Disclaimer: you know the drill; don't own, don't sue…

No one could have forseen the devastation or evil Voldemort had been capable of in the end. As the war intensified, fought not on battlefields or forests but in homes and safe havens, the disappearances became more and more frequent. They became closer to Harry. No one could have been sure if they were killed or kidnapped.

The worst was realized in the graveyard. Not where they had met before, but where their past laid in wait. The graves of his parents stood by solidly as Voldemort stepped out of the darkness, alone. His side had suffered too, only a handful of Death Eaters remained alive and loyal. But there were enough. Enough for…

A hooded figure shoved a body into the clearing between him and Voldemort. As its head rolled to the side, he recognized the face of Lupin. He stepped toward his friend but stopped at the sight of Voldemort's ward pointed directly at him.

"He is only unconscious." The cold, high-pitched voice he had heard so many times before told him. Harry felt his heart lift slightly.

Another figure was pushed into the clearing; a pair of spectacles fell off the face, revealing the open vacant eyes of Professor McGonagall. An odor of something he couldn't quite place permeated Harry's nostrils. A third body; Arabella Figg. A fourth tall body was unmistakably Kingsley Shacklebot. Harry's jaw dropped as the figures continued. Mad Eye Moody. Harry stared at the remarkably calm face of Voldemort and the wand still pointing directly at him.

Harry's stomach leapt to his throat as he recognized Neville's plump frame and Hermione's bushy hair. His worst fears were being realized; Voldemort was using his friends and those he considered his family against him. He hadn't even known Hermione was missing; he had last seen her at the Weasley's this morning…

Tears sprang to Harry's eyes as another plump body was hurled into the pile, bearing a hand knit jumper and the distinct short red hair of Mrs. Weasley. As Harry watched in horror, three hooded figures struggled to drag the limp, enormous body of Hagrid to the pile, and Harry finally placed the smell that was growing with the pile of bodies.

He had only ever smelled it once before; on a rare trip in the car with the Dursleys. Eight-year-old Harry had stood in the pouring rain while the Dursleys huddled under an umbrella, watching a mechanic examine their flooded car engine.

Gasoline.

Harry shook his head, trying to wake himself from this nightmare. The bodies had been doused in gasoline. Voldemort had returned to his half-blood roots and turned to a Muggle device of destruction.

Voldemort's long legs stepped over the unconscious bodies and into the center of the pile; the remaining three Death Eaters joined him, albeit reluctantly.

"And here we stand, Harry." Voldemort's cold red eyes pierced his skin, burning it. "At an impasse. I grow weary of this battle, this constant stalemate. I cannot kill you. Not the easy way, the protection and charms so many of your friends offered you sealed this. So I offer you this; kill me. Now."

Harry stared.

"You have two choices, Harry. Kill me now, or don't. If you don't , my Death Eaters and I will leave and continue our war against those who stand against us. There will be more deaths, pure-blood and Muggle alike, and I will find a way to kill you Harry. Believe that." He smiled coldly at Harry and the tip of his wand, held high above the pile of bodies, ignited.

"But if you do kill me," he continued, "I will not be the only one to die tonight. With me, I will take my three faithful followers, and number of your friends, Harry. You kill me and my wand will fall. You grew up in a Muggle world, Harry," he laughed slightly, "you have heard the dangers of fire and gasoline."

Harry's mind had frozen. His body was immobile. He couldn't comprehend the situation. He only saw flashes of what was going on before him.

Red hair.

Square spectacles.

A hip flask.

Hoods.

Those snake-like red eyes.

Fire.

"Come Harry, we cannot wait for you all night." The high voice pierced his thoughts, jerking his brain to life.

He stared at the pile of bodies. His friends, protectors, teachers; for as long as he had been in the wizarding world, those people had helped him. He couldn't –

His eyes met Voldemort's. Harry knew more than most the unwavering resolve of the creature – it could not longer be called 'human' – in front of him. Voldemort would never rest until the world, both wizard and Muggle, was under his control. Anything or anyone that stood in his way would be dealt a fate no one deserved; torture at the hand of Voldemort himself and a slow painful death, hearing his high, cold laugh. Names began invading Harry's head, reminding him of the casualties of the many battles fought over the years since Voldemort's ascent to power. Dumbledore, Sirius, Cedric, Neville's parents, the Bones. Members of the Order Harry had only heard about; the Prewitts, Dorcas Meadowes, Caradoc Dearborn, Benjy Fenwick, Marlene McKinnon. His own parents. So many of them had died fighting against Voldemort and his followers; Harry couldn't let their deaths mean nothing –

Harry's couldn't breathe; he was drowning in nothing.

"Harry." Voldemort's voice took on a tone of taunting, echoing his thoughts. "Do you really want all their lives to go to waste? Your misguided Headmaster? Your beloved godfather? Your precious parents?" His laugh became higher and higher –

A jet of green light flashed from Harry's wand and hit Voldemort squarely in the chest. Time seemed to stand still as an expression of shock registered on Voldemort's face before passing quickly into a blank stare. He began to fall.

Tears blurred Harry's vision; an orange blur erupted in front of him and the force of the heat knocked him backwards. He scrambled to his feet, not looking, hearing screams that weren't there over the roar of the growing fire.

He ran. He didn't know how long he had been running or what direction he was going, he just knew he had to get as far away from there as possible. As far from the fire, the graveyard, his friends, the 'Chosen One' label, his life as he could get.

He ran until his legs gave out and the hard earth came rushing up to meet him. The mud on his face stopped the burning; the frozen ground gave him respite. He curled up to the cold earth, praying for the end.