Chapter 50

13th June dawned clear and warm, with most students cheerful over the end of exams and the upcoming weekend, but for Harry the day began as it meant to end—badly.

He woke up with familiar leather cuffs about his wrists.

He Wished them gone before he even had chance to remember they were useless against him now, panic automatically bubbling up in his chest just at the sight of them. It eased when they vanished, and only as he sat rubbing his wrists did he wonder how the cuffs had got there.

"As if there's any question," Riddle muttered darkly, which was true enough.

He found an envelope on his bedside cabinet, his name written across the front in Dumbledore's flowing script. He seriously considered setting it on fire, but figured he should find out what the bastard was up to.

Dear Harry,

I would like to begin this letter with an apology, however I know it will mean little to you. You once told me you would never forgive me for putting those cuffs on you once; I certainly don't expect you to do so when I've done it twice. I would, however, like to give you an explanation.

I am aware that, a year ago, you were not forced to withdraw from the war, but rather to join Voldemort's side. Rest assured, I do not hold this against you and no retribution or punishment will be given. You made the best decision you could at the time and you cannot be held accountable for whatever crimes you may have been forced to commit in the time since.

"That sanctimonious bastard," Riddle snarled, while Harry's hands shook with anger. "How dare he think we need or want his absolution."

Nor do I believe you have been misleading me this past year and passing on the information you learned during our lessons. I trust that, if it had not been for the risk to your loved ones, you would never have agreed to join Voldemort, and that you still seek to see him destroyed.

However, I felt it necessary to limit your power today. I know that Voldemort has some plan in mind, though I confess that I don't know the details. For your own safety, I have restricted your power so that you cannot be forced to do something you would rather not. Should Voldemort ask anything of you, you can honestly say that it is beyond your abilities with no risk of blame.

Riddle scoffed, and Harry laughed bitterly. That showed just what Dumbledore knew of Voldemort's thought processes.

I have of course taken other precautions, but I ask your forgiveness if I do not furnish you with the details.

The cuffs I put on you will remove themselves by midnight tonight. I have it in good faith that whatever plans Voldemort has will either fail or be complete by that time. I am hopeful that they will fail, but in either case you will be free of restrictions. I would not begrudge you your revenge when that time comes.

Harry paused at that sentence, read it again. Riddle vocalised his suspicion.

"He knows he's going to die."

While I will not apologise for placing these cuffs on you, I would like to apologise for something else: I am sorry that, as of writing this letter, I have yet to determine a safe method through which you can destroy Nagini. I fear that it may one day come to the most unfortunate decision: that a sacrifice must be made.

This is a decision that belongs to neither you nor myself, but to those who would pay the ultimate price: Sirius, James, Hermione, Neville, Ginny, Tyler, and Cid.

I will not burden you with the responsibility of expressing this possibility to them. That weight rests solely on my shoulders. All I can ask of you is your understanding, though not your forgiveness, that for all the pain such an eventuality will cause you, it may be unavoidable.

However, I stress that this is only a possibility. It may still be that Bill Weasley will discover a way to break the Word of Death Curse, a task he has been tirelessly pursuing since last summer. There is still hope yet.

So I leave you with this explanation. I know it will earn me no forgiveness, but I hope it will at least allow you to understand my reasons.

Respectfully yours,

Albus Dumbledore

"What's that?"

Harry looked across to the next bed, where Draco was sitting up and rubbing his eyes, yawning. His hair stuck out at all angles until he ran a hand through it, after which it only stuck out at some angles. Around them, the rest of the dorm was waking with grumbles (Blaise), grunts (Crabbe), and a thump of hitting the floor (Goyle). Theo was already up and gone, which wasn't unusual; he was an early riser, no matter how late he went to bed.

Harry looked back down at the letter. He hadn't told Draco—or Snape—about the plans for that day. He didn't want them worrying. Draco might be peeved at him later, but Harry's instincts said it was safer for him not to know, just in case things went wrong.

"Nothing," he lied, and vanished the letter. "Come on, let's shower before all the hot water's gone."

Draco grunted, but got to his feet and fetched his wash things. Harry washed and dressed quietly, thoughts still with the cuffs and Dumbledore's letter. Before he left the dorm for breakfast, he Wished for the cuffs back, then Wished for no one except Dumbledore to pay attention to them. They were useless, but there was no need for Dumbledore to know that just yet.

"And Sirius and James," Riddle said as Harry left Slytherin, bag stuffed with his History notes and books covering topics he thought would be on the NEWT. His Ancient Runes exam had been on Monday (he thought it went well) and History was that afternoon, so he was spending the morning revising in the library. "You know they're the ones who told him about that mark on your arm."

So much for looking out for him, Harry thought bitterly, and adjusted the Wish.


The morning passed with the fast-slow duality that occurred when you were waiting for an event that you both feared and just wanted to get done. His confidence over the NEWT exam wasn't as high as it had been over the OWL, which covered mostly European history. The NEWT had more world history, and he wasn't as well versed in that. It didn't help that he kept getting distracted from his revision by angry thoughts at Dumbledore and Sirius, and fear over that evening's plans.

He intended to kill Dumbledore. He wasn't sure whether to make it look like an accident, make it appear as if someone else had done it, or just accept the deserved blame, but he was going to kill him. He would make sure Dumbledore knew it was him, even if he disguised it to everyone else; he wanted the bastard to know that his actions this morning had earned him Harry's absolute hatred.

He wasn't sure what to do about Sirius. He wasn't angry enough with him to kill him, especially as it would also kill James who Harry had no real anger towards, but he wanted Sirius to know that Harry held him in contempt, too. For now, all he'd been able to do was pointedly ignore looking at Sirius during breakfast (at which Dumbledore had been conspicuously absent, the coward) and feel smug about the concerned look Sirius got as Harry appeared unbothered by the restriction on his magic. For anything else, Harry was willing to see how things went and take any opportunity that presented itself.

He got a small chance at lunch. Dumbledore was absent then, too, but when Harry was halfway through picking at his sandwich, Sirius came up behind him.

"Harry—"

Harry stiffened in his seat as though surprised, although he'd seen Sirius coming, then said in his coldest voice possible, "Fuck off."

There were gasps from the students nearby. The fact that Sirius was his godfather didn't stop him being a teacher and no one spoke to a teacher like that.

"Harry, can I—"

Harry twisted and glared up at him. He didn't know it, but his expression would have made Voldemort think twice about speaking. It made Sirius back up hastily, hands raised in surrender.

"Alright," he said quietly. "We'll talk later."

Harry just snorted dismissively and turned away. Sirius slouched off. The sixth years sitting around Harry all stared, but it was Draco who asked, "What the hell was that about?"

"We had a fight."

"About what?"

"Tell you later."

Draco frowned unhappily, but he nodded. No one else seemed to dare ask any questions, but there were whispers up and down the table and Harry could only imagine what sort of rumours were being born.

The exam that afternoon went nicely—better than Harry'd hoped. There were no questions that completely stumped him, although he was sure there were some he could have been more detailed on, and his thoughts stayed nicely away from murder and infiltration (at least any that wasn't committed more than fifty years ago).

Draco had a free period last on Fridays, and Harry's exam was over by then, so they got several hours to spend to themselves. The spent some time in the Room of Requirement, but after that they went out to the grounds, both of them unwilling to stay shut inside on such a nice day. They flew for a bit, both nestled on Draco's broom, then joined a large group of students hanging out by the lake.

It was made up of a mix of years and houses, and discussion was centred on a post-exams party planned for that night, primarily for OWL and NEWT students. Harry was invited, but he was getting antsy about the night's plans by then and really didn't feel up to a boisterous party with lots of people, especially as he would have to make sure they all returned to their houses by curfew. He didn't want any students roaming the castle by the time Voldemort came; he couldn't risk anyone getting caught in the middle of things if it took a turn for the worse.

He spent the time between dinner and curfew with Hermione and Neville, outfitting a classroom into the living room he used to use and bringing out Hermione's old Monopoly board. He and Hermione were pretending to forget that she knew about his sexual antics with Draco and Tyler, and she hadn't told Neville, so things weren't awkward between them. Hermione was also a lot more relaxed now that her Arithmancy exam was out of the way; she did start to worry over the results, but Neville and Harry pelted her with multicoloured bubbles that painted her skin and clothes until, laughing, she begged for mercy.

It was quarter to nine when Logan Sparrow (who Hermione was not going out with despite their attendance at Slughorn's Christmas party; "it was just a fun date," she'd told Harry) turned up. He looked momentarily surprised at the state of the classroom they'd commandeered, and then said, "Professor Dumbledore wants to see you, Hermione, Longbottom. I'm supposed to escort you there."

Harry narrowed his eyes as Hermione and Neville exchanged surprised looks.

"What's this about?" Harry asked.

"I don't know," Logan said. "I was just asked to fetch them. You should get back to Slytherin, Evans. It's almost curfew. But fix this room first or you'll lose us points and the house cup is too close to risk that this late in the year."

Harry nodded stiffly and told Hermione he'd pack up the Monopoly game and get it back to her. Harry watched them go, the room around him returning to normal and the Monopoly board and pieces returning themselves to the box. He was tempted to follow, but he was remembering Dumbledore's letter and talk of sacrifice, and he didn't want to see his friends faces when they got asked if they were willing to die to defeat Voldemort.

Left by his friends, Harry conjured parchment, ink, and quill, and wrote a letter he really didn't want to. There was a strong chance he would be wanted for murder by midnight and he'd have to leave the school; he couldn't do that without leaving an explanation for Draco. But when he didn't know what would happen, he couldn't explain things clearly. In the end, all he could say was that whatever happened, Harry would be in contact with him.

He was wondering whether to write something for his other friends when his Dark Mark burned. It was a good excuse to write nothing; he couldn't explain anything in just a letter. Maybe, depending on what happened tonight, he would Wish their memories back to them of what really happened a year ago. They deserved that much.

Harry sent the letter for Draco to the Slytherin dorms and Wished the Monopoly box to Hermione's room, then set off.

"Be careful," Riddle murmured as Harry left the castle.

When he teleported to the hospital, it was completely and utterly abandoned.

"What the hell…" he murmured, blue eye scanning as far as it could, peering through walls into as many rooms as he could see. There was no sign of life anywhere, and he didn't have the growing ache in his head that always began when he was in Voldemort's presence.

"The mark!" Riddle said. "It's supposed to take you to him. You didn't follow it, you just teleported here."

Harry tried to remember if he'd ever followed the mark when answering a summons. Had he even the first time, or had he just automatically come to the place where he'd been held prisoner?

"Apparate," Riddle suggested. "The mark is still burning; focus on that and don't teleport—Apparate."

Harry hoped he could. He closed his eyes, gave all his attention to the pain his arm, let it be all he thought about even as it made his arm twitch and he grit his teeth. He thought he could feel a connection between himself and Voldemort, and it was suddenly really easy to twist on the spot, vanish, and reappear somewhere else. He knew he'd Apparated because it felt different—the squeezing sensation of being thrust through something too small instead of the dissolving feeling of his normal teleportation—and because, as soon as he reappeared, there was a familiar pain beginning in his head.

He opened his eyes. He'd appeared before Voldemort, surrounded by a considerably larger number of people than Harry had seen before or was expecting Voldemort to bring to the infiltration. Were all these people really Death Eaters? They couldn't possibly be.

"Never mind them," Riddle said with an unusual quaver in his voice. "Look…"

Harry looked, tilting his head up and already knowing what he would see, knew it from the chill in his bones, not yet close enough to trigger a seizure or overwhelm him with bad memories, but enough to be distinguishable—Dementors.

"Harry," Voldemort's cold voice said warningly, and Harry gave a bow.

"My lord," he greeted politely, "I wasn't expecting your summons so early."

"You should always expect my summons," Voldemort said.

"Of course, my lord, forgive me."

Voldemort raised a hand, gesturing expansively to the entourage behind him. "The time of the attack is at hand."

His gesturing hand moved around to point over Harry's head. Harry turned and felt a chill run down his spine and twist about to settle like a heavy iceberg in his stomach. He knew this day would come, but it didn't make him dread it any less.

Behind him, less than half a mile away, was Hogwarts; they were on the path running to the castle from Hogsmeade train station.

"We march on Hogwarts!" Voldemort announced.

The group surged forward, Voldemort leading, Harry close behind with others that Harry assumed were Voldemort's most trusted. He recognised the masks of Lucius, Antonin, and Bellatrix among them.

As they moved, Harry made a quick Wish for everyone in Hogsmeade to return to their homes or stay inside the pubs. Hopefully that would at least minimalise any troubles with the residents. He didn't think Voldemort would go out of his way to attack the village when his focus was the castle, but he wasn't sure if some of the others might be sent to 'keep things under control', so to speak. Half of him hoped they would, just so there was less people attacking the castle itself.

He also made a carefully worded Wish for Voldemort to not the use the Cruciatus Curse on him. He couldn't make Voldemort forget it—that would be too obvious—but a decision not to use it would hopefully slip by without notice. It only left the question of how Voldemort would try to attack Harry instead, as he surely would.

"We just have to make sure to get him first," Riddle murmured. "We planned for this. We can do it. Just be wary and pay attention."

Despite the size of the group, they were quiet as they moved, no one speaking, most of their footsteps so muffled that Harry thought they must have used charms. As he'd thought, some of the group peeled off towards the village when they reached the fork in the road, while the rest of them turned towards the school.

Once they turned the last bend and the school gates were visible just 500 feet ahead, it became clear that their presence had been noticed. Voldemort didn't seem surprised—but then, the Dementors must have been the biggest giveaway—and gestured Harry forwards to walk beside him, ordering him to remove his mask. Harry slid it up reluctantly, letting it sit on his hair, a clear indication that he was no prisoner.

Some half dozen Aurors were collected before the gates. At the sight of Harry and Voldemort they faltered momentarily, but then stood their ground, wands raised. One of them had already conjured a shield, and another sent a Patronus towards the school, presumably as messenger.

Then, as the Aurors prepared to attack, the rest of the Death Eaters rounded the bend, and the Aurors' bravery faltered. Voldemort raised his own wand, but before he could get off a spell, Harry Wished for the Aurors to lose courage and flee. Four of them vanished with a crack of Apparition, but two of them crashed through the school gates and ran for the castle, wands waving behind them to make the gates slam into place and lock shut again. Jeers and laughter rose up from the crowd behind Harry, their confidence boosted at the Aurors' cowardice.

"Get us in, Harry," Voldemort said as they approached the gates.

Harry hesitated, but not for as long as he probably should have. He was letting Voldemort himself, and numerous Death Eaters, into Hogwarts, into the one place that was supposed to be safe. He—Harry—was breaching that place of security, where parents trusted their children to be safe from the ravages of war. Even with a plan in mind, there was something unforgivable about letting these people onto Hogwarts grounds.

But then, Hogwarts had never been safe for him, and he'd done a lot of unforgivable things in the past year.

He Wished, the gates swung open, and they walked in untouched by the Ministry and Dumbledore's best protective magic.

They were halfway up to the castle when the front doors swung open and the teachers poured out, with the two Aurors who'd not Apparated away. Dumbledore led them, coming straight down the stone steps from the castle with no sign of surprise or apprehension at seeing so many people invading the school. The rest of the staff spread out on either side of him, presenting a barrier between the school and Voldemort's forces, and several of them did looked stunned to see Harry at Voldemort's side.

Voldemort lifted a hand, and the people behind him stopped, some of them spilling sideways to create a line wider than that made by the teachers. Even with that, they still stood at least three deep—four or five in places—and it was like seeing an army facing a tiny group of hopeful rebels.

That was, Harry supposed, exactly the case.

Voldemort was the first person to speak, breaking the silence under the twilight sky, his bald white head almost glowing slightly under the gibbous moon. Twenty feet across from him, Dumbledore was equally well lit, the moon making some of the white strands in his beard glow silver, the rest of him backlit by the lights spilling out of the castle's front doors. On either side of the two leaders, everyone else was just dim shadows.

"Have you come to surrender?" Voldemort asked Dumbledore, pitching his voice so it carried to everyone.

"I will never surrender to you, Tom," Dumbledore replied calmly.

"Not even for the safety of your students?"

"Not for anything."

"I wonder what your students think of that." Voldemort put a hand on Harry's shoulder, and Harry couldn't suppress a shiver at the touch. "What say you, Harry?"

"I'm not sure my opinion counts for much," Harry said, his own voice not nearly as loud and carrying as Voldemort and Dumbledore's. He knew his answer wasn't what Voldemort wanted to hear—the hand on his shoulder dug nails into his skin, even through his robes—but it wasn't enough to earn a reprimand or suspicion. "My opinion on Dumbledore is biased."

"Harry, you don't need to stand by him," Dumbledore said. His tone didn't change, perhaps realising that treating Harry as anything other than an equal to himself and Voldemort would only make Harry hate him more.

Movement down the line of teachers drew Harry's attention and he glanced over to see James restraining Sirius, whose face was twisted with anger and worry.

Voldemort laughed. "Is that your great persuasion, Dumbledore?"

Dumbledore ignored him, gaze never leaving Harry. "You were forced into this, but you needn't. We understand your position—the other teachers and I, your godfather, even Bill."

He gestured as he spoke and at that name Harry's blue eye snapped away from watching the crowd behind him to focus on the only ginger-haired adult among the teachers. Bill Weasley stood between Professors Flitwick and Vector, and Harry knew, immediately, what it meant. He knew why Hermione and Neville had been called to the headmaster's office earlier.

But what if he was wrong? Maybe it wasn't good news. Maybe it was bad. Bill didn't exactly look satisfied with a job well done, but then who would in the face of Voldemort's army?

Dragging his gaze away from Bill, Harry sneered at Dumbledore. "You know full well I can't turn away from my lord, even if I wanted to." That caused murmurs among the teachers and Sirius called Harry's name, but Harry ignored it all. He was painfully aware of Voldemort's hand on his shoulder and he had to be careful about what he said.

"Harry, this war can be won without paying the ultimate price. I have made sure of it. You cannot trust that man to protect your friends. He will only tear this world apart."

The ultimate price… his friends' lives. Harry was right, he was sure now that's what Dumbledore was telling him. The Word of Death Curse was broken.

"But you still want him dead."

Harry lifted his chin. "Maybe he would, and maybe he won't, but I still wouldn't stand by you, no matter what you do for me now."

"Do you mean to say that you've truly given your loyalties to him?"

"Are you surprised?" Harry asked, anger seeping into his voice, stepping forwards, Voldemort's hand falling from his shoulder. "Did you really not see this coming?"

"Harry!" Sirius called again, breaking free of James. Harry snapped his gaze over, jerked his wand up, and Sirius tripped, crashing to the ground. Vines leapt out of the earth and wrapped around him, holding down his arms and legs and gagging his mouth. James immediately dropped down beside him and aimed his wand to the vines, so Harry tied him down too.

"I don't want to hear anything from you, Sirius. I told you before, I'm not the godson you want, and you're not the godfather I want."

"This is your choice then?" Dumbledore said, his voice now hard and unforgiving. "You stand beside him?"

"My choice?" Harry repeated with a bitter laugh. "No, Dumbledore, it's not my choice. He forced me into it, but you forced me to stand against you just as well." He lifted his hands, letting his sleeves fall back to reveal the cuffs around his wrists. "Yesterday, I was willing to hold you in unforgivable contempt. Today, I want to kill you."

Harry had to give credit where it was due—Dumbledore disarmed him of his wand before Harry even had time to register that he was attacking. The wand flew across the space between them and Dumbledore picked it out of the air like a Seeker making an easy catch.

"I won't—" Dumbledore began, and then broke off as both Harry's wand and his own vanished from his hands. He took only a second to be startled, then he looked up and around, expression grave, eyes scanning the crowd. Harry held up the wands, and judging from the shocked look on Dumbledore's face, Harry could guess he'd been expecting the Assistant to be the one responsible for the attack.

"Then he thought the Assistant broke Voldemort into the school? Or did he think Voldemort broke the perimeter under his own strength?"

Harry didn't know, or care.

"Did you think," he said, vanishing the cuffs around his wrists, "that I would leave myself vulnerable to those things again, headmaster?"

"I confess I don't know how you're unaffected by them," Dumbledore said, his firm tone gone now. It wasn't the politeness of his initial greeting, but it wasn't quite afraid.

Harry said nothing, just gave him a look that made it quite clear Dumbledore would have to be a moron if he thought Harry would reveal his secrets.

"The time has come," Voldemort said. "Kill him, Harry."

There was a surge of noise from the teachers. Several of them, including McGonagall and Bill Weasley, rushed forward to stand before Dumbledore, but before they could reach him, or Voldemort or the Death Eaters could raise their wands to stop them, Dumbledore's voice rang out.

"No! Stay back."

He was utterly commanding now. There was still no fear in his voice, but there was something, the amalgamation of age and earned respect and inherent power, that demanded obedience. The teachers who'd come forwards stopped abruptly and even the Death Eaters around Harry kept their wands only half raised.

"You will all stand back," Dumbledore ordered his staff, looking at each of them in turn. "Not one of you will attempt to defend me."

"Albus—" McGonagall began, but Dumbledore cut her off.

"I forbid it, Minerva. If I am to die, then so be it, but I will not have your lives torn down as well."

"An admirable sacrifice," Voldemort sneered. "They will make a martyr out of you, Dumbledore, but it will be in vain. Do it now, Harry."

Dumbledore's gaze settled on Harry. Harry raised his wand.

"I won't regret this," he told the Headmaster, and cast the Killing Curse for the first time in his life.

In the time it took the bolt of green light to pass from Harry's wand to Dumbledore's chest, and for Dumbledore to be thrown backwards to land limply on the ground, Harry made three Wishes. The first disarmed Voldemort and all his Death Eaters, sending their wands to hover twenty feet above them. The second conjured the same rune-etched shackles that Voldemort used on Harry a year earlier, and snapped them around Voldemort's own wrists. The third created a single massive cage around them all, solid steel bars appearing from nowhere to surround them all. They pushed in, forcing the Death Eaters to huddle into a tight crowd.

"You could have made another Horcrux with this," Riddle said, and then, "Dementors."

Harry looked up. They'd been swarming high above them all, perhaps held at bay by Voldemort's command, but now they were starting to swoop lower. They weren't yet close enough to trigger a seizure, so Harry made a Wish before they could get that close. Right now, the last thing he needed was to be incapacitated.

He wasn't sure if Dementors could die, so he sent them away. He didn't want to return them to Azkaban, not after they'd defected from Ministry control so easily, and he didn't want to send them anywhere they might end up attacking innocent people, so he sent them to Mars. He honestly wasn't sure if his power stretched that far, but the Dementors vanished so he had to assume so.

A couple of teachers and one of the Aurors had rushed to Dumbledore's side, but the others were too stunned to move. Fortunately none of them had the nerve to attack Harry in revenge, and most of them were now gaping at the caged people behind him.

McGonagall was the one to finally break the stunned silence. "You betrayed him."

"He threatened my friends," Harry said simply, "and you, and the other teachers and students. But the curse is broken now, isn't it?"

He looked to Bill, who nodded jerkily, looking angry and upset and apologetic all at once.

"That's what he was trying to tell you, didn't you realise?"

He sounded like he wasn't sure if he wanted Harry to say yes so he could hate Harry absolutely, or say no so he could believe Harry wouldn't have killed Dumbledore if he'd realised.

Harry turned away without answering. He had all he needed to know. His friends were safe from the curse.

He spoke again to McGonagall. "Four of the Aurors guarding the gate Disapparated. I'm guessing they went to the Ministry and reinforcements will arrive soon. Can you handle this lot until they arrive?"

McGonagall looked over the Death Eaters, pale, her lips pressed so tightly together they were barely more than a slash across her face. "You're leaving?"

"Going to Azkaban isn't on my agenda, professor."

She snapped her gaze back to him. "Did you mean what you said? You don't regret…?"

She seemed unable to finish the sentence, but everyone knew what she was asking and they all paid attention to hear his answer, even the Death Eaters stopping their struggles.

"No," Harry said quietly, "I don't, but I'm sorry if that upsets you."

McGonagall gave a single, sharp burst of humourless laughter. "Mr Evans… Harry…" She struggled for a moment, eventually shook her head, and said sadly, "Goodbye, Harry."

Harry felt a tightness in his chest at her tone and expression. He didn't regret killing Dumbledore, but he regretted how it made her feel towards him. McGonagall had always been kind to him, had always looked out for him as much as any teacher could. If Lily had still been alive, Harry hoped she would have had a little bit of Minerva McGonagall in her. It genuinely hurt to have her opinion of him sullied, no matter how well deserved.

Harry held out Dumbledore's wand, handle first. McGonagall took it, and Harry turned away. Bill Weasley threw a curse at him, but Harry had half expected some kind of retaliation as soon as his back was turned and he easily blocked the spell. His gaze, both eyes, fell on Voldemort, and he smiled. He knew he shouldn't brag, but he wanted to make one thing clear.

"Just so you know, I didn't kill Dumbledore because you told me to. I always planned to betray you today; I would have taken away your voice and put you to sleep so you couldn't kill my friends even if Bill Weasley hadn't broken the Word of Death Curse. I killed Dumbledore because I wanted to."

Voldemort's only reaction was to narrow his gaze, but he never had been very expressive.

"Harry!" Sirius yelled. Harry didn't look around, figuring someone had released him from the vines. He didn't care what Sirius had to say.

He was just about to put Voldemort in a coma when he heard the front doors of Hogwarts swing open. He didn't trust the Ministry not to screw up and for Voldemort to get free as soon as he was in their custody. Better for everyone if Voldemort was in a permanent sleep, but not the apparently-dead coma that Harry had put Snape into last year, although he'd considered it over the past few weeks. He wanted the arresting Aurors to know that Voldemort was still alive, so they wouldn't do something stupid like cremate him. They didn't need Voldemort's spirit going off to hide only to return once more in another decade. Voldemort would die as soon as Harry was ready to destroy the rest of his Horcruxes, but no sooner.

But then a familiar voice yelled his name. He spun, all his attention focusing on Draco as he rushed out the front door, almost falling as he hurried down the stone steps.

That was when the knife buried in the back of his shoulder.


The next few minutes passed in painful, terrified confusion for Harry. He fell to his knees at the impact of the knife, gaze still on Draco, letting him see the horror that crossed his face. He tried to reach around and pull the knife out, but the movement sent pain searing through his back and chest, almost enough to make him collapse. He fell forward, catching himself on one hand, and grit his teeth, Wishing for the knife to vanish instead.

Nothing happened.

At the edge of his vision, Riddle was down on his hands and knees as well, trembling with pain and oddly see-through. He was gasping for breath and looked confused and afraid, which for some reason terrified Harry almost as much as not being able to do magic.

Wands clattered down and people shouted. The Aurors and teachers started throwing spells, bolts of light and wind whizzing around and over Harry. He heard Draco yell his name and saw Sirius try to reach him, but all of a sudden Death Eaters swarmed forwards, clutching their wands and fighting back.

Harry got to his knees, gasping through pain and fear, and scoured the grass for his wand, dropped when he fell. He didn't know why his Wishes weren't working, but with his wand he could cast, he had to cast—

He saw it, not six feet away, and lunged for it in an ungainly motion, ending up sprawled on the ground, fingers barely brushing the wood at the same moment someone's bare foot came down on the wand and snapped it in two. The sudden spike of angry pain in Harry's head told him who it was just as much as the sight of a bare foot.

He lifted his head, gaze moving up the tall, black-robed form, past unbound wrists, to settle on Voldemort's unforgiving white face.

"You're not the only one that planned a double cross today, Harry, and you're not the only one that took precaution against magical bindings."

A passing curse disturbed the air above Harry. It had no light, but as it flew by, familiar runic tattoos were briefly visible on Voldemort's skin, glowing in ultraviolet and covering not only his wrists but every bit of skin that Harry could see, right from his bald head to his bare toes.

Voldemort flicked his wand and Harry screamed as his wrists were suddenly flayed, strips of skin coming away as if he'd stuck them in a paper shredder. The broken remains of his own tattoos became briefly visible on the undamaged skin between wounds before they were covered in blood.

With a few sharp flicks of Voldemort's wand, the chains that'd been around his own wrists two minutes ago flew over and latched themselves around Harry's. They wrenched upwards to pull Harry up into the air, until he hung several feet above the heads of the fighters.

For a moment, he blacked out from the agony of his wrists and shoulder. When he came to, he was drifting forwards. The crowd below was moving into the castle, the fight mostly over, the teachers overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Some of Voldemort's people—ones without masks, probably werewolves and other witches and wizards who supported the cause but had never been inducted as actual Death Eaters—stayed outside, spreading across the grounds or moving down towards the gates, presumably to guard against the incoming reinforcements.

The rest of them headed inside to the Great Hall. There, the house tables were vanished and the teachers and Bill Weasley, some with torn and bloody robes and others showing signs of curses, were corralled into the centre while Death Eaters spread around the edges, wands at the ready. Riddle sprawled against one wall, weak and still weirdly see-through. Harry stayed floating above them, and Dumbledore's corpse was flung up to hang nearby, a macabre trophy. Or perhaps an example of Harry's upcoming fate.

Voldemort sat in the only remaining furniture, the chair that Dumbledore normally sat in. Although the chair was more elaborate than those used by the other teachers, Harry never realised until now how much it looked like a throne.

As some of the Death Eaters removed their masks, Harry realised there were some missing. He didn't see Antonin or Lucius among them, nor was James in the group of teachers underneath Harry. Other teachers were absent too, but Harry wasn't sure exactly which of them had been present before so he didn't know if the missing were dead or hadn't been out in the fight in the first place. He saw McGonagall, unharmed, and Sirius, but he was more concerned by the realisation that Draco wasn't anywhere in the hall.

"Where's Draco?"

All eyes turned up to him. Several of the Death Eaters were smirking and sneering, others looked as if they wanted to curse him. The teachers mostly looked horrified and afraid, but he saw conflict in some of their eyes as they took him in, and Professor Vector looked as if she thought he was getting exactly what he deserved.

"Speak up, Harry," Voldemort called.

Harry sucked in a breath that hurt and demanded again, "Where's Draco?"

Voldemort looked around the room with a false look of concern. "You're right, he is conspicuously absent. Where is young Mister Malfoy?"

The question wasn't aimed at anyone in particular, but Bellatrix, one of those who'd removed their masks, stepped forward. Her face was still half puckered by burn scars. "Lucius took him aside."

"There," Voldemort said to Harry with a mocking smile, "he is perfectly safe."

He flicked his wand and the knife in Harry's shoulder drew out slowly, eliciting a whine of pain from him. Once it was free, it drifted down to Voldemort, who plucked it out of the air and cleaned the blood from the blade. It was an expensive looking but practical small dagger, the handle inlaid with gold filigree and a blue gem set into the hilt.

"This is a remarkable blade," Voldemort said conversationally. "I picked it up in Iran a few months ago. It belonged, a very long time ago, to Cyrus the Great."

Harry's breath hitched. Voldemort's gaze flicked up to him, his teeth bared in a smile.

"I see our young historian recognises it."

"I thought it was a myth," Harry said, drawn as always when it came to discussions of history. "None of the books could confirm its existence."

The blade of Cyrus the Great, rumoured to have been enchanted by his royal consort so that any witch or wizard cut by it would be rendered as powerless as a Muggle as long as they bled from a wound it inflicted. It was said Cyrus had killed his consort with it in a fit of rage, then buried it with her in guilt, but neither her tomb or the dagger had ever been found.

"In my experience, a great deal of things that books dismiss as myths are true. That is why practical experience is as important—more so, even—to education as theory."

Below Harry, Sirius suddenly staggered and gasped, clutching at his chest.

"James!"

McGonagall reached out to aid him, but Sirius shoved her away, pushing through to the edge of the teachers and aiming his wand at Voldemort.

"What did you—"

A curse slammed into him, knocking him off his feet to land writhing on the floor, wand rolling away. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. His eyes rolled in his head and a viscous black liquid dripped out of his ears, eyes, and nose.

"Bellatrix," Voldemort said, and Sirius slumped. He lay gasping for breath, coughing weakly but managing an angry glare as Bellatrix stalked up to stand over him, her wand pointed down at his head.

"You've no right to talk to my lord like that, blood traitor."

Sirius rolled over and spat at her feet. She kicked him in the face.

"Enough, Bellatrix," Voldemort said, rising to his feet as the doors to the Great Hall swung open. "We have children to set an example for."

Two Death Eaters entered the hall, masked, and stood aside to watch as the students of Slytherin filed in. Gasps and fearful cries rang through them at the sight of the people already amassed in the hall—one first year even sobbed—but they were pushed forwards to keep them from trying to flee.

Draco wasn't among them.

After the Slytherins came the Hufflepuffs, looking even more afraid, and then Antonin with the Ravenclaws, and finally, after a brief lull during which the teachers tried to calm the students, the Gryffindors arrived. They must have fought more than the other houses, because a couple were brought in unconscious and others had bruises or minor cuts. Neville was one of the unconscious and Hermione had a cut across her forehead, the blood looking even brighter against her starkly pale face when she saw Harry hanging helplessly in midair.

On the tail end of the Gryffindors, Lucius finally entered. James trailed after him, standing free and apparently unharmed, but with his head down and an attitude of absolute submission. Harry could guess what had been done to him; Lucius had taken back the Animancupium Bond.

But he really couldn't bring himself to care, because beside Lucius was Draco. He appeared unharmed and Harry, despite his own predicament, felt a deep rush of relief at the sight of him. As long as Draco was safe, he didn't care so much about himself, even if he was starting to feel weak from the blood loss.

Draco's gaze lifted to Harry and his face went bone white. He took a single step forwards, but Lucius grabbed his arm and hissed something at him, and Draco stopped. He stayed beside his father rather than join the rest of the students, but his gaze never once left Harry, even when Sirius furiously yelled James' name and scrambled to his feet with the clear intention of attacking Lucius.

He never made it. Lucius' only response to Sirius' outburst was to murmur something to James, who kept his gaze firmly fixed on the floor, but Voldemort flicked his wand and Sirius was wrenched backwards, crashing to the ground where he lay squirming like a pinned worm.

"You are far too much of an irritation, Mr Black," he said, moving to stand over Sirius. "I don't have the patience for outbursts such as yours tonight. Avada Kedavra."

There was a burst of green and Sirius went limp and still. Harry felt a sting of grief, regardless of the anger he felt towards Sirius. Despite everything, Harry couldn't forget that Sirius had been the first adult to offer him a real, welcoming home; that counted for something, no matter how bad things ended up between them.

Leaving Sirius' body where it lay, Voldemort returned to the chair he'd left, not sitting again but standing before it and looking across the hall. When he started talking, he did so with no thought to what he'd just done and the effect it would have on those watching, as if killing Sirius had been nothing more than squashing a spider.

"Welcome, students of Hogwarts. As you can see, your headmaster is dead. The boy beside him, one of your very own students, murdered him right out on the lawn. If you don't believe me…"

He raised his wand; several people flinched, and Harry would have been one of them if he'd been in a position to flinch, but Voldemort just made the blood coating Harry's arm scour away to reveal the Dark Mark.

"As you see, he is marked as my own. Given his current position, you may still question his loyalty to me, as you rightly should. He tried to turn on me this night and was overpowered, but he is still a murderer. Ask the teachers who witnessed it."

No one did, but there were questioning looks that turned to horror as the students saw the truth of it in their teachers' expressions. A murmur of noise went around the room, fearful whimpers and shocked gasps and grieving sobs.

"You need not fear me," Voldemort called over the noise, his aura and presence demanding silence. If he'd been a teacher, he would have been one of those in whose class no one dared misbehave, even without threats of detention and point taking. "I have no wish to harm you, even those of you unfortunate enough to be of impure blood. As long as you do not fight against me, all the Mudbloods will be returned to your parents unharmed."

"My lord," a voice called, and all eyes turned towards a masked Death Eater standing by the door. "The Minister For Magic is here, with the Heads of the D.M.L.E and D.O.M."

There was a soft gasp from the students and Harry saw Tyler start to tremble.

"Show them in," Voldemort ordered.

The Death Eater retreated, but quickly returned with Amelia Bones, Rufus Scrimgeour, and Marcus Fleetwood in tow. Amelia, to her credit, only looked briefly horrified by the sight that met her, and then returned her expression to one of anger. Marcus' gaze briefly swept the room to take in the situation before searching out Tyler, relief easing some of the wrinkles in his face when he saw him unharmed. Scrimgeour glowered at everyone, looking as if he was restraining himself from grabbing his wand and throwing curses.

The trio was guided forwards to stand before Voldemort. All three stood straight and uncowed before him.

"Minister, gentlemen," Voldemort greeted. "I shall do you the courtesy of being brief and to the point. I have the majority of wizarding Britain's children at my mercy. Albus Dumbledore is dead. The boy you might have turned to for a saviour is powerless. There is no one left who can stand against me."

He paused to let them absorb that. Scrimgeour glanced around and up to Harry, giving no sign as to what he thought of him. Marcus' gaze never stopped scanning the crowd, looking for threats maybe, or something else perhaps. Harry wasn't sure what sort of things the Head of the Department of Mysteries looked for in these situations. Amelia's eyes never left Voldemort.

"Surrender to me," Voldemort continued. "You are the three most important people in the Ministry of Magic. Surrender your positions so that my own people can step into place."

"If we refuse?" Amelia demanded to know.

Voldemort looked away from her. "Bellatrix."

There was no chance to stop it. She'd clearly known what was expected of her at this point, because she pointed her wand straight at the nearest student—Ed Coleman, one of Harry's former year mates—and said almost gleefully, "Avada Kedavra!"

The sound of Ed's body hitting the floor was lost amidst the screams. It took a moment to restore order, Death Eaters shouting and brandishing their wands until the terrified students settled down, leaving only the sound of sobs to fill the room. A girl Harry didn't recognise had dropped to her knees and pulled Ed's head into her lap, cradling it and crying silently over his limp body.

"I can promise you," Voldemort said to the three Ministry personnel, "that I will kill two-thirds of the student body before I simply give up and kill you, including your niece, Minister Bones, and your son, Mr Fleetwood. I would like to target only the Mudbloods, but the man I sent to fetch the school register seems to have got lost, so they will simply die at random. Then, of course, I will kill you anyway. You may as well surrender now."

"How many will you kill when you've taken command of the Ministry?" Marcus asked. Scrimgeour shot him a dark look, but Marcus' eyes never left Voldemort.

"Students? None, so long as they don't attack me. The children are our future, are they not?"

"And the rest of Britain's citizens?"

"Only those that give me reason."

Marcus looked down at Ed. Harry wondered if he knew that the boy was one of his son's friends. "It seems to me that you don't need much of a 'reason'."

"Do you agree to surrender?" was all Voldemort said.

Amelia, Scrimgeour, and Marcus looked around at the collected, terrified students; at the helpless expressions of the teachers and the smug ones of the Death Eaters; at the dead child on the floor and the dead headmaster in the air. At Harry himself, who they might have hoped would be their saviour, the one to defeat Voldemort again by some miracle, but who now hung in chains, physically weak and magically powerless and with a very short life expectancy.

Harry doubted there was anyone in that room who expected the answer to be anything other than what it was.

"We surrender."