A/N: I suppose there was interesting speculation surrounding the ending. This should explain it for some of you. And I wanted to finish it before HBP, but this should be an interesting interpretation.
Avada Kedavra.
Epilogue:
The curse was creeping ahead at a pace no greater than a snail, and as even muggles tend to notice, the final moments of one's life are always painted as being agonizingly slow. I could not fathom the last action, but if anything will work, this will.
Resigning myself to my fate, I spend some time reviewing the facts that I know of my half-life.
I am Tom Riddle. Check. I have learned that and accepted it, although I am no more to blame for my double's actions than a son for his father's. Although some might argue that point, I suppose.
I was summoned as a ritual of splitting one's soul. I know that, although it is the darkest of magics. I suppose I know everything Voldemort did before the ritual, but I can't believe he would attempt splitting his soul by sacrificing himself. It is an interesting effect, I suppose. Splitting his soul requires a sacrifice, but sacrificing himself creates a time paradox – if the ritual worked, the sacrifice succeeds, hence the owner is invincible, and hence he can't sacrifice himself.
Thinking about this gives me headaches.
People can normally perform miraculous feats when they are either close to death, or when their loved ones are close to death. I saw the look Harry had before sending the curse. At first I thought it was because he did not wish to kill me, but I knew that it was because he knew that no matter what the final outcome, there would still be a change.
A change for the better, perhaps.
A change for the worse, more probably.
The curse slowly inches forward, but I cannot allow it to hit. Even if it gets rid of me Voldemort will be able to linger, I understand that now. If a father is killed, his son might be prosecuted, but he will not just fall over and die because of it.
The curse approaches slowly. Threads of magic intertwined to create a fatal combination. I separate the threads, feeling the magic of life unraveling, unmasking a sudden coldness in the air.
Death.
The domain of Death is a cold place, almost identical to the current world, but if you feel, feel with your own soul, you can tell the decay of magic in any area.
Voldemort's power was so great, he erected a building of Death in the mortal world. The tower he created was a bastion, a fortress, but it was located in Death's domain. The fact that it was visible in the mortal world was a tribute to his power.
The remains of the curse, the threads that separate life from death, no longer have a single target, but in the atmosphere permeating the tower, they have no problem continuing to exist. The threads pool around all of us, encompassing us all in the green glow of death – it is fitting, I suppose, that the curse that started it all will also change reality, as we know it.
As soon as the threads start to dissipate, all three of us feel as if we were dragged completely into the plane of death. Voldemort looks on, interestedly, but he was already living in this plane after his ascension.
"So, Harry Potter, was this your plan? To bring you all into the domain where I feel the most comfortable? What did you hope to accomplish by this?"
Just then, I notice that the darkness seems to be solidifying in parts. It is forming a figure, and although the figure has no shape, no size, no form, it seems to have consciousness.
Black.
I could swear I had seen it before. I know that the darkness is a strange thing, but there is something about this darkness. The humans have a term for Hell, and it would be strangely fitting here. There are no imps torturing souls here, and there are no souls to be seen, period. But it has the atmosphere of pain, suffering, and most of all, hate.
What did Harry do this for? Why take his opponent into the place where he is strongest?
I hope he has more sense of what he is doing than I do.
"Voldemort, have you ever heard of the custom of giving a last wish?" Harry's cutting voice speaks out without a hint of fear in the face of certain death.
"You accept defeat this fast? I will grant you this final wish, if you in return tell me what you had hoped to accomplish by doing this. I know your move was not meant to bring you all here, so name your wish."
"I wish to have a final duel, one on one. As if we were back in the graveyard, pit our wands against each other in this place where the laws of magic can be broken. Please, I wish to have a chance…"
"Very well. You know you cannot defeat me, as this body is no longer mortal. I am a god, and there is nothing you can do to defeat me."
"We'll see," said Harry assuming a dueling position.
I couldn't help but notice the glint in his eyes. He was half-mad, I could tell. Taking a chance, I looked into my double's eyes. They were calm, collected, no trace of the madness that was the old Voldemort.
At the same time, Voldemort and Harry bowed to each other. To Harry it was a bow to change fate, and a bow to give respect to the one who has all but beaten him. To Voldemort it was a bow of respect to the one who would not give, never cowering before him.
"I love you, Ginny," Harry spoke, as he launched his final curse. He did not even bother giving an incantation, but the pure white light that emerged spoke for itself. It seemed to be threaded, creating an appearance of a solid beam created of a merging of smaller streams.
"Goodbye." Voldemort's reply was almost admiring of his enemy's final attempt. Both beings have progressed beyond the need for incantations, and Voldemort's wand emitted a pure black beam. It was composed of smaller streams as well, and was exactly the same size as Harry's.
Equality. The prophecy said that the two would be equal, and this is what it comes down to, a struggle of the minds.
Every single thread had a match. The threads were completely matched, and it was a beautiful sight, as streams of living light and living darkness intertwined in the depths of Hell. The black and white did not blend into gray; they stayed distinct as the two beams fought each other.
Harry was perfectly calm and stoic, pushing with all of his might. He remembered his parents, Sirius, the recent deaths, and all those who died for the light. Straightening, he kept pushing.
The beam was steady, not budging an inch.
Voldemort was feeling a bit of amusement at the situation – a mortal wished to have a struggle of minds with him, a god? He thought of all those who have tried before, and feeling an exhilaration at the power he commanded over life and death. He kept pushing.
The beam continued to be steady, not willing to be cowed.
While the beams were connected and not moving, there were other effects of the connection. A dome formed around the four entities involved, and a wind picked up. The ashes of Fawkes were picked up, formed the ghost of the noble phoenix, and forcefully separated one of the pairs of beams. Having nowhere else to go, the white beam struck Ginny's heart, and I saw the black beam strike my chest, but I could feel nothing.
Images started flashing through my head, and I can only assume that the same thing was happening to the rest.
James and Lily Potter, sitting together in a white, cloudy, house.
Peter Pettigrew, burning inside the confines of what he believes is his hell.
Sirius Black, sitting inside a featureless gray void.
Bellatrix Lestrange, torturing a white rabbit to insanity.
Remus Lupin, cuddling a small brown wolf cub.
Lucius Malfoy, standing in front of his extended family, being proclaimed lord.
Arthur Weasley, Flying among the clouds in a muggle Airplane.
Images of Hell. Images of Heaven. Images of the souls of the dead, being forced to exist through what their minds felt they deserved. The images went on, getting faster and more chaotic as they started reaching a climax.
A Greek woman, crossing the River Styx.
A Christian man, standing at the Pearly Gates.
A Jewish man, being crucified at a cross.
Everyone who has ever lived. Everyone who has ever died. Everyone born, everyone who was denied that privilege, and everyone who will be born in the future.
The power of Heaven, the creation of life, which is sacred to some, but just is, whether needed or not.
The power of Hell, the end of life, not Evil, not Dark, but helping advance the earth. The old give way to the young, such is the way of things.
Harry smiled triumphantly, and then focusing, he finished the incantation. He allowed the two to meet.
With no sound whatsoever, the plane of Heaven and the plane of Hell joined together, and the point at which they joined was the mortal plane.
Fin.
Final Author's Note: Well, it has been a few months since I last updated, so I was struck with the inspiration to finish this story. Of course, it stood fine by itself, but this way, it seems like I tied up a few loose ends. I tried to keep the poetic ending, but don't expect me to clarify it. I might write a sequel, but it would be completely different, and I might write a different story if there is enough demand.
This was written in 3 hours, and was not overly edited.
Feel free to discuss this in the forums.