A/N: Sorry it's taken so long to get this chapter out. I know it's only a short one, but it didn't really seem right to add anything else at the end of it. And it's not perfect, but I decided to post now anyway, because if I didn't, you wouldn't see it for another six weeks. And I know how much I hate waiting for updates so… *shrugs*

You'll notice that I also haven't answered the wonderful reviews from the last chapter. Sorry about that too. But my head is throbbing. Thank you all so much for reviewing though.

Chapter Eleven:

It was almost anticlimactic in the end, that Voldemort should be defeated in so ignominious a manner. One would have thought that it should take more than a single pissed-off, hormonal and very pregnant Boy Who Lived. Such a tyrant was expected to be conquered on a bloody battlefield, with hundreds of exultant witnesses, after many days of combat.

So it almost seemed a letdown that the most notorious Dark Lord in living memory met his end one innocuous evening with only three men to bear witness.

So it almost seemed a letdown that the most notorious Dark Lord in living memory met his end one innocuous evening with only two men to bear witness.

The Wizarding world would still have been in the grip of his terror if Voldemort had just remembered two things: nobody likes to have their privacy invaded, and a mother will go to any lengths to protect her (or in this case – his) child.

Of course, Voldemort wasn't dead by any means. The Dark Mark on Severus Snape's arm proved that. It's just that it's rather hard to be an evil mastermind without one. A mind, that is.

It happened the night of Harry's second detention with Snape; five days after he'd outed himself to the school. Surprisingly, the Daily Prophet had only gotten wind of the story in time for Thursday's edition. And even more surprisingly, it seemed that none of the loyal Death Eater children remaining in the school had passed the news on to Voldemort. At least, that was the impression Harry got from Voldemort's mind. Harry was sitting in the Potions classroom at the time.

He idly scratched his forehead and glared sullenly at the Potion Master's bent head. It was hardly fair of the man to keep him here this late. Then again, Harry had never known Snape to be fair, especially not to him. But still! He knew Harry was pregnant, and needed all the rest he could get. Midnight was just too late for him anymore!

Only, it wasn't midnight. It was only ten, Harry knew as a clock in the professor's office chimed the hour. It felt later though. At the end of a long day, after a long week, all Harry desired was sleep. That is, if his unborn daughter would let him get any.

Ever since the rest of the school had found out about his pregnancy, many of the girls – and no few of the boys – wanted to feel his stomach whenever the baby moved. And, as if appreciative of the attention, she moved a lot. The other students didn't ask if they could touch him, either. They treated him and his swelling abdomen like a talisman, a Buddha belly. They seemed to think that this pregnancy must be good luck. If Harry Potter, the bane of the Dark Lord's existence, was brave enough to not only get pregnant, but let it be known, then surely it was safe for the rest of them? Surely Voldemort wasn't a threat to them..? And they needed to reassure themselves that it was real, that Harry Potter, their saviour was truly pregnant.

So they touched him at every opportunity. They repeatedly asked him what he was going to call her, when she was due, if they could hold her, if they could attend the Naming Ceremony…

Harry hated it. It was stifling, and intrusive, and it brought out his protective instincts. By the end of the week, he was ready to hex the next person that so much as looked like touching him without his permission.

Harry rubbed at his scar and wiped his hand on his robes. Ironically, the place he felt most at his ease was in the Potions classroom. Snape was the only professor who would not tolerate his class being interrupted to 'pander to the ego of a foolish boy'. When Snape had said that, effectively sending the students scurrying back to their seats, Harry had smiled gratefully at him. Snape had scowled back.

But Harry's lingering gratitude did nothing to make up for the unfairness of Snape keeping him here so late. It was ten o'clock! Okay, so maybe that was his hormones talking, just a little. But still. Harry didn't have any homework he could be doing – he'd left all his books in his dorm – and Snape wouldn't let him scrub any of the cauldrons or sort the potions ingredients. He said he didn't trust Harry not to hurt himself or his baby. Harry sighed.

He rubbed at his scar again, and it was only when his fingertips came away red that he registered the growing pain there. He bit his lip and picked up the corner of his robe, using it to wipe the blood from his brow. He abandoned his stool to approach Snape's desk and ask permission to leave, and the pain, as though it had been awaiting acknowledgement, redoubled.

Harry stifled a soft moan, and started towards the professor's desk. But with each step, the pain increased, and by the fifth Harry's eyes were watering and his nails were carving red crescents into his palms. Finally, just in front of the desk, the pain increased dramatically in a lance that shot through his brain and brought him to his knees; quite literally as his vision blacked out and he stumbled.

Snape's head snapped up at the thud Harry made as he hit the ground. Seeing only the boy's head above the plane of his desk, Snape rose and rounded it. Harry crouched where he had fallen, his head bowed and his fisted hands braced forward of his knees.

"Potter," Snape snapped, "What are you doing?"

Harry didn't reply.

"Potter, answer me," Snape demanded, "Get up off the floor this instant!"

Harry again didn't respond, but instead let out a gasp, and a pain-filled groan. White static filled his eyes and his ears, and his head felt as though someone was driving red-hot needles through his temples. A particularly sharp spasm ripped through his head, and Harry distantly heard his glassed shatter as he knocked them off in his haste to bring his hands to his face. He clawed and pressed at his scalp in some vain attempt to release the pain that was building inside his brain, centering upon his scar.

Cold hands pulled at his own, and Harry jerked away from them. There was a familiar voice calling his name, but it was drowned out by the one inside his head.

:Ah, Potter. My worthy foe.: Harry shuddered as the cold, almost slimy voice insinuated itself into his mind.

"Voldemort," he growled. Abstractedly, he felt the cold hands spasm about his own, and a voice hissed, "What?!"

The voice in Harry's head snickered slyly, :Your mind is stronger than I gave you credit for, Potter. Very few have been able to resist my legimency.: A lance of intense pain ran through Harry's mind and he whimpered.

:And here I'd been told you'd been neglecting your lessons. Tut tut,: Voldemort disapproved, :I shall have to punish that little birdie.:

Harry's lips drew back in a rictus, revealing teeth painted red with blood from a bitten tongue. Voldemort was playing with him. He knew Harry's mind was defenseless against him, and was tormenting him for the simple pleasure of it. Voldemort snickered again, and an almost caressing lash of pain twined itself around Harry's temples.

:Indeed.: Voldemort confirmed, as he followed Harry's thoughts, :but that is neither here nor there…:A cold line of pain ran down Harry's spine and settled just above his abdomen, :I see for once the Prophet does not lie. The Boy Who Lived is indeed pregnant.: Voldemort savoured the word.

Harry screamed. He dropped his hands from his still painfully throbbing head and clawed at the descending line of pain, trying to deny Voldemort any contact with his daughter. Voldemort laughed at his ineffectualness, and the pain spread tauntingly about his belly, :It's rather ironic, don't you think? Harry Potter has been brought low by his own… proclivities.: Again came the almost-caress of a lash of pain, and Harry felt ill.

:I should be angry, you know. You've quite ruined what little use I had for you. But no matter. Your daughter will be more than satisfactory.:

A cold tendril of fear wrapped around Harry's heart. He choked back a scream of denial, and instead shot defiantly back at Voldemort: "And what would the great Dark Lord want with a muggleborn child?"

:Muggleborn?: Voldemort sneered. There was a pause, and Harry felt the maniacal creature reaching out to feel his daughter's aura. Then Voldemort laughed triumphantly, :I think not.: Harry didn't relax even minutely as Voldemort withdrew from the baby's aura. :Your own power more than compensates for any… deficiencies of the father.:

Harry felt for a second that Voldemort knew the other father and took great pleasure and satisfaction from the knowledge.

:Oh, I do! I do know the father.: Voldemort confirmed gleefully, and Harry released the monster had wormed his way deeper into his mind than he had first thought. :I believe I know him better than you, Potter. Although, under the circumstances, that isn't hard.: Voldemort probed deeply at Harry's mind and the Gryffindor screamed in agony.

"You know nothing of Jason," Harry gritted, his hands clawing at his head again.

:That's where you are wrong, my dear Potter,: and suddenly Voldemort took over control of Harry's mouth, "I know precisely who the whelp's father is. But it is not him I am interested in. I want the child."

Voldemort plunged his influence down again, towards Harry's baby. He paused at the edges of her aura, and Harry could feel the tendrils of his consciousness obscenely caressing it. Harry stilled, fearing Voldemort's next actions.

Still in control of Harry's mouth, Voldemort mused tauntingly, "I think I shall call her Carey. The Dark One. Or perhaps Circe, after that wonderfully evil and devilishly cruel witch."

Harry gritted his teeth, "I'll never let you touch my baby. If I have to go through the nine circles of hell to stop you, I swear I will!"

Voldemort laughed cruelly. "So passionate, Potter. No wonder your Jason couldn't resist you. I only hope you pass that charming trait on to your spawn."

The Dark Lord brought his influence to bear more heavily upon the unborn child and hissed with anticipatory glee, "You daughter will make me a fine consort. And it shall be such fun breaking her!" Voldemort began to press against the protective magic about Harry's sub-reality womb.

Harry screamed in pure, unadulterated rage. He was not going to let this abomination harm his child. His daughter meant the world to him, and he'd happily spend all eternity in the deepest pits of hell if it meant he could save her.

Harry gathered his magic, and thrust it between his baby and the invading force that was Voldemort. Voldemort hissed in annoyance that Harry was daring to fight back and turned his power into a scythe, cutting through Harry's protections.

Harry gathered more of his magic, draining his own physical defenses. He threw it violently at Voldemort, and the fiend just laughed.

:You'll have to do better than that if you wish to stop me, Potter. One would almost think you didn't want to save your precious child.:

Harry lacerated his throat with a scream and gathered together every last shred, every last scintilla of power within himself and bombarded Voldemort with it. When that wasn't enough, he started searching outside himself for sources of energy. Bottles spontaneously shattered as Harry sapped the magic from their Unbreakable charms. Cupboards swung open as he drained the wards. Torches dimmed and sputtered out. Ink in books faded to shadows and the bindings of the books themselves unraveled.

Voldemort didn't laugh at Harry this time. He was too busy gathering power of his own, trying to regain the ground he had lost to Harry. But Harry ruthless, implacable in the defense of his daughter. He didn't just want to defeat Voldemort, he wanted to destroy him. Obliterate him completely, so he could never threaten Harry's daughter again.

Harry began to draw the magic from the stones of the dungeons themselves. Voldemort had been forced back from not only his daughter's aura, but from his mind as well. The Dark Lord tried to close off his own mind from Harry, but by force of the magic behind him, Harry pried it open, and channeled the raw magic in.

About him, the walls of the Potions classroom shuddered ominously, dust cascading from them. There was a crash in corridor outside, and cracks developed in the ceiling. Harry didn't notice any of this. He kept on drawing power from his surroundings, kept forcing it down the link between his mind and Voldemort's.

The cold hands were back, trying to drag Harry to his feet. But Harry felt anchored to the stone he drew so heavily from. He couldn't move. He refused to move until he'd done it; destroyed Voldemort utterly. Harry latched on to the new power source, siphoning the magic from the living being that tried so desperately to move him.

Crinkled, warm and soft hands joined the cold ones already on him, and Harry distantly heard voices shouting. He ignored them and began to drain the power from this newest source. That well was deep, and the magic burned its way through him and into Voldemort.

At Voldemort's scream of agony of, Harry snarled triumphantly and reached for more magic, more life. There were four clusters of life, above and beyond him. Harry tapped them all, and drained away much of their available magic.

The overwhelming rush of power that resulted streamed through Harry's mind, burning in it's passing. It rushed down the link to Voldemort, and there it pooled, having no way out. It couldn't return the way it had come, because power continued to flood in. Trapped, the magic eddied and stormed, destroying it's receptacle. Under the massive strain, Voldemort's mind broke, and with it, the link to Harry's.

The remaining power backwashed into Harry's mind and, too exhausted to do more than whimper, Harry gave the last remnants of his own strength to protect his daughter and to prevent the power back-lashing even further.

The hands on his arms and shoulders were the only things that held him upright, and Harry bitterly resented them when all he wanted to do was press his burning face to the cool slate flagstones of the floor.

Voices rumbled painfully loud above him, and he attempted to scream when somebody tried to turn his head. There was light, and it was cruel. It felt like acid on an open wound. Harry whimpered, and when the hands gently released him, he curled on the blessedly cool floor, one arm over his eyes, and the other protectively clutching his gravid abdomen.

After an all too short stretch of eternity, the cold hands returned again, lifting him up. Harry whimpered. The owner of the hands let his head loll, and a raspy scream forced its way out Harry's lacerated throat. Every part of him ached. But his head burned, excess magic still crackling through it.

That was the last thing he knew before he felt the blissful darkness swamp him.