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Chapter 10
"I never did anything worth doing by accident,
nor did any of my inventions come by accident;
they came by work."
- Thomas Edison
Remus Lupin was known as a good duellist, but he was by no means the best. In school, aware of his own capabilities as a werewolf, he had tried to downplay his quick reflexes and heightened senses by deliberately losing a few matches, especially to his friends Sirius and James. He had gotten used to slowing down, to moving a couple of seconds after he could have moved.
But now, Remus found himself calling upon his long-repressed abilities, as he shot curse after curse, and dodged the multi-colored blasts Karkaroff fired at him at lightning speed.
They circled each other as best they could in the corridor at Durmstrang. Remus took a precious second to wipe the sweat from his face. In that moment, Karkaroff fired off a rope of fire that surrounded Remus' hand like a lasso, making him drop his wand, gasping at the pain.
The expression of Karkaroff's face was triumphant, but Remus did not let him enjoy it. He jumped towards the other man and slammed his head against the wall. Once, then twice, Remus let out the full force of his strength, until Karkaroff's eyes rolled back, and he lay limp on the floor.
It was a miracle nobody else interrupted their fight. It only lasted a few minutes, but for Remus, it was as if hours had passed. The two of them did not even exchange a word beyond the spells they had casted.
He dragged Karkaroff's unconscious body inside an empty bathroom stall, conjuring ropes to bind and gag him. Then with a quick look around, Remus continued up the stairs of the bell tower.
His footsteps echoed on the stone steps as he walked up and up, until his lungs felt like they would burst. He stopped short just as the bell came into view. It was about a whole foot taller than his height, and hung from the top by cables as thick as Remus' neck. The rope that hung from its center was as thick as his arm.
Remus did not bother to try and catch it. Instead, with trembling fingers, he touched the inscriptions on the sides of the bell. There were stars and moons, ancient germanic phrases, a line of sculpted creatures that had claws and wings, breathed fire and had long forked tails that looped around themselves. Remus moved slowly around the lip of the bell, tracing each image, until his fingers stopped of their own volition. Facing straight into the north, was a jewel the size of a single eye.
The jewel gleamed even without the setting sun's rays. It was colored green, a little like Lily's eyes, but glowing with an inner fire that defied description. Remus felt it throb to the beat of his own heart. Beneath his shirt, the jewel on a cord around his neck also throbbed in time.
It's beautiful. How could one ever destroy such a thing? It took a second for Remus to recognize the thought as alien, belonging to someone else. It's too powerful, too perfect to destroy. Maybe it can be studied. Maybe it can be tamed. Remus shook his head as if to clear it. There was something in the air; it made him dizzy and weak, like just before the rise of the full moon. He felt his heart beat faster side by side with the jewel on the bell, and the jewel around his neck. Imagine the wonders it can do. It might even be able to heal you.
"No!" Remus shouted out loud, his voice echoing around the tower. "You've made too many promises you have broken, Voldemort." And he plucked it from its iron setting and ground it against the wall with the palm of his hand, half force, half pure magic, until it trickled through his fingers, dust the color of the Avada Kedavra.
Remus panted as he wiped his hand. But the throbbing had not stopped. Not until he pulled out the diamond he wore on a cord around his neck. It was the centerpiece on the cross that the French Aurors delivered to him. He ripped it from its warded cord and dropped it on the floor. He transfigured his wand into a diamond-tipped mallet, before he pounded it again and again until the green dust was mixed with the white, which the northern wind blew away into the rock and sea. Again and again he pounded, until the throbbing died down into silence.
He burst out in hysterical laughter, his throat constricting with relief.
It was finally done.
Harry Potter could barely feel his fingertips. But he felt something from inside him surge down his arms into the bamboo stave he was carrying.
Voldemort was still laughing, and he did not even stop as Harry Potter drove the sharp point of the sword straight into him. He sidestepped at the last microsecond and it entered his right shoulder. The bamboo had turned into steel and was coated by crimson where it had pierced through Voldemort's flesh.
The Dark Lord flung Harry away with a single blow. He wrenched the sword from his shoulder with a grimace before throwing it away, the steel turning back to bamboo as it shattered against the wall.
'So you do bleed, Voldemort,' Harry's words were steady, his stormy eyes taunting as he stood up. 'You're human after all.' He barely noticed that he was speaking in parseltongue.
For the first time, the Dark Lord looked uncertain. Then he recovered his composure and moved forward. 'And my worthiest enemy is a child,' he replied, sarcasm mingling with the language of the snakes. 'So it is true, that the Slytherin line continues to live on. A pity, boy, that it will die with the both of us.'
Voldemort raised his right arm, and deliberately pointed his wand at Harry's forehead. 'Avada Kedavra!'
The curse in parseltongue sent a shiver through Harry's shoulders. The blast that left the Dark Lord's wand was much greener than the first he had cast. Harry closed his eyes, as the world around him trembled.
Voldemort laughed again. But he stopped in the middle, when Harry continued to stand. The nine year old opened his eyes, and they glowed as green as the curse he had received. Where the curse had hit, there was a jagged wound shaped like a lightning bolt. Blood trickled slowly from it.
'My turn,' Harry whispered before changing into his animagus form. He was a tiger full-grown this time, his fur striped orange and black, his eyes the same glowing green. On the tiger's forehead was the same zigzag wound.
Before Voldemort could react further, Harry had jumped upon him, and they spent several minutes fighting, arm against paw. Voldemort tried to spell the tiger away from him, at least enough to point his wand at it. But Harry jumped back again and again, batting the wand with his paw, clawing at his enemy's arms and face.
Finally, while Voldemort reached for his wand several feet away, Harry dove for the open neck, and with his sharp fangs, tore the Dark Lord's throat out. The dying man let out a gurgle, before his heart ceased to beat.
Covered in blood both his and Voldemort's, the tiger withdrew from the corpse and slowly transformed back into Harry Jahan Potter.
Done. It was done.
