Chapter 37 Let the Spell be Cast

Harry and Ron hovered over their siege engine, positioned in the Gallery above the Great Hall, tinkering with it and making final adjustments. They loaded the bucket with Awful Eyeful grit pellets and weighted the fulcrum with a squat, heavy bombé chest from the hallway. Their brooms stood nearby, "in case we have to make a quick getaway." Ron nervously rubbed his hands against his robes; his palms were sweating.

"We've been talking about this battle for years," he said. "D'you think we'll win?"

Harry, as nervous as he, looked down to the floor of the Great Hall. "We have to win. If we don't put an end to Voldemort he'll put an end to us." He looked up, his face pale. The scar on his forehead stood out, livid against his white skin. "Whatever happens, we'll do our best."

"I hope Snape's daft idea works," said Ron. "That is, it isn't daft, it's – well, it's so odd, isn't it? A potion made from the same stuff that He Who Must Not Be Named used to give us influenza and take away our magic – turned around against him! How are they going to manage it?"

Harry sat down on the edge of the chest. "Voldemort thinks Mr Holmes is Snape; he fooled him at the last Death Eaters' meeting, dressed as a Death Eater. He looks so much like Snape, he will be close enough to inject him with the potion. Curses don't work on him, so even if Voldemort tries to strike him with Avada Kedavra, it won't do anything. As soon as he sees the needle go in, the real Snape will cast a spell which will activate the potion."

"How will we survive the Unforgivables the Death Eaters fling at us? We've only got a bit of our magic back."

"That's why Snape and Holmes have to strike immediately Voldemort makes an appearance. If he's struck down, the Death Eaters will fall apart. They're like puppets; cut their strings and they fall over. They think we have no magic; they're looking for an easy victory."

"Where's Hermione?" Ron looked for the familiar bushy hair below in the Great Hall. "Where's everyone?"

Students and Masters were hidden behind columns, in staircases, any place where they would not be in plain sight. Only the Headmaster, Professor McGonagall and Hagrid were visible, and they stood together, silently, waiting.

The great double doors of Hogwarts Castle opened, and Voldemort entered, surrounded by a phalanx of his masked, black-robed faithful. The Death Eaters circled around him, facing outwards, ready to strike. Lucius Malfoy, the white-blond hair that identified him flowing over the shoulders of his black robe, stood slightly behind and to one side of his Lord; second in command, ready to do his bidding.

Albus Dumbledore walked slowly over to face the Dark Lord. "This does not have to happen, Tom," he said gravely. "You will have no good of it, I promise you."

"It has to happen, and it will," hissed the evil creature. "Do I dare to call you Albus? There was a time I called you Headmaster, was there not?" Voldemort sneered, and plucked at Dumbledore's sleeve with a filthy talon. "But that was a long time ago, and now I, not you, determine what happens to Hogwarts. Hogwarts is no longer yours, Albus. It is mine; there is no room for you. See what I have done; you and your Masters have no magic; your students are all Squibs as well. You are no longer Wizards – and Wizards shall command Hogwarts! All of these Squibs shall serve us. They shall amuse us, yesssss." His forked tongue flicked out, tasted the air.

Dumbledore did not reply. He cocked his head to one side and stared off into space. Voldemort shifted uneasily from one foot to the other; he had expected Dumbledore's most persuasive pleas. But this – nothing?

"I lose patience with you, Albus. It ends now. Severusssss!" The Dark Lord beckoned to the tall Death Eater. The Wizard approached him.

"How may I serve, my Lord?"

Voldemort smirked. "Here is your – shall we call him foster father? He has been indulgent of you, my dear, but his usefulness is finished. We have no further need for him; we will do Hogwarts a great service if we send him to his ancestors. You may kill him."

The silver-masked figure bowed deeply to Voldemort. He moved over to stand between the Dark Lord and Albus Dumbledore. He put one hand on the Headmaster's shoulder. His deep, oily voice resounded: "It ends here." Then, he turned, and with one swift and deadly movement, withdrew a hypodermic syringe out of a pocket and drew back his arm, to thrust it into Voldemort's shoulder.

"No!" Malfoy's foot, aimed by a powerful leg, lashed out and struck the arm of the Death Eater, and the hypodermic syringe sailed up, up, up into the air. "To me! Death Eaters, to me!" shrieked Voldemort.

Harry, preparing to unleash his siege engine's cargo of Awful Eyeful pellets by knocking off the counterweight with his broom, saw the hypodermic as it reached the apogee of its flight. He jumped on his broom, flung himself over the edge of the gallery and, as if he were reaching for the Golden Snitch, he grabbed the hypodermic out of the air and stooped like a hawk into a diving run, flinging the sharp point into Voldemort's back.

The real Snape pulled his wand from his sleeve, aimed it at Voldemort and shouted, "Facit Incantatem!" The Dark Lord staggered. He pointed his finger at Holmes and croaked, "Avada Kedavra!" Nothing happened. Then he saw the real Severus Snape: "Avada---" and his voice failed him. He clutched his throat and fell to the floor. Immediately his Death Eaters clustered around him protectively. Up in the gallery, Ron set the siege engine in motion – Awful Eyeful pellets bombarded the Death Eaters, and they pulled off their masks, clawed at their faces to get to their burning eyes.

Hermione felt a current like electricity run up her arm – her wand arm. "Neville!" she shrieked. "Now!" Quickly, the two pointed their wands at a black robed Death Eater and shouted, "Stupefy!" The Death Eater fell down, stiff as a post. Other students followed their example: one after the other, Death Eaters were hit by two hexes at a time before they could strike, and slumped to the floor.

What had been Voldemort lay on the floor of the Great Hall, eerie green smoke rising from his body. There was a flash of green light, the skull and serpent, Morsmordre, hung in the air like a menacing balloon, then, as it dissolved, Voldemort's robes collapsed inwards, empty.

Lucius Malfoy cast around himself desperately, trying to find a way to take command. All of his fellow Death Eaters were either writhing on the floor in Leg Lock, stiff with Stupefy, or sailing across the Great Hall at the end of Hagrid's quarterstaff. Lucius ripped his mask from his face and threw it on the ground, looking around frantically for a way out, a way to save himself. Then, from the balcony, a massive Cruciatus curse flung him to the ground. He lay screaming, convulsing, blood gushing from his nose and ears, as Draco Malfoy backed away from the balcony edge, shaking. I've been waiting for years to slam you, old man.

The double doors flew open, and the Minister of Magic, at the head of a column of Aurors, walked into the Great Hall and took charge of the Stupefied Death Eaters, who were marched off to await trial and sentencing to Azkaban. Magic returned as one and all felt the familiar prickling in their wand hands.