The Games We Play
He screams as they tear his wand from his fingers, not in fear, but in fury.
He knows the war might as well be over already, it is clear that their numbers are falling. Even now, he sees his comrades – the people he trusted to fight beside him, to never give up, ever – throw down their wands in surrender.
Cowards, he thinks, traitors.
He will see to it that they die.
But something stops him.
Once, many years ago, he knew a man. The man had said, "Revenge is not yours to give. Each person is his own demise."
Azkaban is worse than death, his mind tells him.
He will let the traitors rot there. The dementors will ensure their suffering. He has other things to worry about.
"Avada kedavra!"
The spell flies over his shoulder, passing only inches from his face. He turns.
His wand may be gone, but that means nothing to him. His axe sings with glee, heavy in his hands, as it bites into soft, delicate flesh. The idiot in front of him is screaming, the sound bouncing in a dissonant harmony with his own laughter.
Again and again his arms swing, sending ornate metal pounding into a broken, quivering lump of a human, until the pathetic man is little more than a mass of blood and sinew at his feet.
He laughs again, and the sound seems to echo through the shattered castle. He is unrelenting, unstoppable, immortal.
Wizards and witches alike blend into one, their teeth rattling on the cracked marble floor, their eyes rolling away from their faces, leaving empty sockets.
He does not care for propriety any longer, the time for that has long passed. There is no purer joy than this, he thinks, for this is bliss.
Power, true power, does not lie in wealth, nor the things wealth affords. True power lies in death, in the ability to decide who lives and who disappears forever. A single slice from his blade, and suddenly there is one less person in the world, one less ambitious soul seeking recognition. Years of memories, banished, erased, in that one action.
He is a god.
Yes, the Dark Lord is losing, but he is winning, for he plays another game, fights another war. The game he plays cannot be lost. The war he wages is against life, for life.
Blood stains the marble floor, covered by the dead. He pities the fools who will have to clean this up, as he boots a head out of his way, sending it rolling away, dark hair trailing after it, painting lines of blood as it goes.
He can't help but laugh. This day belongs to him, his life before now was merely a prologue to this moment. No one can stand against him. He cuts through them all easily, as if they were nothing but dreams.
Perhaps they truly are dreams. They are gone, disappeared so quickly, but he is still here, he will always be here, an immortal soul flying through eternity, perpetual and everlasting.