Disclaimer: All characters herein except those otherwise noted belong to J.K. Rowling, who I think, on occasion, to be some sort of goddess. Inspired by another fic of mine, and throught out while sitting through much boredom at work. Spoilers for all five books, I suppose.
Notes: Thanks so much to Kathy, for beta, and for helping over rough spots plotwise. Love ya, babe. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and given me such wonderful feedback. Thanks also to my mom, who has asked me so many times whether I've written more, and maintains that it will always be Ron/Hermione. Even though… eww.
Through Time
Thirteen: Endgame
The Killing Curse went wild, striking the wall and setting books aflame. Splinters of wood rained down onto the floor as Draco Malfoy struggled back to his feet and away from Voldemort. It had been him who had distracted Harry, moving forward with the swords, one of which had skittered across the floor, and the other stuck through Voldemort's robes somewhat comically. The scent of burning leather began to fill the room as the destroyed books caught fire.
"Harry," Draco said, sliding the sword to his former rival. They already knew that it would do no good to use Avada Kedavra against the exceptionally evil being. Voldemort was struggling to his feet, removing the sword from his torn robes. Harry grabbed the sword and held it up in front of himself.
Only once before had he held a sword, and that time it had been a particularly magical sword, forged by Godric Gryffindor himself. Harry didn't know what to do.
Voldemort raised his wand again, and Harry lunged forward, sending another Killing Curse flying toward Harry and his parents. James tackled Lily to the floor, knocking the breath from the both of them. Voldemort's wand fell away from his hands, and long, pale, clawlike fingers scrabbled across the stone floor. Draco reached out and kicked it away.
"Get out of here!" Harry yelled. The room was beginning to be consumed by flames. The Weasleys were already leaving the room, Arthur and Charlie on either side of Molly, and Bill cradling his baby sister in his arms, as Fred and George and Ron pounced on a Death Eater who was stirring. Lupin lifted the teenaged Sirius and threw him over his shoulder, heading from the room.
Luna shook Padma Patil, but the dark skinned girl's head only flopped. Hermione was struggling to cut the ropes binding Ernie McMillan. The adult Lupin turned and came back, still carrying Sirius, and lifted the unconscious Ravenclaw girl over his other shoulder. Werewolves were good for something. Hermione managed to get Ernie loose, and the Hufflepuff boy untied his own feet and set to helping Hermione free the rest of the DA.
Young Remus grabbed Neville, who was still kneeling on the floor.
"Crucio," Neville was saying. "Crucio. Crucio."
"Neville." Remus said, pulling the boy to his feet. Neville kept repeating the curse over and over, his wand almost falling from his fingertips. Remus took it and shoved it into his robe pocket, before pulling the boy from the room.
That left Harry, Lily, Draco, and James alone with Voldemort. James was still pressing Lily into the floor, protecting her body with his own. Harry was half sprawled on the floor, half lying across the Dark Lord, who scratched at him with clawed hands. Harry felt blood beginning to trickle down the side of his face from the deep scratches.
A crack echoed through the room, louder than the flames, and there was a flash of light. Voldemort howled with rage, and Harry looked at his parents. They were staring at Draco. Harry turned.
The blond Slytherin held the two broken ends of Lord Voldemort's wand in either hand. Harry could see the ends of the phoenix feather that made up the core sticking out.
Voldemort scrabbled across the stone floor going for the Death Eater's son; Draco was trapped between the fire and the Dark Lord. Draco's eyes widened, and he looked around frantically, looking for somewhere to go. He raised his wand.
"Impedimenta!" He cried, his voice harsh with panic. Voldemort laughed as the hex hit him, but he reached out, for Draco, for Draco's wand.
Harry raised the sword and slammed it down.
The Dark Lord screamed, clawlike, pale hands reaching down to grab his calf where the Boy Who Lived had impaled him.
"Get out of here!" Harry yelled, and the blond boy nodded frantically and scrambled to his feet, rushing out of the room, stumbling slightly as he ran past his aunt, who was lying on the floor, unmarked, her mouth hanging open, scratches down her once beautiful face, where she had clawed herself in the pain from Neville's Cruciatus. He barely cast her a glance. He hadn't ever liked his aunt that much, anyway. He left the room.
Voldemort pulled the blood covered sword from his robes. James was struggling to his feet, and pulling Lily up with him.
The Dark Lord swung at the teenager who lay on the floor, the boy who had thwarted him so many years, had almost killed him as a mere child. Harry rolled, instinctively, away from the sword's stroke. The other blade lay upon the floor, and Harry's fingers closed on the hilt. He still had his wand, though it did him no good. He knew no curse, no charm that he could use against the man who stood before him.
He raised the sword instead. The clang of steel on steel echoed through the room, blending with the cacophony of the burning library. Harry gritted his teeth and struggled to his feet, trying only to prevent the strange wraith of a man from removing his head.
Harry attempted to go on the offensive, but a searing pain raced down his shoulder, and through his hand, and he almost dropped the blade. It was all he could do to defend himself with the cut on his palm, and the blood running down his shoulder to drip from his elbow.
He would be lucky to survive again.
"Do you really think," Voldemort said, "that you can beat me? I cannot be killed, by either magic, or by steel."
Harry took advantage of the Dark Lord's banter, and struck, lunging forward with a grunt. The knife slid through him unobstructed, and Voldemort screamed with rage and pain. Harry threw all of his strength into the blade, pulling it up with both arms. Blood bubbled from a pale, lipless mouth to spill down the chin and onto the black robes beneath.
A sharp bolt of electricity seemed to race down the blade and into Harry's arms. He let go abruptly, stepping back. He stumbled and sat down hard on his behind, his teeth clacking together in the impact.
"I don't think that sword is steel," Harry whispered. Voldemort's hands wrapped around the sword where it met his chest and struggled to pull it from his flesh. His pale, colorless hands came away, covered in dark blood.
The Dark Lord's mouth opened and closed fruitlessly, no sound escaping, though more blood rushed out. He was dying. The fire crept closer, licking at the hem of is robes.
A gurgling scream issued from his mouth as the black robes caught fire, and the flames raced up his body.
Nothing left, Harry thought vaguely, pushing himself to his feet. He stumbled from the room, dizzy, feeling as though he would vomit. He had killed a man. An evil man, but a human being—though barely—none the less.
Harry wondered, as he ran, if he was no better than Voldemort.
The fire was climbing, reaching the wooden timbers of the roof, dancing along the tapestries and rugs, and many books that the Malfoy family had amassed.
Harry ran, breathless and almost blind, his brain stripped of all thought, and filled with nothing but smoke and a cool numbness that had washed over him the moment he had left the library.
He was lost. He knew that, even through the haze that filled his mind.
He would never get out.
He stumbled, and fell, hitting his head on the stones of the floor. When he raised his head, he felt a tickling sensation, and reached up. His head was bleeding.
Harry couldn't breathe, couldn't find the strength to lift himself up from the floor. He came to the sudden realization that, though he had defeated Voldemort, though he had rid the world of the menace of the Dark Lord, he had not won. He would die, and though Voldemort would burn in hell for eternity, he would have the satisfaction that, though he had died, he had also killed the boy who had killed him, in a very round about way.
Harry coughed, struggling to take a breath of something besides the acrid smoke or the stinging ash.
He coughed one last time as darkness closed in around him, and he knew no more.