Nox
Ever planed ahead? Tried to calculate every potential outcome of an event? The second Voldermort War is ultimately inevitable. The question is: did they?
I do not delusional enough to, even momentarily, presume that any of the characters created by J.K.Rowling are mine.
I am merely a frustrated writer with delusions of grandeur.
Voldermort and Harry are merely dolls tossed into my unworthy little malcontent fantasy.
Thank Queen for my inspiration, my muse. 'Show must go on'.
Enjoy.
They squared off, 100 yards apart. Distance enough to obscure the faces otherwise hidden behind dull, white masks or tarnished phoenix crests. Enough for them to ignore that they were fighting against friends, relatives. Fathers against sons. They stood there, rank upon rank, indifferent to the pouring rain: seasoned warriors, first time campaigners, those too old to fight and most frightening of all, children. Waiting for a sign.
To any passing observers it would have looked bizarre, insane even. Motionless silhouettes against a violent, stormy backdrop. What appeared to be the contents of a large town, not the entirety of the Wizarding World which, in reality it was, standing in an ocean of grass. Yet they stood there, in defiance of the tumultuous elements raging around them, staring down the barrel of eventuality, like some morbid parody of a war re-enactment. They'd have laughed if it weren't for the stakes at hand. If only the participants realised just how Muggle the whole affair was shaping up to be, then maybe, just maybe, they'd call the whole thing off and go home, back to their happy domiciles and warm hearths. They'd gone too far for any sane reasoning to return to them planet Earth, however. They'd chosen their sides. This was the day they'd make destiny fall to their collective feet. It was now or never.
This was war.
They watched on, in morbid fascination as their respective leaders stepped forward, robes whipping about, ignoring the torrential downpour. Age versus Youth. Red against Green. Pure blood. Muggle blood. Marked by their apparent inability to die – Lord Voldermort and Harry Potter. The ultimate battle of ideologies – of good and evil. A quick flourish of long, cherished phoenix core wands. A curt bow, eyes never leaving their opponent's. Then to rejoin their respective ranks, an air of finality permeating from their very pores, spreading like a miasmic mist through the gathered masses. A moment of silence as two lone, stray beams of pale gold filters through the cloud banks above, light landing squarely on the sombre figureheads. Then the carnage begins.
Curses fly left, right, front and centre. They light up the sky, a veritable rainbow of colour. It is, in it's own way, poetic. Horrifically so. Centuries of tradition and heritage living, breathing and dying on the blackened blades of grass. Body after body subcomes, crumpling under the stress, exhaustion and injuries they sustain. No one pays them any heed. No time for mourning. Magic lingers in the air, so thick you can almost taste it, casting a peculiar eerie quality to the spells being cast. Magical creatures and widard-folk, engaged in battle, side by side. United at last.
Shouting into the howling wind, Harry calls for a re-group. The once pristine fields are now blackened wastelands, scorched corpses piled haphazardly everywhere. It seems like they'd been fighting for days, when it has barely been an hour. Such a waste. He now wishes that he was able to have convinced his compatriots to employ Muggle weapons and tactics. They'd long since deviated from this old fashioned, inefficient, tiring and damn bloody style of warfare. It could have been quick, relatively clean: to no avail: they'd stick to their wands, thankyou very much. Seeing just how truly ravaged not only his troops but also the Deatheaters were, he decided to end it, once and for all.
Fixing his sight on his re-incarnated nemesis, Harry grimly marched out, leading his surviving Order troops. He hummed his way through the cross fire, not even bothering to fend off incoming spells. It was like they didn't exist. No heroic thoughts for our little saviour, oh no. He felt tired. Of all the games. The lies, the bloodshed, the deaths. He was just – tired of it all. In a way that a teenager should never be.
"Scared, Potter," the self-appointed Lord sneered, unconsciously echoing the words from a time long gone. Raising his weary eyes to meet Voldermort's blood red ones, Harry merely ceased his humming and threw his mp3 player at the dark Lords feet. 'Show must go on, show must go on,' Freddy Mercury screamed into the wind as they began to circle each other, like predators to prey. "Muggle? How appropriate."
Time seemed to stand still as the two of them battled. Slender beams of deadly green feinting and dancing like Jedi light sabres. They doggedly ducked and weaved, hampered by the corpse strewn field, weary but determined to find a weakness in their enemy. The curses flew fast and thick; neither opponent realising that they were the only ones left. Each and every absinth green curse tinting the air, growing more and more potent until the liquid, living death exploded.
Supernova. Again. Kaxdri turned of the vision recorder and closed the folder. Experiment 4041 – failed. Mother said he was obsessed. Hypocritical of her really. She had introduced him to the myths surrounding their Warizaxl origins, which had fascinated him since infancy. Plus she had her Historical Figure theses based on the models he was working with. Still, despite her concerns that he had been enchanted, bewitched, enslaved; he was certain that, with a little more tweaking, he'd have it right. After all, he still had a fully functional galaxy model and a line up of Earths, ready to go. He'd divine the truth from his re-enactments, even if it took him his entire life. The pre-historic Wizarding wars had always been their favourites, after all.