces. Their faces blurred into one big mass, all beaming at him.
To say that he was overwhelmed would be an understatement. One would think that Harry would become accustomed to the attention he received nonstop.
It wasn't the case. Not for this boy.
Harry shook his head, clenching his fists as hard as he could and squeezing his eyes shut, obscuring his vision of the world and plunging him into darkness.
This had to be it. He was hallucinating. No way the people that Voldemort murdered were alive. Not just alive, but in front of him at that moment, standing, breathing, smiling at him. He'd just over exerted himself in the fight. That's all. When he opened his eyes again, Hagrid and Ron and Hermione and Neville and all the Weasleys would be standing in front of him, congratulating him, screaming about how "he did it! He actually did it!" and a party would be thrown later.
Harry opened his eyes.
No matter how many times he repeated the process, the group was still standing alongside the dirt, rubble, and ash that remained of Hogwarts. Harry scanned the group, recognizing one particular teenage girl that Harry had last seen in his second year as a ghost. She'd been taking residency in the out-of-order girls' washroom, paying him, Ron and Hermione a visit every time they dropped in at their secret meet-up place.
"Myrtle?" Harry mused out loud.
She beamed at him. He'd never seen her in the flesh (how could he? She was dead) before, but now, as she stood in front of him, he noticed things that he hadn't before. For example, the fact that she had a round face complete with thick spectacles and a smattering of pimples. Her brown hair fell to her waist, and she was still clad in the Hogwarts uniform that she'd died in.
And suddenly, everyone was screaming out in victory. Harry soon found himself being enveloped in one too many hugs, people clamoring one another in an attempt to reach him. Harry stood there stupidly, stunned into silence.
He awkwardly wrapped his arms around the first person in front of him, who, coincidentally, turned out to be Myrtle. Now, Harry thought it was safe to say that he'd been in plenty of awkward situations. This one had to take the cake.
When the many arms had finally been pulled from around him, the crowd finally began to dissipate. He waved in response to the many smiles and waves that he was receiving, until finally the entire group was gone, including Bertha Jorkins. They proceeded towards the castle of Hogwarts, where renovations and injured ones were certainly being taken care of.
He watched them disappear into the distance, their figures reduced to a mere dot on the horizon. The sun was peeking just above the mountains, the rays setting on Harry's eyes and causing them to shimmer a bright green.
Harry wiped some warm liquid from his temple, grimacing as his fingers came back red. That was just one of the many bruises and cuts he was sure garnished his limbs. It was probably a good idea to head back to the castle as well.
Just as Harry was about to turn on his heel, something in his peripheral caught his attention.
Two figures, human figures, were standing to his left. A man and a woman, by the looks of it.
Harry squinted his eyes.
He cupped his hands around his mouth to amplify his voice. "Hey, uh, are you two okay?" he shouted.
The figures didn't move a muscle.
It would be ideal to get a better look, Harry thought. They could be injured, for all he knew. Though it didn't look it from the distance where he was standing, it was best to make sure.
"Are—are you hurt?" he yelled again. When there was no evidence that they'd heard him, his curiosity urged him to take a few steps closer to them.
As he got closer, an odd feeling of recognition flooded through him. He craned his neck forward, tilting his head to the side. His brow creased in confusion. "Um, hello?"
It was, indeed, a man a woman, standing with their backs facing him. From where they were turned away from him, Harry could see long hair on the woman's head and a mess of dark hair on the man's.
Harry was growing impatient. At the moment, after defeating Voldemort, he wanted nothing more than to meet up with Ron and Hermione and sleep his exhaustion away. "Listen, if you're not going to answer me, I'm going to start heading—"
They turned around, Harry cutting himself off mid-sentence. Only then did he get a better look at their faces.
The man was tall. His pale skin contrasted nicely with the shaggy mess of black hair that sat, tousled, on the top of his head. Harry absent-mindedly fingered his own dark locks with his fingers.
The man's hazel eyes twinkled with kindness and a mysterious glint of mischief, his look complete with a sharp jawline.
The woman by his side was a very pretty woman. Her long auburn hair plummeted down to her waist, gracefully spilling down her back in thick waves. Her perfect set of teeth was revealed when she beamed at Harry, tears building up in her eyes...
Her eyes.
They were the most beautiful shade of green that Harry had ever seen. They sparkled in the light of the rising sun like a fresh sheen of morning dew, playing tricks with anything that screamed 'spring'. In his entire lifetime, Harry had only once ever seen a pair of eyes like hers.
His own.
You have your mother's eyes.
His breath caught, and he stumbled slightly. Every collected memory that he'd had stored in his brain, from his mother's scream on that fateful night to the reflection he'd seen of her in the Mirror of Erised during is first year at Hogwarts.
You're the spitting image of your father, but you have your mother's eyes.
He'd heard that countless times. He'd never believed it. Not until they were standing right in front of him.
Lily and James Potter were alive.
A bundle of emotions welled up in Harry's chest, threatening to spew out in a wave of fresh tears. They clambered over one another in brain, trying to win the spotlight. He ignored them for the time being, shaking his head softly as he tried to process what was going on in front of him.
These were the people he was destined to live with before that life was harshly ripped away from him, instead replaced with the constant suffering and torment he was faced with daily back when he lived with his aunt and uncle. The Dursleys had never developed anything close to a tolerable relationship with Harry. He was daily confronted by Dudley's sneers, aunt Petunia's barking orders and Uncle Vernon's lectures.
"Harry..." Lily whispered.
Meanwhile, Lily and James Potter were having just as difficult a time processing their reunion as Harry was. Lily couldn't believe that sixteen years, sixteen years had passed since the day they had sacrificed themselves for their child. And that same child had grown into a hero, a hero whose name was praised daily, the very one that had defeated the Dark Lord himself.
"Guys?" Harry whispered, his eyes welling up with tears that he was certainly not accustomed to. His heart ached with happiness, his legs acting as dead weights that kept him fixed to the ground in that same position. He'd never known bliss such as this.
A pause.
The tension broke. All three of them rushed forward, Lily and James throwing their arms around their son in a protective embrace, ensuring that he wouldn't be separated from them ever again. Lily collapsed immediately, sobbing while she had Harry in a death embrace. James was trailing closely behind, tears cascading down his cheeks in a steady stream of relief and happiness. Harry was surprised to feel his own shoulders shaking, low sobs escaping his lips and tears trickling down his cheeks. The pace of his breathing quickened, his heart hammering its way out of his chest.
It had been sixteen miserable years of parting between the Potter family. Sixteen long, horrendous years.
But that's all it would be. Sixteen years. No more, no less.
Harry had every intention of keeping it that way.