Disclaimer: I own nothing.
The Last and Only Fight
It was the bright lights that alerted them to his return amidst the frenzy of their battle. It seemed as if the sun shone only on him as surrounding host reflected his own solar spell, cutting mercilessly through the smoke and hazy shield charms that hovered perilously fragile around their conjurers' hearts beating in unison under borrow time.
He was alone in a sea of silver; metal glinted menacingly and it gleamed like a thousand blades ready for the final strike. He was poised and ready, dark robes floated in a steady breeze as they moved on as one, closing the gap.
To the man it seemed as if a lifetime had stretched between them, and that a cord had tugged them closer and closer to the definitive end, the final encounter. The silence and stillness promised only dramatic conclusions in a frazzled war wrecked aftermath. Their eyes met each other and he calmly raised his head to the gaze and accepted the implications of the challenge. He was unrecognised and the eyes that met his were unnaturally bloodshot, inconceivably inhuman. They were confused and frustrated. They would be beaten.
The obstacle the dark lord's assured victory never smiled and his face stayed still as stone as his hand gestured calmly to his army who strode purposefully into formation around him, shielding his eyes from former friends and foes that were scattered around him like spent shrapnel, though his peripheral vision did not stray. He had settled his mind against these ghosts.
Sparks of illumination lit up on his army's arms as they were raised in solidarity and with a gentle hiss their missiles launched forwards, racing to the target whose mouth was agape in shock and his wand lame in his useless hands.
He went out like a star exploding, bright and huge flames licking the faces of his allies but all became darkness as his evacuated soul was ejected forcibly but unable to find any vessel in its search for sanctuary able to bear it succumbed to the will of the wizard before it.
A flick of his wrist had a vacuum pooling the essence of Voldemort into a tight, cramped and manageable size, which he contained in the steel belly of his soldier's figure. His wand traced the compartments outline sealing it shut before decorating the casing with his delicate runes. They glowed an eerily sickly green harvesting the power of the killing curse that had brought prophesy into his reality.
Harry's voice was rough and quiet from disuse but the words still came. "Self-destruct"