And, now, his queen had fallen.
It should be so perfect. Bellatrix was a tool to be sacrificed at the perfect time. But an anger unlike any he'd felt before snaked its way up his body, and with it a brand-new emotion. What was this feeling? ...he HATED it, despised it, with the burning passion of one who had only life remaining – no soul.
...It was fear.
Though he'd never had the misfortune of feeling it himself, he'd seen it in enough of his enemies' eyes to identify the signs, the symptoms. He grimaced as he assessed them: shortness of breath, sweat collecting at his temples, and MERLIN!, was his wand hand SHAKING?!
It didn't make sense. Dumbledore was supposed to be the white king and he, the black. It DIDN'T make SENSE! How could that boy be standing before him?! Once Dumbledore was dead, the game should have been over! What kind of game was this, where there were no rules, was no order?
And just as he'd recognized the symptoms of fear, he knew what he'd find when he again met the eyes of his foe. Had it only been mere seconds? As he turned his gaze toward his opposing king (The Boy Who Lived, he inwardly sneered), he anticipated the boy's expression. Pride. Self-righteousness. Victory.
Finally, he met Harry's eyes. He had his mother's eyes. How many times had he looked into these eyes? But there was no pride there. No self-righteousness. No victory. There was only that one emotion he himself had never felt for another human being.
Love.
This boy,
Who should have died 16 years prior, at Voldemort's own hand, just as he'd killed the boy's parents,
Who should have died at the hands of Quirrell,
Who should have died in the Chamber of Secrets,
Who should have died at the kiss of a legion of dementors,
Who should have died in the graveyard when he, Voldemort, the most feared of all wizards, regained his power,
Who should have died at the hands of the Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries,
Who should have died at the hands of Snape, who thought all along he was the most-trusted servant but was merely a pawn to be disposed of,
THIS... BOY... should be crumpled at the feet of Lord Voldemort, groveling for mercy that would be withheld!
But in his eyes was love for those he strove to protect. And, worse even than that,
In his eyes was pity.
And that was when Voldemort knew that the game was over.
Because the Potter boy didn't have to say, "Checkmate," for him to know that he'd lost.