Another, slightly different, piece for the Houses Competition. Enjoy!
House: Ravenclaw
Category: Short
Prompt: "I won't wait here forever!"
W/C: 1074
0-0-0-0
He stumbled over hulking roots, and through dull, dappled moonlight split over the lumpy ground. He drew closer, beginning to breathe heavier, trying not to think about how many times he had seen shadowed and bruised faces that night. Faces of those he loved, and faces of those whom he wished he had known better. Harry Potter was not afraid, but he was tired. He was tired of death, and he was tired of waiting for death.
A step, and three short, sharp breaths.
Three steps, and a hurried glance around the Forbidden Forest.
Dark figures seemed to loom, appearing out of nowhere as trees and animals. The only part of this darkness Harry was concentrated on was the pale glow of wands and hushed voices. They stretched out in waves before him, discussing him, but not calling to him. He grasped onto their substance, and held fast to the memories of every death. Each pale face, and the agonizing truth of grief forced him to move furiously closer to the voices.
Voldemort. Voldemort was there. Voldemort was there, and it would be over. He would end it.
Harry Potter clambered over the lip of the shallow valley, his hands dirty with damp soil. His heart pounded, his breath stopped, and his teeth chattered. The air was cold. He thought that he might not feel it in going towards his death, but he wore gooseflesh like an extra layer. Below him were the Death Eaters. Across the other side of the valley, Voldemort awaited him.
He was almost blue in the wand-light. Definitely tall. And he was shrouded in the night and a long, black cloak.
Both men considered each other, in equal defiance and surprise. The taller of the two was frozen, while Harry Potter evaluated his fears and took another shuddering step into the shallow valley. He was brave. He felt brave. He felt angry. Silence had befallen the Death Eaters, and not one of them dared glance away from the boy. Not one of them chanced a glance at their master, as he too, was silent.
Unable to take it anymore, Harry Potter spoke.
"Well, I'm here."
He took another step, correcting a near-fall.
"I'm here to die, in place of my friends. I won't fight. I'm not going back."
Voldemort didn't move, but blinked his scarlet eyes slowly. As if savouring a moment, one he never thought would come. His enemy here at last. Only a boy, but here at his mercy anyway.
"I've got no wand. I've got no family. Barely any friends left since you killed them all," his voice broke a little, but he didn't let it faze him. "So, kill me now, and let them live instead."
"What makes you think I will let them live?"
"You made a promise," Harry cut. He paused to catch his breath. "Now is your chance. Kill me."
Voldemort spoke slowly, his cruel voice lower than usual. "Harry Potter," he breathed. "The boy who lived, come to die." And yet, he still did not move anything other than those thin lips, the blinking eyes, and with the tremor in his left hand.
"I won't wait here forever!" Harry shouted, staring at Voldemort over the fell. "Come on, you crumbly old fool. Kill me!" He was breathless, from yelling, and screaming, and the trauma of the day. He was tired, exhausted, spent. Harry Potter felt a hundred years old, and he was ready to die. Voldemort, however, was statuesque.
For him, this was the end of his era. It felt as though this change, this kill, would alter everything in his path. He would be a man who had fought against a child for seventeen years, and eventually only killed him when he demanded to be killed. But then there was this anger, coursing through his veins. Seventeen years of anger, burning through his like a gas line, waiting to be lit and released as cold fury. Was he even capable of such a thing?
This child had been the very end of him for so long. And now he was waiting to die. Surely, the answer was the kill him, to be rid of him forever. But would he have really won, then? Of course, to kill ones enemy was the only way for this vociferous nightmare to be over.
"Tom Riddle can't even kill me now, when I'm asking for it!" Harry bellowed, laughing into the icy silence. "I'm here, Riddle. I'm here to die!"
"My lord, the boy is here," Bellatrix hissed, impatient.
"I can see that, Bella," he snapped.
"Kill him, then!"
The seconds passed achingly slowly, as if a millennium had been and gone several times over. Voldemort didn't want to be told what to do. He didn't want death demanded of him. And yet, he could not repress it. He could not force down the eagerness that choked him as the boy stood there. There, in his drab, dirty clothes. There, without a wand, without protection, and without anything. Friends dead, family dead, and now he was ready to die. Was death something of an escape for him?
No matter, he could not think of the boy. The boy needed to die, and that was that. Who was he to deny him death when both parties so clearly wanted the same thing.
Harry was simply waiting, angrier by the second. Was Voldemort taking his sweet time to just revel in the moment of his death? He felt as though he should be embarrassed for having demanded death like a petulant child. His own cold fury occupied his heart, as well as the love he had for everyone fighting. This toxic combination had brought him here, forcing him to not whisper a goodbye to Ginny; forcing him to ignore Neville; forcing him to greet death like an old friend. One he had not quite sorely missed.
Voldemort rolled a shoulder, his wand feeling heavier than a sword. He lifted it. The boy wanted death, and he would give it to him. Not because he wanted it, but because it was time for it. Their seemingly relentless battle would be over with this one spell. He had to die, and he had to die now.
Harry Potter was ready.
Tom Riddle took a long breath, and he raised his unfaithful wand.
0-0-0-0
Thanks everyone!