Disclaimer: I own nothing. The Two Towers is a great movie. This story was slightly inspired by Rudyard Kipling's The Jungle Book II. Thank you.
Duel
The magics of both sides had by now devastated the world. Once-familiar faces of 'good' were strange: grim, gaunt, and ruthless. So many had died over the course of these five years, magic and muggle alike picking sides and fighting to the end, that even the Dark Lord began to tire of the destruction. His losses were not as numerous as those of his enemy, but he had had fewer fighters to begin with. At this rate, the victor in the contest over the control of the world would have nothing left to rule over in the end.
Attempts to end this struggle in single combat had been made, many times; each time both sides broke the faith and brought a large army to the conflict, and each time both leaders escaped unharmed while their troops sustained heavy losses. This encounter, though, had been accidental. Two animagi on each side, and no way to apparate thanks to those muggle bombs spreading radiation in the upper atmosphere.
The terrain was typical of this new world. There was no vegetation, or even soil; instead they stood upon bare bedrock. The particular slab they were on was maybe ten feet in diameter, surrounded by crevices, crags, and piles of rubble created in some magical upheaval of the earth. Rocks jumbled against each other, fought each other, but all as though in a still photograph: the shapes were violent, but the stones themselves were deadly quiet. Over all this the sun cast a dark, unearthly glow. Somewhere up above the clouds of dust and ash and smoke it shone brightly, but down on the earth you couldn't even tell where the small amount of light came from. It seemed almost to emenate from the ground itself, to have been created in the fiery core of the planet and seeped up, over thousands of years, to light on the faces of these four men.
One was a small, balding man with one watery eye. The other one had been lost some time ago, and had been replaced with a shocking, swiveling bright blue magical eye. One of his hands had been cut off at the wrist and a silvery metal replica stood in its place. He whimpered a little to see his enemies, and looked up at the tall man beside him.
He was, as I have said, very tall; it was even more exaggerated by comparison with his servant. He was dressed in a flowing black robe that almost seemed to pull the light into it instead of passively absorbing it. The man had long, slender fingers and long sharp fingernails; these fingers had killed hundreds on their own, and had directed the deaths of millions more. They twitched, as though longing to rest on the boy's throat. His eyes, too, rested upon his adversary. They were deep red, and bloodshot also, and would have contrasted with his pale face if it had not been hidden in his hood. His lips, too, were red over pearly teeth; he had no nose to speak of. He stood as still as a statue, looking down with disdain upon the only two people who stood in his way.
One was of average height, with long, matted black hair and dull eyes. He was thin, almost emaciated. The casual observer would have been abhorred at this man's appearance, although more likely they would have killed him on sight. Each side believed him to be on the other, and only one living man counted him friend. That man stood beside him.
He was slightly taller, although much shorter than his adversary, about twenty-five years old, with unkempt black hair and fiery green eyes. He stood straight and proud, and as the strong wind blew past his bangs were parted to reveal a lightning-bolt scar, now blazing with a white light of its own in contrast with the dull red light of the earth.
These four men stared at each other. It was so simple, really. All that bloodshed had been meaningless. It all came down to a single battle, between the captains of the two armies. Only one could live.
"We are agreed, then," said the tallest one, breaking the silence that had reigned since their chance meeting. If it had been chance. "Peter and Black will determine who decides the form of battle."
"Yes," said the man with the glowing scar, "We are agreed."
Black looked into his ally's face, but he could find nothing there but the same cold concentration that had come the day she died, and had been there ever since. He looked away and pulled out his wand.
"Careful, Padfoot," the man whispered. Black nodded as Pettigrew pulled out his own wand.
"Begin!" shouted the two taller men together, their eyes still locked on each other.
Black growled and stooped a little, bringing his head to a level with Pettigrew's and looking straight into his eyes. The smaller man blinked, as though frightened, but raised his wand and shouted, "Crucio!"
He had aimed at Sirius' stomach, as it is always best to do with the Cruciatus curse: one short blast will temporarily disable an opponent no matter where it hits, and it is hard to duck below or jump above stomach level quickly enough to dodge a spell. Black, though, had stooped for a reason; not only did his stomach seem lower than normal, but his legs were winding up like a spring. He jumped over the curse, a good six inches over, and even before he landed he uttered his counter-attack. "Expelliarmus!" he yelled, and Pettigrew's wand flew out of his hand and into a crack in the rocks.
The small recoil from the spell combined with the rubble on the ground where he landed were enough to make Black stumble. Quick as a flash Pettigrew leaped towards his own wand, transforming in midair. Sirius recovered his balance just in time to see the rat crawl over a large rock. "Accio rat!" he shouted.
As he flew towards his opponent, Peter only had time to turn and ready himself for a quick attack in rat form. It would have been stupid to become human again: although it would have loosed the spell's hold on him, a human body without a wand would merely be a large, defenseless target. A moment later the rat's body jarred against Black's open hand. "Aha!" the man yelled, eyes alight with glee, but by the time he closed his hand the prize was gone. Pettigrew made a flying leap over to the wand hand, and one swipe of his knifelike silver claws cut the wand in two.
Not missing a beat, Sirius morphed into dog form and batted Peter to one side. Then he loped over to where Pettigrew's wand was caught in the crack. There was no way he would be able to get it out, so he pressed against one end. The wand snapped in half just as Peter, human again, leaped onto the dog's back.
"No!" Pettigrew cried as he saw the two pieces of wand. "Damn you!" Sirius had his neck twisted around and was snapping dangerously near to Peter's neck. Then he transformed, and was about to push the smaller man off when he felt the back of his head cave in. Pettigrew had smashed it, his silver fist stronger than any spell. With the last of his strength Sirius rolled over to strangle the man who had killed him; then he found that Wormtail was scrabbling away over a pile of rubble, a rat once again. He changed to a dog, caught the rodent in his paw, and bit off its tail. Then the small flicker of life went out of him, and a large black dog lay there, one more casualty of the war.
Peter squeaked mournfully and bent his head around to lick his wound. While a rat's tail is not vital to its survival, its loss precluded him from ever being human again: if he tried to transform, he would be missing the skin and muscle of his lower back. The organs would spill out and he would die.
"I am disappointed in you, Peter," said a cold voice. It was the tall man Pettigrew had been standing next to. Through the whole battle neither of the two uninvolved parties had stirred, or even broken eye contact. They stared at each other with gazes born of complex jinxes and countercurses, spells for which eye contact was a matter of life or death. "Still, I believe that counts as my victory."
"Choose the form of combat," said the other, and the scar flashed brightly for a moment, covering the ground with an ethereal light. Then it was gone, and once again all was doused in a dark red while a light chilling wind gusted past.
The red eyes glittered beneath the black hood. "No rules." He assumed a dueling stance, in mockery of his statement. The other man followed suit.
"Avada Kedavra!" he screamed, and his opponent leaped to one side as the green jet whizzed by.
Potter can do the killing curse? thought Voldemort with wonder, though he did not show it, but landed gracefully on his feet. "Crucio!" he bellowed, and Harry ducked under the spell, feeling it blow through his hair.
Harry had counted on hitting Voldemort with the first spell, relying on the element of surprise and the power of instantaneous death. Now he wasn't sure what to do. "Rictusemra!" he yelled, and silver light came shooting from his wand, but although it hit Voldemort squarely in the chast nothing happened. Then he remembered what that charm did. "Damn! He's not ticklish!" he muttered.
"Animus Impedimenta!" yelled Voldemort, lunging forward and then drawing quickly back.
Harry dropped into a somersault position and did two forward rolls. "Vicum," he said, and when he popped up in front of Voldemort there was a knife in his left hand. The Dark Lord had not expected this, and before he could curse Harry the knife had made a deep gash in his chest, and Potter's wand was pointed at him. With a sweep of his wand Harry Banished Voldemort, sending him flying into a large heap of rocks. Why does he look so happy? Harry wondered.
Then he was hit from behind. The life-seeking Impedimenta curse Voldemort had cast just a few seconds ago found him and stopped him with his wand in the air. The Dark Lord got up, a smile on his face. "Petrificus Totalus," he said smoothly, and Harry's arms and legs snapped to attention. Voldemort stepped up next to him and blew slightly. He fell over with a crash, and the Dark Lord grinned more widely. "Let's see if we can't break this body-bind, shall we?" He paused, relishing the moment. "I'm going to enjoy this. Crucio!"
Pain racked Harry's body, but he could not writhe, could not even scream. Voldemort pressed and pressed with his wand, making it more and more intense; still the victim could not move except to roll his eyes backwards in his head and wish for death. One minute. Two minutes. Five. Ten. Twelve minutes. Fifteen. Each second was excruciating, each moment more painful than anything he had ever experienced. Voldemort was surprised, yet pleased, that he lasted this long. Twenty minutes. Half an hour. Then it snapped.
The body-bind broke under the strain of the Cruciatus curse. Voldemort had never seen anything like it. He was standing right next to Harry, believing that position to be safe, and when the young man was free of his chains the pain made him roll over sharply – right into the Dark Lord's legs. He fell, releasing the curse. Harry stood shakily, trembling, marvelling that he was still alive. His opponent forgotten for a time, he wiggled his fingers, amazed that they still bent to his will.
"Expelliarmus!"
The force of the spell sent Harry flying through the air until he crashed into a pile of rubble. Some rocks fell, pinning him there as Voldemort slowly advanced. Harry saw in those red eyes that there would be no torture this time. There would only be death.
The Dark Lord stalked closer, malice glittering in his red eyes. There could be no escape this time. His prey was going to die. Then the man, practically a boy, seemed to get an idea. He looked up into Voldemort's eyes, scar shining clean and bright. Then he vanished.
Harry crouched behind a small rock, looking up at Voldemort. Any minute now he was going to figure out what happened and… Harry crossed his claws. As long as it was a snake, he'd be okay.
Voldemort sniffed. "Musk," he said out loud, though it was directed toward himself. "I don't know the animal. It wasn't here befo – oh. What a fool I am! He's – an – animagussss." Even as he spoke he transformed, moving from English to Parseltongue as he shrank and lengthened into that most feared of snakes, the King Cobra. "Where iss it, where iss it? Or perhapsss, what iss it?" The snake reared up, sniffing the air. "A rodent! A trickssy little rat, perhapss, or a moussse?" It looked over at Pettigrew, Wormtail no longer, who was terrified to see a snake. "Ssstupid little thing, iss that you I ssmell?" The rat froze with terror as his Lord Voldemort glided over and put its head right in front of him, sniffing. "No, it iss a different sscent. I may ssstill snack on you, but not at pressent. Later, perhapss."
Peter, of course, could not understand the cobra; Harry could. "Hmm, he iss over here. Behind the rocksss, I think." It reared up and then struck at the rock in front of Potter, hard; the stone rolled away, exposing him. He hissed like a cat and bounded to the side as Voldemort's poisonous fangs came crashing down on the place where he had been just a moment before.
Voldemort had never seen a mongoose before, or Harry would probably have never gotten that chance. He jumped onto the back of the snake, and bit at the base of the neck, just behind the hood. His animagus instincts served him well; the cobra was paralyzed after just one bite. He released, and stood with one foot on the snake's head. When he was human again he shifted his weight to that leg, and crushed the serpent's skull with a crack. The scar on his forehead shone bright as a final hiss escaped from under his shoe, and then the light went out. He was left alone in a dead world.