A Worthy Ending

He was being moved.

The feeling of being held up by two enormous arms was enough to clarify that the man carrying him forth was Hagrid, and the sounds that tricked to his ears informed him of the presence of others: there was the unmistakable heavy trodding of a couple of giants, the scattered footsteps of regular death eaters, the chipper skipping of Lestrange, and the striding of Voldemort himself, easily recognizable by the soft hiss of a snake that Harry could no longer understand.

Under that song made of people moving, there was the distant noise of war going on in a castle that had acted as a school for a thousand years, and even fainter, the rustling of leaves of the Forbidden Forest. That particular sound irked: it felt off-tune, and it was different from the distant music of the tree that Harry had experienced in whatever the hell King's Cross had been.

A warm drop fell onto his face, and the Chosen One immediately realized that Hagrid was crying. His heart went out to him, he wanted to reassure him immediately: hadn't the kind soul suffered enough? Yet he held back. He knew what he had to do: Nagini and Voldemort had to die, in that order, then it would be over. Besides, Hagrid's not the best at keeping secrets.

The sudden hilarity at that thought almost broke his pretense of death, but with a titanic effort of will he squashed that feeling. Still, it was amusing: he had willingly walked to his death, he did come back, and his hope for a surprise attack had almost been broken by the countless memories of Hagrid 'Shouldn't have told you that.'.

Once he managed to dominate himself, he could feel the reassuring, silky weight of his Invisibility Cloak, of Ignotus' last gift, and even if his arms were strewn across his chest, he felt the wand that had belonged to Draco Malfoy dig uncomfortably in his pocket at each lumbering step that Hagrid took. Still, he had no idea how to go about killing that damned snake: for all of the relief that shedding the Horcrux in his scar brought him, for all of the reassuring warmth that came with the certainty of his next steps, he still lacked the skill to pierce through the uncountable protections that Riddle had assuredly woven around his familiar.

As he thought about how to go about killing the damn snake, the light from stars and moon managed to occasionally kiss his face through the canopy that was growing sparser and sparser, and impossibly, Harry could feel their touch like the a faint kiss on his skin, and the warmth that accompanied that sensation made him wish to open his eyes and immediately assault Tom Riddle, who was still walking nearby.

The sword of Griffindor. For all of the insane and absurd things that Harry had experienced in his life, the only possibility that came to mind was to get his hands on the sword. He needed it, just as he had needed help in the Chamber of Secrets, back in his second year.

Yet, he only had a wand whose loyalty had been won, and the Invisibility Cloak. He was this close to ending it, Voldemort hadn't been so close to mortality since he was sixteen, and yet, for all of the relative success of Dumbledore's plan, the end of the war could very well be on the moon.

Harry struggled to keep his face from scrunching up in a heavy frown: he needed that sword, and he had no idea how to go about that.

Soon enough, the entourage brought him to the castle, and he could hear Voldemort putting an end to the fighting, using Harry's dead body as some sort of stage from which he could claim his own superiority. The grass tickles.

The darkness beyond his closed eyelids receded minutely, and the Chosen One could tell that it was because of the dying night, instead than a magical source of light, and with the promise of dawn came the heartbroken cries of his friends and teachers, sounds that stabbed Harry's diaphragm, and for an instant, his breath hitched in his throat. He wanted to rise to his feet, to do something to reassure everyone, but he remained still: the surprise of his survival was an advantage he wasn't willing to squander just yet.

Lies and shouts rang above him, accompanied by the occasional spell and Riddle's nth failed attempt at squashing his opposition with a charisma that was long dead, but as Harry listened, thinking as he had never done before about what he needed to do, something else echoed above the battlefield that he still couldn't see.

Something Other.

Something that he had heard before, something that made him want to smile, as the soft echo grew into a cry, as if a bonfire growing from the meanest ember, or a crack in a dam growing until all of the water could push through. And that something held a quality that Harry had been unable to recognize in the distant Tree-that-wasn't-there in his mind's version of King's Cross.

Something worthy of announcing the imminent dawn.

Ethereal, with the same uncaring majesty of the dawn, a phoenix's voice rang above Hogwarts, bounced off the broken stones, and slithered into the hearts of the defenders: the tired found themselves straightening their shoulders, the hopeless gained a fierce glint in their eyes. Hands clenched on the handles of wands, and the spirit of those who had seen their hero as a dead body was lifted.

On the other hand, the attackers felt something completely different: that song was the crackling of a fire that burned too violently to be easily tamed, it was the woosh of air being devoured by a single flare. It was a rallying cry for an enemy that could still fight back. More than one Death Eather swallowed unconsciously, adjusting the grip on their wands while cold sweat suddenly ran down their backs.

Opening his eyes a fraction, Harry glimpsed the red and gold glint of a majestic bird: shined upon by several Lumos that fluttered aimlessly in the air and the warmer light of the castle's torches, Fawkes was flying lazily above everyone, and in a single second of his song, he had changed everything, because clutched in his claws, he could see a curled, floppy piece of dark fabric.

While the surprise of the phoenix's appearance momentarily stilled everyone, Fawkes let go of the Sorting Hat, which fell unerringly towards the still limp form of the Chosen One.

And even if Harry wasn't the brightest wizard on the world, he had excellent instincts: when the people were about to do battle once more, as Voldemort was raising his wand to strike the phoenix from the sky that was surrendering to the incoming dawn, he moved.

His wiry body sprang to his feet just as the Sorting Hat reached the height of his shoulders, and thrusting his instinct like never before, with the trained reflexes of the best Seeker Hogwarts had ever seen, his left hand grabbed the brim in a way that opened the artifact that had been part of the school since its founding, while his right plunged into its depths.

The surprise at his resurrection stilled everyone for another split second, while Voldemort could only see the slim back of his nemesis: a nemesis that he had killed. A boy that should have died again and again. Someone that he was sure had been dead.

Surprise gave way to hate tinged with panic in Voldemort's mind, but as his eyes fixed on his new target, Harry was already turning: his right hand slashing upwards with a silver sword that had once been used to slay a Basilisk.

The green eyes of Harry James Potter blazed with an inner fire as he took a step toward his prophetized enemy, his focus was as sharp as the edge of his weapon and it was fully pointed at the snake that had remained next to Voldemort.

The raised arm holding the Elder Wand was still descending towards the new threat when it became too late: the Sword of Griffindor had already parted skin, flesh, and bone as if they didn't exist, and Nagini was dead. The last tether that kept Tom Riddle's soul anchored to the realm of the living cut with outrageous ease as the Basilisk Venom imbued in the blade ate through the magical defenses put in place.

The legendary sword completed its ascending arc just as Voldemort managed to point his wand at Harry, from the corner of his eye, he spotted the snake blood he knew so well on the blade of his nemesis, and at that moment all hell broke loose.

The cries of stupefied awe at seeing Harry return from the death warred against the sudden thunder of hooves that rose from the forest, the relief that the Chosen One recognized as they belonged to Hermione, Ron, Ginny, and the others was drowned by the thundering shout of "HAGGER!", the hissed outrage of Voldemort himself vanished under the sharp cry of Buckbeak as his talons dragged bloody groves were the eyes of the remaining two giants should have been.

In that second of absolute chaos, the emerald, blazing gaze of Harry met the blood-curling, vermillion one of Voldemort, and the Sword of Griffindor was passed to his left hand while the right fished out Draco's wand from his pocket. He was ready.

Behind Voldemort, his army of Death Eaters, which had regrouped when Riddle had decided to showcase Harry's death, was being assaulted by a rampage of centaurs: where their arrows weren't enough to kill, they maimed or crippled, slowing down the wizards enough for them to be trampled, and with a twitch of Draco's wand, Hagrid was freed by the thick ropes that kept him in place.

The battle raged around the deadly Dark Lord and his nemesis, but nobody dared to come close. The world could be ending around them, but neither would blink: they remained still. Voldemort could barely contain his fury, the fear of seeing his magic rebound once more was the only thing stilling his hand, while Harry was considering what to say. As he had explained to the person he met in his version of King's Cross, he didn't care about punishing Riddle: the point was keeping other people safe from him, and whatever he would be subjected to once dead was beyond Harry's power to influence.

Not that he'd wish to if he could.

In the chaos surrounding the duo, Hagrid was delivering backhanded swings powerful enough to fling Death Eaters off their feet, while wizard fought wizard, witch cursed witch, and House Elves rallied at the call of Kreacher, who was severing Achille' Tendons with a butcher's knife while he sang praises about his Master Regulus.

Still, Harry remained at the ready, eyes blazing but calm, his heart hammering in his chest, but his hands steady. Voldemort kept the Elder Wand trailed upon him, a multitude of curses ready in his mind, hate raging like a maelstrom around him, and, unknowable to himself, fear stilling his hand.

The Chosen One kept his eyes on the enemy, but he couldn't help a faint smile when he heard the cries of victory every time an infamous Death Eater was struck down. Even with his sight concentrated on the Dark Lord, he heard when Bellatrix Lestrange herself fell: fighting against multiple opponents, she had been crippled by a House Elf's knife stabbed at the base of her spine.

There was something undeniably poetic in having the squeaky voice of Winky claim revenge on the Lestrange for the fate of the Crouch Family. Voldemort's red eyes darted to the side then, and his lips had peeled back while an inhuman hiss left his mouth. That was an opening like none other, but Harry didn't strike: he was ready, but he was following his gut, the moment was coming, but his instinct hadn't yet screamed at him.

While Riddle sought a solution and Harry considered what he could do to lessen the weight on his enemy's soul, neither attacked the other, and none was so foolish as to come too close to the Dark Lord, not when his fury was palpable, not when his magic lashed erratically around him, almost choking the very air that surrounded the duo. The greatest Dark Lord to ever live, and arguably the most powerful wizard alive, was seething, his apoplectic fury having pushed him beyond words.

When the distant cold of dementors made itself known, seeping out of the Forbidden Forest and trying to break the last act of defiance of the resistance, Harry's eyes flickered above the shoulder of his enemy, and without hesitation he let joy fill his heart: the distant memory of the Mirror of Erised turned into the mad laughter that he had shared with his friends, and finally, the certainty that he carried within since he had stepped up to walk to his death.

Draco's wand was pointed to the side as despair and fear broke without effect upon the form of Harry Potter, and he shouted a familiar incantation: "Expecto Patronum!"

Harry's voice rang clearly despite the chaos that surrounded the quiet, deadly bubble centered on Voldemort, and a great stag of starlight charged into the incoming darkness, having the same effect on his side that the phoenix's song had before: hope and dauntless determination exploded in front of him like a wave, washing over the distance between him and the Forbidden Forest in a split second. What was left of the night almost physically recoiled then, and everyone felt like the great stag was shining in them.

While the Dementors broke with their inhuman, screeching wail, the startled cry of Fawkes made Harry's attention snap back to his enemy, and to the incoming Killing Curse.

Nobody had ever accused Voldemort of being honorable, but Harry's Patronus didn't fade despite the Avada Kedavra that was about to take his life. And this time, there would be no Horcrux to die for him.

As it had once done for Dumbledore, Fawkes swept in and swallowed the green curse, exploding in flames while it was born again from the ashes, and by the time it landed on the ground, there was already a chirping, newborn chick.

"You never change, do you Tom?" Harry asked tiredly, his eyes now returning fully to his nemesis.

The Dark Lord's eyes widened in outrage: "You dare?"

With Draco's wand pointed at his enemy and Griffindor Sword in his left, the Chosen One regarded Voldemort with an otherworldly calm: the Horcruxes were gone, all of them: "Of course I dare."

Somehow, between the minutes of furious fighting around the duo and the explosive Patronus that had cleansed the Grounds from the presence of Dementors, the battle had died down, the sheer power of numbers had been enough to vanquish the forces of the Dark Lord. For the first time, Riddle's forces had been forced into an open confrontation, instead of a raid, they had been forced to an open assault under the sun, instead of striking from the dark.

In the East, the previously dark sky was lit with purple and pink and gold, a solitary cloud looked like it was a flag stabbed by sunlight itself, like a banner announcing the dawn, and Harry felt that the moment was coming close.

The fighting had died down, and of the enemy, only Tom Riddle was still standing: as ha had been unable to contribute to the battle, stilled by uncertainty in that impasse with the Chosen One, Hogwarts' Professors had been quick to take control of the fighting lines. Without the unmatched might and skill of Voldemort ready to direct his side, death eaters, snatchers, and every manner of an opportunist who had sided with him had been dealt with.

That meant that everyone was now ready to jump on the Dark Lord, but Harry shook his head without taking his eyes off his nemesis: "Nobody shall intervene," his voice was calm and unhurried, and his back held straight, "this is how it must be, this is how its going to end."

Another hiss left the lipless mouth of Voldemort as an angry spark left the tip of the Elder Wand: "Harry doesn't mean that, does he? Behind who will you hide now, Harry Potter? Who will die in your stead?"

"You will never harm anyone else." the Chosen One shook his head minutely, as if he was dismissing a mosquito, but his green eyes were still blazing, and everyone could feel how monumental those moments were, everyone could feel the invisible tension between the titanic Dark Lord and the impossible existence that was Harry Potter, "But before the end, try to think about al that you've done, and attempt to feel some remorse, because this is the last chance you'll have."

The words were so absurd, their meaning so outrageous, that even the faint muttering remaining among the observing crowd died immediately, and even the chirping of the newborn Fawkes halted, as if the creature too understood what was going on.

"What?" Voldemort's voice was deceptively soft, but one didn't need to be a Legilimens to be able to read the murder in his red eyes.

"This is your last chance," Harry spoke calmly, the thought of insulting his opponent never appearing in his mind: his purpose was to keep him from harming anyone else, and for that, he needed to die, but that was it, "try to be a man, instead of this caricature that you became, and repent for what you've done."

With his sacrifice in mind, the Chosen One suspected that Riddle couldn't even scratch another, never mind kill them: a distant part of his mind wanted Voldemort to understand just how he had been outmaneuvered by Dumbledore, just how much his blindness when it came to love had cost him, but it wouldn't be conductive to allow Voldemort to regret his actions, and so he kept quiet.

"Oh?" a startled, high and cruel laugh left the serpentine mouth of the Dark Lord, "And I suppose that in this fantasy of yours, this dream in which you're capable of winning against me, you'll let me live to regret my sins?"

"No." for the third time, Harry shook his head, "You'll die with the dawn, but I've held your soul in my hands, and if you don't repent now, you won't have another chance."

For another couple of second that could have lasted an age, the Chosen One and Voldemort stared at each other, and Harry could see the madness that chocked the doubt of his enemy in its infancy: for less than a fraction of a second, Tom Riddle's soul had quivered in uncertainity.

Then the dawn broke in the East, and what was left of the night, battered as it was by the majestic stag Patronus that calmly walked the outskirts of the forest, died.

With the rays of the sun flashing uncaringly over the world, the faces of Harry and Tom were hit at the same time, and green eyes blazed all the brighter while Voldemort shouted his last curse.

Once more, instinct guided Harry James Potter, and he simply lift his wand, the memory of King's Cross clear in his mind while his determination in seeing Voldemort gone surged forth. Distantly, the Chosen One thought he could hear the musical rustling of leaves, and the mysterious groaning of a tree too vast for the mind to comprehend.

There was a flash of searing light, and nothing remained of what had once been Voldemort.

Harry blinked, and his eyebrows rose as Draco's wand crumbled into ashes, only for his attention to land on the wand that had once belonged to Dumbledore.

While the hundreds of people around him started to shout in joy, the new day shining on the end of the war, Harry knelt with a huff and pocketed the Elder Wand, only to scoop up the newborn Fawkes in a handful of warm ashes.

Perched on a broken windowsill, a raven the size of a chicken was cawing loudly, and if one stopped to listen, it would have sounded like laughter.

AN

Yeah, I had to kind of remake this whole chapter because of hidden plot-building necessities that won't become clear before chapter 15 at the earliest, and I never understood (even if I enjoyed it) the final banter in the Deathly Hallows.

I mean, Dumbledore did everything he could to keep the Deathly Hallows in obscurity, the same with Horcruxes, and Harry casually talks about all of it in the Great Hall, with hundreds of people listening?

And don't get me started on Molly Weasley killing Bellatrix.