The Headmaster and the Dark Lord

"Well, this is slightly awkward," said the man in black, face hidden in his cloak like the dark creature of Snape's trial. He turned to Harry. "Harry Potter, by which name do I go by this time? The Dark Wizard? The man in black?"

"The man in black," Harry replied, voice barely a whisper.

"Ah – as always… I had hoped…" He shrugged, turning to the other occupants of the room. "I suppose no introductions are in order, Harry – you've figured it all out, I believe."

"Probably." Harry felt shocked by the alien nature of his voice. Cold. Harsh. Older. Hungrier. The voice of a boy who had found that all the monsters his imagination could concoct were real – and stood right in front of him. "But please explain it to me, anyway."

"Of course. You'll, of course, know our esteemed Headmaster here." He gestured, as though he found no higher honour, to Dumbledore. "His trial, by the way, is simplicity itself – defeat him and take the Stone from his cold hands. And here we must make distinctions between simple and easy, right, Professor Dumbledore?"

Dumbledore nodded, wand in hand – Harry quenched the drawn feeling he had upon seeing it.

"Quite," said Dumbledore.

"Ah yes – this old man will fight something fierce…"

Dumbledore nodded again, eyes twinkling as though he found all this highly amusing. "If I must, yes. Though I am fascinated by all this – your presence here troubles me greatly, Mr… what may I call you?"

"Harry?" the man in black inquired, his unseen eyes on Harry.

"He's the man in black," Harry replied wearily, somewhat dumbly, a snarling grimace twitching at the ragged edge of his eyes. "I've no idea who he is, sir – he's… the same man that attacked…" The words died on the edge of his lips as he remembered Ron. Or rather found him back on the forefront of his mind.

The man in black sighed, having apparently expected more. "You may call me The Master."

"The Master?" Dumbledore seemed to taste the name, then an indecipherable expression touched his face for a short, almost non-existent second. "A rather self-indulgent name…"

The man in black – The Master – laughed, seemed to shrug his shoulders, as though to apologize. "It was given to me."

"Avada Kedavra!"

A green streak of light, of which Harry knew almost nothing about, leaped forth from the corpse's wand at The Master – and somehow Harry knew that its mere touch would spell disaster.

That green! Wide-eyed – time slowing to a standstill – almost hungrily, Harry stared as it tore through the air, as it sucked out life itself, and forked by with the deliverance of an old memory long forgotten, memories of a dying, screaming man and begging woman…

Memories of his parents, Harry realized. Dying.

The Master, as though he failed to realize how close to death he was, twirled his wand carelessly and conjured a heavy, bronze shield out of nothing in the path of the curse. With the loudest of thuds, the sound hollow and eternal, it caught afire, burning green hues throwing a cascade of throbbing shadows over the room.

"Be glad, Voldemort – that I am bound by rules mightier than the wands we wield," said The Master, and Harry shivered as his voice grew cold, cold, colder than ice.

Harry turned his eyes on the burned corpse. So this was the Dark Lord Voldemort. He supposed that, as far as appearances went, he could hardly look more deadly and menacingly. He was dripping lances of scorched flesh off his body with his every movement. The head had been seared so badly that only a skull remained – and it was as black, as ruined, as the rest of him. In the vacant sockets, where Harry knew Quirrell's eyes should have been, twin globes of burning, raucous crimson hues resided. He was naked, the robes burned off, but there was nothing left of him to identify him – not even to identify the sex.

Lord Voldemort had taken over Quirinus Quirrell's body after the former Professor's death. Harry shuddered in disgust, terrified.

A silver streak, sizzling and scorching, caught Harry's attention as it lurched at The Master as though out of nothing, conjured by a small, effortless twirl of Dumbledore's wand. With a gesture of his own, the man in black brought about an invisible, raw Shield Charm – but Dumbledore had anticipated that and with another flick of his wand, the curse changed course and whipped wide before, screaming and raging, coursed back at the man in black from another angle.

"NO!" The Master bellowed, fury in his voice, whipping his wand around so fast Harry could hardly see him move. Dumbledore' spell, whatever it was, flicked out of existence with a loud bang like thunder.

"Fighting in unison, are we?" Harry could detect a hint of amusement touching his cruel voice. "That's a first – maybe that's a good sign."

"You're not of this world," Dumbledore said, as though he was merely contemplating something bothersome. Like a spider on his sleeve. "Not of this… time."

The Master sighed. "You caught on quickly this time around."

"A time-traveller?" Voldemort whispered, his voice silky, slithering. More snake-like than human. Harry caught himself trembling and tried his hardest to stop it. "How is this possible? Who are you?"

"I'm not a time-traveller… I am… beyond time. Perhaps I'm its creation." There was a note of possessive madness in his voice, impossible to ignore, and Dumbledore, as though sensing the root of it, slowly crept towards Harry.

"I'm afraid I must insist upon knowing the reason for your being here." Dumbledore said, tone of voice still so very pleasant despite it all. "The situation is rather delicate – even without your… untimely interference."

"Very well – straight to it, then. How to start, where to begin, where and when haven't we tried…" He seemed to lose himself in the tapestry of his inner thoughts, then straightened. "Blunt, then. Yes. Why not? Blunt it is." He waved his wand in a sophisticatedly and complicated manner that spoke of a man who enjoyed putting on a show – even if one served no purpose. A tangible sense of magic laid claim to the air, renting the space between them heavy with invisible tendrils of power – a vast and powerful protection jinx was yanked into being in front of him.

And then he spoke.

And then… he changed the course of history.

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…"

Dumbledore, and Harry saw genuine horror touched his eyes, raised his wand as though he was about to smote down with terrible vengeance a dark creature.

Voldemort, simultaneously, his scorched skull-like face pulled back in a grimace of ugly hunger, recognizing the words, raised his own wand against Dumbledore and unleashed a jet of white-hot yellow light – it looked almost liquid.

Dumbledore, sensing it, turned to the Dark Lord, changed his spell, conjuring a silver shield to counter Voldemort's curse. They met in the middle of the room, and the resounding wave of energy flung Harry off his feet. He landed with his face inches away from the wall of flames he'd just come through, groaning – everything groaning, moaning, burning, hurting.

Everything hurts.

Shaking his head, Harry yanked his attention away from his agony and back with supreme effort on the present.

Through all the ensuing chaos The Master's words had wrought – his voice raised to carry above the noise – he continued, "And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives… the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…"

Voldemort and Dumbledore stared at each other – as though something monumental had just come to pass between them. As though this meant… something.

Marked? Harry touched his scar – was it him? Was it that… literally? What did it mean?

A pregnant, tense silence touched the air, waiting to burst, waiting… to flee into the night.

"What – what was that?" Harry asked, blinking stupefied, a sliver of cold fright wringing through his heart.

"A prophecy, Harry," Dumbledore said lowly, slowly, voice not unkind, but on edge. "Between you and Voldemort." He turned to The Master – his face haunted by a complicated mask Harry couldn't understand. "I am quite curious how you came to learn the contents of it."

The Master shrugged. "You told me once. In your office."

"Did I? That seems to have been a grave error on my part."

"Of that we can agree to," said The Master, laughing – it ebbed out into something sad. Something… less… than human. Harry shivered again. Everything around him looked cruel and cold – even Dumbledore seemed unusually disturbed. "I'm here to right wrongs, Professor. All wrongs – that not yet have come to pass. All the wrongs that Death will allow me to touch. This! This – is – the – day! I'm here to bring about change – within the confines that are owed upon me by the laws – of death!"

Dumbledore laughed, his old body shaking with mirth, and stared with open, unmasked shock at the dark man. "My dear man, it has been quite a long time since someone has astonished me such as you have tonight. You're quite the riddle, wrapped in a conundrum, held in a shrouded haze of a mystery."

"I can do you one better, old friend. Closer to the heart – the wand belongs to the boy. He is its rightful master… The Master of them all…"

Dumbledore, no longer smiling, tilted his head in a curious manner. Not as though he was shocked or confused – though Harry thought he ought to be – he certainly was – but there was a depth of weariness that touched the ancient blue eyes. "I should hope so… though you seem to suggest that time is now."

"It is – trust me. Now – always now. Never late – now. Something has to change. You see? Yeah – no? Now or never. Something – has – to – change! Change! The universe has lent too much of itself for this moment to go to waste… stretched… Trust me, it doesn't like being stretched like this."

"He's – he's just a boy… it's not fair…"

"It never was!" The Master snarled. "Never fair. Only cruel. You can't save him or spare him or grant him time away from this mess… if you do, if you interfere – everyone suffers the consequences of your compassion." He laughed, hollow and old, as memories unseen seemed to thwart him for a moment. "Your compassion… it will shatter us all… in the end."

Voldemort, quietly absorbing it all and hoping for more, hadn't moved a muscle – for now, he possessed no desire to strike out at any of them. There was, Harry knew because he felt the same, too much to learn from this omniscient stranger.

"What happens," Dumbledore began, "if I should resist? If I should not, as they say, go quietly into that good night?"

Harry blinked, looked at Dumbledore – what the hell was going on?

"You wouldn't be you if you did," The Master replied, his hidden face, Harry thought, wore a fond smile. "All I'm asking you is that you, perhaps, sometime in the future – when instinct to protect him from the truth grips you… don't. Don't do it. Do not heed your instincts to slow him down – not too much, anyway… don't let your love blind you to the strength he possesses. Guide him. He needs you. Not your wise words and distant eye, but you – all of you. Your regret. Your shame… your love…"

Dumbledore seemed to hesitate, caught between two conflicted emotions. "What – what happened?"

"It burned. Everything… burning. And there was nothing I could do to stop it." He paused, breathed. Exhaled. "I saw it once. I don't want to ever see it again. Please, Professor – for change."

"For change?" The words lingered on the edges of his lips, as though the old Professor were tasting the words. "Well – who am I to argue with the strength of hindsight?" He smiled at last, as though he finally understood. "For change."

The Master smiled, too, looking from Harry to Dumbledore. "Who knows – maybe this way… maybe more than one life can change. Can be saved. Can be healed."

And then there he was no more. Gone. As though he had never been.

Dumbledore chuckled, obviously unsurprised, and, staring with some emotion Harry still couldn't comprehend, turned with renewed strength onto the path of Lord Voldemort, wand held lazily yet ready.

"Harry – to me," Dumbledore whispered, and Harry found his body, broken and tired, bleeding and filthy, running to him. "Hide in there – in the alcove. You see it? Yes, yes, please – no matter what should come to pass… stay there."

Voldemort, all burned flesh and red, glowing eyes, pointed his wand at Dumbledore's heart – as though he would stab him to death with it. Dumbledore looked entirely untroubled.

"I just learned, Professor – you can't kill me," said Voldemort, voice confident and silky. "Only the boy can – I marked him."

"You're, of course, correct," said Dumbledore, tone of voice gentle as though he was merely conversing with one of his students about his day. "I cannot kill you. It takes someone with extreme mastery of death – more than I've ever been capable of – to kill something beyond death. Someone like you. But, Tom… heed this… we each owe one death – there can be no exceptions. You will not… escape. It will walk forever… you will not. And I must admit… merely killing you would not be enough for me… No more…"

The room descended into a blizzard, cold anger rent the air. Dumbledore, old and furious and oh-so tired, turned rigid as his eyes turned hard with olden steel. He was ready to throw wands…

"There's nothing worse than death," Voldemort whispered.

"You're wrong, Tom. You've always been wrong."

Voldemort laughed. It was shrill, long – and mockingly cruel. "You have no idea, old man. No clue what I've done, what I've become – how far I've stretched the very bounds of magic… what I've seen."

"Have you come here only to boast about your brilliance, Tom?" Dumbledore said. "My patience for your self-indulgent arrogance – your stupid, all-destroying ignorance – it ran out so very long ago."

Voldemort sneered.

"You think the boy safe? Why, because of what maturates in his head? Yes. I know – I've seen his soul, seen the taint on it. I can feel the connection just as strongly as the boy – it has grown and grown and festered since his arrival here. Do you really think I, the wizard on the cusp of eternity, would hesitate to kill a fragment of my own soul – if it meant the certainty of immortality?"

"Your ruthlessness will never again surprise me, Tom," Dumbledore said, his voice pained, though Harry thought he heard a touch of true fear colouring it. "Poor, poor Quirinus Quirrell."

"He'd served his purpose."

"Yes, I can imagine. When you forced him to walk through the flames… after all, that will always be the extent to which you can see others… vessels… disposable objects…"

Voldemort laughed again, not slighted in the least, not touched by the coldness of the Professor's voice. "You're one to talk, Professor. I've seen what your methods create. The man that abhors violence, always refusing to kill – but this is the truth, Headmaster… you take ordinary wizards and witches and you fashion them into your weapons, allowing them to kill that which you dare not do yourself! Pointing them in the direction you deem necessary – all in the name of the Greater Good."

Dumbledore's eyes were locked at the burned form of Voldemort, as though enchanted – but Harry thought he wasn't really looking at him, or even looking at anything at all. He seemed caught in his own head, awhirl in thoughts.

"Perhaps you're right," Dumbledore whispered at last, voice heavy and slow. "Perhaps I lived too long, wandered astray at one point – held my own counsel a touch too many years. Perhaps at a point I stopped living with the people around me and simply… existed above them. Beheld them from afar. Perhaps… Yes, perhaps… And yet… still, Tom – I can still recognize the magic of a young boy – magic far beyond anything you'll ever be capable of."

Voldemort exhaled, his red slit-like eyes glancing at Harry. "Potter… you really believe this boy knows magic that I, the great Lord Voldemort, do not?"

"Of course I do – but I wasn't referring to Harry."

"Who then?"

"I was talking about Mr Weasley… Ronald… Of perhaps humble magical talent – he has nonetheless proven himself far braver and cleverer than you ever were… you, with your broken soul that tethers you onto this mortal coil… so afraid… always afraid. You could have done so much more… been so much more – you could have been extraordinary."

"I am the greatest wizard that ever lived, Professor. I've done things you wouldn't – couldn't – believe. Pushed–"

A sweep of Dumbledore's wand interrupted Voldemort. There was a loud bang, and Harry had to cover his eyes against the bright, blinding light. For a moment, a blessed still moment, Harry thought Dumbledore had done it in a single spell.

But he had not. When the light cleared, Harry saw that Voldemort had erected a shield in the path of the Professor's curse.

And then the Dark Lord, eyes narrowed and gleaming, moved. With a small flick a bright, jagged white light erupted from the tip of his wand – Dumbledore swirled his own wand, slapping it sideways before it could strike him down.

BANG!

Harry shielded his face against the screaming debris as the curse struck the wall, cleaving it to pieces.

Swishing his wand, Dumbledore transfigured and brought the broken shards of the wall to life with a sliver of animation – hordes of snakes and lions and dogs and all manner of creatures blinked into existence and sped at the Dark Lord.

The whole thing took the Headmaster less than a second to create. And with a forceful jab at Voldemort, a pink light exploded at an angle at Voldemort.

Voldemort, snarling as scorched flesh fell off his upper arm, flicked his wand and Dumbledore's own curse stopped in mid-air, trembling as though conflicted, before leaping at Dumbledore's transfigured army. Striking one creature and bouncing onwards to the next in a never-ending chase, Voldemort – apparently without effort – erased them from existence.

Whilst doing that, his control and power immaculately wielded, he twirled his wrist and a purple spell lanced like a whip at Dumbledore, who once again had to defend himself with a thrust of his wand at the cursed light – it erupted in dark-crimson fires and dissipated to twin rivers of fire on the floor, Dumbledore standing in between them.

They barely moved, barely uttered so much as a syllable. Curses streaked and deflected, screaming and thundering like lightning against their intended target – only to be brushed aside by the defences of the two foes.

The air became rented with a power beyond words. Harry felt the hairs on his arm stand on end, and slowly, slowly, oh-so slowly, it turned heavy – so heavy he thought the air would be too thick for his lungs.

Harry had never seen anything like it – never even dreamed that magic could be this destructive, this utterly powerful. The room had turned to ruin as lances of magic laid waste wherever it touched – great fires burned across the room, a wheezing testament to the sheer force of their spells.

And it was as though they were only getting started. Spells started to lose colour, becoming iridescent flickers of force that splashed against quickly erected shields, chasing after each other so swiftly Harry couldn't keep up with it.

And then green light, screaming of death, hurled at Dumbledore who, with a twirl – first movement of his body – elegantly, bordering on arrogantly, danced his way around the curse.

It struck close to Harry – so close he could fucking taste it – and flicked the wall aflame in dark-green hues. He scrambled back, afraid to even breathe in the aromas of the fire.

With a furious, incessant scream Voldemort's magic erupted out of his body and hurled Dumbledore back, flinging and whipping him through the room. Harry gulped audibly – beholding wide-eyed the sheer strength of the Dark Lord's defiance.

Dumbledore, obviously rattled, too, found his feet nonetheless and – without hesitation – curled a ball of pure white light at Voldemort.

Voldemort built a shield, a wall of invisible force, but Dumbledore's sphere turned about, licking around the shield, and splashed at the Dark Lord before he could do anything about it, exploding in his face.

Harry closed his eyes against the glare of the explosion – a great burning vortex of white thunder and flames. When it cleared Harry opened his eyes and blinked away the spots – and the sight that greeted him made his heart sink.

Voldemort stood – commanding Quirrell's burned corpse – and there was little flesh left on the frame. Bones tittered out at his femur, and his upper arms were almost completely bare. Magic and fury and death throbbed off him, gleaming in the darkly lit oval hall.

Harry shivered. Was this really only a mere ghost of the Dark Lord Voldemort's true power? How powerful would he not become if he got hold of the Stone? If he resurrected?

"The unicorn's blood has served you well, Tom," said Dumbledore, a fierce smile on his lips and steel in his blue eyes. "Why, you look positively inhuman."

"DIE!" Voldemort shrieked. A flick. A scream of wind. And a fire of orange flames whipped about, screaming and lurching, as it ensnared Dumbledore – and the Professor became lost from Harry's sight.

There was a pulse, so vast Harry felt it in his bones, and the fires curled away and spat back towards the Dark Lord who quickly became lost in flames as Dumbledore had before. Harry breathed a great, heaving sigh of relief when he found Dumbledore unharmed.

Voldemort laughed, cold and loud, as though the flames mattered nothing to him, as though–

He stepped through the fires, strolling leisurely towards Dumbledore as though he was in no hurry at all – even as the flames licked away the last remnants of his scorched flesh. The bones that Harry could see were black, burned and dead and only held together by magic and defiance and wicked fear of death.

"YOU CANNOT TOUCH ME, DUMBLEDORE!" Voldemort cried – with pure relish. His eyes, snakelike and gleaming red, were of madness unbound. "I MARKED THE BOY! AND NO BOY IS A MATCH FOR LORD VOLDEMORT!"

Of that there was no doubt. Harry had no hope in hell against what those two were capable of. They threw around magic of such utter nonsensical destruction that Harry was left frightened and twisted – if the prophecy had spoken of him, it must have been quite mistaken.

Voldemort swept his wand. The flames burst into a greenish serpent that reared from the floor, ready to strike at Dumbledore, who brandished his wand in a single fluid motion. The snake, trembling and moaning, burst into a huff of black smoke. With another twirl of Dumbledore's wand, the smoke swished in the air like a vortex and with a soft bang became water that hurdled like a dome at Voldemort's skull. It trapped the Dark Lord's face within, intent upon drowning him, and his face became indistinct to Harry – though Voldemort hardly seemed to care. He kept walking. Walking, walking, walking, he jabbed his wand at Dumbledore, angled his wand and jabbed again, and twirled it once more and jabbed it once more…

Three bangs – so loud that Harry grabbed his ears by pure instinct alone – and then there were three cracks of jagged crimson light – like red lightning that screamed at the old Professor.

Dumbledore, flicker-quick, brandished his wand like a sword and conjured a silver shield to intercept one of the spells – they met with a vast, hollow sound that reverberated off the walls. In one fluid motion, he twirled his wand towards the second curse, battering it aside with the greatest of efforts. And, with movements that belied his age, he stepped aside the last curse at the last possible moment – just before he had been struck.

Voldemort, however, hadn't remained idle. As Dumbledore had contested the Dark Lord's three spells, cast almost as one, he had waved his wand again – and Harry watched as a light-yellow sickly curse shot through the side of Dumbledore's abdomen.

Dumbledore gasped, gaped, eyes wide and horror-struck, and fell to one knee. With a defiant twitch of his wand, he flung a black curse at Voldemort, and Harry felt the power of the curse set his skin afire with exuberance as it travelled at Voldemort.

But the wand-work had been sloppy, rushed, and the Dark Lord battered it aside as though it was little more than an insect.

Walking, walking, walking, the Dark Lord approached the broken, gasping Professor, kneeling on the floor. With a twitch of his wand, Voldemort cancelled the dome of water around his head – it fell away in smoke. Red eyes froze on the Professor, full of glee, as though they couldn't quite believe that the moment had come…

Dumbledore, rage and fear creased upon his brow, bellowed a cry of nonsense, of sheer fucking defiance, and raised his wand again–

Voldemort whipped his wand across his body and Dumbledore's wand cluttered uselessly out of his hand, clattering off along the burning floor. Harry saw it come to rest in a small pit of purple fire. It couldn't touch the wand. Harry's eyes lingered for a second, breath caught in his throat, then he tore his eyes back to Voldemort and Dumbledore.

Voldemort had halted his approach, smiling, red eyes staring at Dumbledore with hunger and malice.

"The Professor…" he whispered, raising his wand and tilting his head forward, as though eager, as though he wanted to devour the moment. "Come to die…"

With a flick of Voldemort's wand, something rustled from within Dumbledore brightly coloured robes, and a stone, huge and blood-red, hovered back to Voldemort's outstretched hand.

Harry knew at once what it was – the Philosopher's Stone.

It landed in Lord Voldemort's hand – Dark Lord victorious.

"Amazing – such a small thing…" The Stone held his gaze for a second stretching into two. Then he looked at Dumbledore at last. "The end is here, old man – Lord Voldemort… shall return."

Harry, heart pumping faster than he'd ever felt, flung himself out of his hiding place and raised his wand at the Dark Lord. He hadn't seen him, had, in fact, quite forgotten that Harry was even there, and Harry slashed his wand at Voldemort's outstretched hand, thinking with all his might.

DIFFINDO!

A red streak, sizzling with power that made Harry's hair stand on end, leaped forth from his wand at the Dark Lord's arm, aim true and Harry–

Voldemort, movements entirely inhuman, tore his wand across his body and slapped the curse aside at the last second – and Harry groaned in pain and frustration, in fucking tired defeat… a chasm of depression taking hold in his heart.

"Harry Potter…" Voldemort whispered, his infernal eyes wide in surprise. Then he snapped his wand like a whip and Harry felt his wand torn out of his grasp. "I'd quite forgotten you were there. That mistake almost cost Quirrell his arm. Though I imagine he cares little for that."

Harry shivered, the laughter – the awry pleasure – in the Dark Lord's voice made him feel sick. And just like that, with barely a thought, Voldemort had disarmed him… Harry glanced to the floor; his wand lay a few feet away from him, blessedly it had escaped the touch of any fire and seemed unharmed.

Though Harry thought it would do him no good anyway.

"The Headmaster and the Boy Who Lived – I've never been fond of Christmas, but this – this one I shall remember."

And then the thoughts came like a flood, the thoughts not his own, the thought that slivered and whispered through his head when he lost himself within the confines of his mind. And Harry at last recognized that they didn't originate – at least not entirely – from this link he shared with Voldemort.

Glancing down, towards the voices, he saw a flicker of purple fire that licked at his heel – and within that fire there lay a wand – Dumbledore's wand.

Whispering.

And Harry knew what he had to do. Could feel it – in his body, in his soul–

In his magic.

He flexed his fingers and the whispers rejoiced – and Dumbledore's wand trembled… and then promptly shot up into his hand. And – as though he had planned it all along – as though the wand and Harry at last had found each other… a Severing Charm more powerful than any magic Harry had ever performed leaped out of Dumbledore's – his! – wand.

And then another followed.

And another.

Almost chained together. Bound. Like Ropes.

Voldemort, eyeing Dumbledore and only Dumbledore, never saw the curses as they shot at him, never saw as they severed his arms, but he felt it – felt it as his wand and the Stone left his grasp. Heard as the items cluttered away from him on the floor.

A bellow emanated from the Dark Lord. Not wrought out of pain but fury – rage and hatred and cold, cold desire for mayhem – for the murder of the boy who once more seemed to be in his way.

"How?" whispered the Dark Lord, beside himself, staring at Harry.

Harry didn't know. Didn't care. He held the wand tight, aloft, brandished against Voldemort. It didn't tremble in his hand. He walked sideways, eyes never leaving Voldemort, towards Dumbledore.

But Voldemort composed himself, breathed steadily. "No matter. I don't need a wand to make you suffer, Harry. Have you forgotten? I am… in you."

"Harry," Dumbledore whispered, and perhaps for the first time Harry was certain that true fear had touched the old man's heart. "Harry – look out!"

It was too late. His scar split open and the world fell into waves upon lumbering waves of agony, and Harry Potter died – he was sure of it. He was woven in pain beyond thought, pain past endurance…

The world fell away, blotted out by the red eyes of a creature, bound together so tightly that Harry no longer knew where Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort met and where they ended. Coiled in rage, fused by agony, interlinked by defiance – the world had grown so very cold and blackened and ancient.

And Harry longed for death – could feel the strength of his soul slip aside as the creature beyond death took hold, clamoured for a place in Harry's body. Set to consume him whole.

"There's strength in the boy, Dumbledore…" he felt himself say, felt the creature inside whisper through his mouth. "Strength that boggles belief… Maybe I should just take it… maybe Lord Voldemort has no need for the Stone – no need to fashion himself a new body…"

"Harry, please – fight him. You're stronger than he is."

Harry didn't recognize the voice. It came from so very far away – he barely even understood what it said. And he didn't – couldn't – fathom what it meant. There was no way in heaven or hell that Harry could ever rival what coiled inside of him. It was the enormity of creation itself that had laid claim, taken ahold, usurped his soul…

He just wanted it all to end. Wanted it all begone… so he could rest… so he could laugh once more with Ron about silly little things.

The creature screeched for a second, but didn't let up. It did, in fact, coil tighter. Like a snake, strangling.

"Yes! Harry! Harry – listen… Listen! Ron… still… lives!"

What?

It couldn't be – he had watched his friend die not one hour ago. How could the voice be so cruel… but even in his desperate blackness, the thought of Ron had given him a respite.

"He lives! Come on… Harry! Fight him! Beat him!"

But he hardly needed Dumbledore's encouragement – for he now knew that it was Dumbledore – he was rising out of the blackness, clawing with all his might away from the creature, from Voldemort – who seemed to shriek away as emotions, heavy and loaded, took hold of his heart and banished him with light.

And then Harry found himself lying down, face against the stone floor, Dumbledore's wand gripped tightly in his hand. And he heard the fierce, gruelling, moaning sound of Voldemort's agony. Saw the Dark Lord stumble backwards, the Stone cradled in the stumps of his arms, as he turned and ran like a common thief in the night. Saw him disappear through the wall of fire from whence he came.

Harry tried to raise his wand against him before he got away, but found no strength left in his muscle to move. He was shaking so violently, as though he was freezing to death, that he thought it a wonder he was even able to draw air in his lungs.

"Harry – are you all right?"

Harry turned his head on the floor and looked towards Dumbledore, who – old and broken and so very brave – crawled around a lance of fire towards him, crawled towards Harry as though his life depended upon it.

"Professor," Harry said, fighting back tears. "I couldn't – he was–"

"Shhh – relax, Harry – you brave, brave boy…"

"Sir, Ron – he… he died, sir – he lies in the other room. We have to get him."

"Harry – Mr Weasley lives. Fawkes!" There was a snap and fire erupted between them, above them, and had Harry been capable of it, he'd jumped back in fright; as it were, he merely blinked.

A magnificently beautiful creature appeared before them. A creature of music – beautiful, cleansing music that made Harry's heart leap in his chest – and fire stood in front of him. Crimson and the size of a swan, it had a golden, gleaming tail, like a peacock, and Harry saw as it approached Dumbledore and cried – cried tears into his gaping wound in his abdomen. Cleansing it. Healing it. Like it was never there to begin with. Like everything was going to be all right. Like a–

Like a promise.

Dumbledore, with old care, gained his feet again, scooping up Harry's wand on the floor. "Fawkes, please pick up Ronald, then come back and take us to the Great Hall – I imagine they are all gathered there."

Fawkes, the Phoenix, left in a burst of flames and a moment later – to Harry's relief and wonder – it reappeared with an unconscious but very much alive Ron Weasley.

"How – how – he's still alive?"

"I promise you, Harry, I'll answer every question you might have tomorrow. After a rest. Take my hand now."

He took it, passed carrying… about much of anything except the person that was in front of him.

In a flash of fire, Harry was lurched forwards – through sounds and a whirl of colours.

A moment later the three of them found themselves right in the middle of the Great Hall. Harry felt his feet hit solid ground, his knee buckling, and he let go of the Headmaster and fell to the floor. He felt the eyes of the entire school, in a breathless, pregnant moment, fall upon them.

And he lay there in the silence, beside Ron, Dumbledore's wand in his hand, and fell asleep as the commotion erupted all around him.

He fell asleep with a smile on his face. Smiled despite the fact that there was now a certainty that the Dark Lord Voldemort would return. Smiled even though there was a prophecy between them. Smiled… because Ron was alive and smiled because it was better than crying.

Smiled because… at last – the night was finally over.


Author's note: Done and dusted. As you may have noticed I've changed the story to a third-person perspective. For many reasons, though chiefly because of the way it has evolved and the way the story is heading, it made sense. There's no need to go back and read it all again. I've tighten it up, found the typos that slipped by - probably still a bunch left - and made a few plotlines more clear. But the story is largely the same.

Anyway. Thank you for reading. Please - review away. It makes my day.

Have a good day.