Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh unfathomable crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

Chapter 26: Terror in Resonance

Things had gone smoothly so far, Harry thought to himself as he followed his fellow Stone Cutters into this latest chamber. Almost too smoothly, really, since they'd managed to get past well over half of the defenses without any injury to the group.

Which was why it didn't entirely surprise him that something had gone wrong now, in this foul smelling chamber that reeked of death and decay, with a spike of killing intent blasting into to the room and freezing the group where they stood. His instincts screamed at him, told him to run, to flee, but his body would not respond.

"No! You can't be here!" Sokaris all but snarled, her fingers seeming somehow sharper. "This place does not support your manifestation, TATARI!"

"Ah…my daughter, you have once again miscalculated, I see." The voice of the elegantly dressed man – no – the voice of TATARI – echoed. "But then you have forgotten your true skill."

"I do not wish to hear that from the one who disgraced the Eltnam and became a vampire!"

Sokaris was panting heavily now, clutching her chest as she fell to her knees.

"Is that how truly what you believe, Eltnam? You – like I – have no sense of self. You, like I, can live only by taking things from others. That is why I allowed you to live, after all – you are my ideal successor."

"No…I'm not…"

"Metamorphmagus they call you – these…wizards. If they only knew the truth that all you are is an illusion. Your knowledge, behavior, morality, sense – none of it is who you really are. It is all simply stolen from others."

"Stop," Sokaris rasped, swallowing hard. "St-op."

Kikikiki.

Empty, mocking laughter echoed from the chamber walls. A laughter born of madness, born of the joy of ending countless lives, as the figure made its way over towards the trembling girl.

"Why? It is only the truth, Eltnam. The truth that you who hate vampires practically acted like one from the moment you were born." The blond figure's voice spoke in an incredibly intimate, knowing tone, one that made a listener feel…dirty, as if one was being violated just by listening to it. The figure's fingers roughly lifted the girl's face to look at him, to look into his eyes of blood, as his thumb brushed her cheek almost…sensually. "Even though a human being with your name exists, you are but something without substance who can only live by stealing other people's knowledge. Just like me."

Once more, the TATARI smiled, a mouthful of razor-edged teeth glinting in the light as its claws drew blood, with Sokaris whimpering as it leaned close to her. She could almost feel its breath upon her skin, filled with the sticky sweet tang of fresh-spilled blood.

"Still – your talent is remarkable. Sialim Sokaris. A performance with enough skill to be mistaken as the real thing. Truly there are no doubts as to the capabilities of the TATARI's successor. Accept it. Your role. Your body. What you truly are, my daughter."

"N…o."

"Accept it."

Blood red eyes looked into violet, ordering her, compelling her, imposing their will upon her.

"No."

"Accept it."

"I…I…."

But what could she say? What could she claim? That it was a lie?

She…she…could not. She was…Sialim Sokaris was…

"Leave Sokaris alone!" someone bellowed – his own voice, as the broom-riding form of Harry Potter acted, rocketing forward and barreling into the so-called vampire without holding anything back. The vampire, taken by surprise, was knocked away from his friend, with Harry himself hurled from the broomstick he'd ridden to the ground.

Without a rider, the besom continued along its course at full speed, slamming the vampire into the wall with a sickening crash!

"Ugh." Harry's vision swam, stars flashing before his eyes, though at least that incredible pressure that had paralyzed him was gone. Was Sokaris…ok? Was—

"Harry…" something whispered from the direction of the crash, with the Boy-who-Lived raising his head and looking towards only to freeze as he beheld the sight of Daphne Greengrass bleeding profusely from where she had been run through by a broomstick. "Help me…"

"No…"

He knew that what he was seeing wasn't real. That it couldn't be real. That Daphne was back in the dormitories of Slytherin House.

But fear wasn't rational.

And what he saw – what he heard – smelled – felt – was a dying Daphne Greengrass, her eyes looking at him desperately, pleading for his help.

No. This wasn't real. It couldn't be…

….it was a mistake…it had to be a mistake…Daphne couldn't actually be…

But he didn't have time to think about it, as a jet of silver light hit him in the back and Harry started to laugh. He didn't know what had come over him – why he was laughing – just that laughter spilled from his lips without pause, his body writhing as if something – someone – were tickling him without end.

He tried to stop – he shouldn't be laughing at the sight of Daphne bleeding out in front of him, shouldn't be laughing at the fact that he – his actions – had killed her.

"Why?" the girl seemed to ask, as the light faded from her eyes. "Why…?"

…but Harry just laughed and laughed and laughed, until at last the body vanished from sight.

Hillard lowered his wand, having hit Potter with Rictusempra – the Tickling Charm – as a last resort when he saw the boy was in no state to fight. Not that he himself was in much of a state to fight. Sokaris' boggart – for boggart it had been – had nearly undone him and the rest, with the prefect all but convinced that he was about to die.

For surely a vampire would not simply be satisfied with breaking Sialim Sokaris, if that really was her name. It would come after each one of them, draining them one by one – or having Sokaris do it to mark her conversion.

It was hard to believe such a being existed – he imagined that this fear was what others had felt around You-Know-Who – yet alone of any of them, Harry Potter had found the courage to stand and act. But then, perhaps he shouldn't be so surprised, now that he'd seen what his boggart had become.

Not Lord Voldemort, as some would suspect, but a badly injured girl who was bleeding out before his eyes.

If his memory served, that was Daphne Greengrass, one of the first year Slytherins – and also one of those that Harry had chosen to accompany him during the dungeon challenge.

He felt guilty for forcing Harry to laugh at that, but there had been no time, and frankly, no choice. The prefect knew he couldn't have mustered up the willpower and concentration to use Riddikulus, the traditional charm used to fight a boggart. With the vestiges of what he could only describe as an intent to destroy all life still driving his instincts to madness, it had been all he could do to perform the simple Tickling Charm.

Harry was silent now, as one of the twins had cast a Finite, but the charm done its job.

People often made the mistake of thinking that mastering the Riddikulus charm was necessary to defeat a boggart, but that wasn't strictly true. All that was needed was laughter. The Riddikulus charm helped, in that it made a boggart more amusing and inspired one to laugh, but it wasn't necessary.

Laughter alone would be enough.

That was why he had done it, why he had cast the spell on the Boy-Who-Lived, even if now, in the aftermath, he felt terrible for doing so.

After a minute, the prefect found the strength to put one foot in front of the other and make his way to Harry's side.

"Potter…are you alright?" Hillard asked.

But the Boy-Who-Lived didn't answer. He just sat on the ground unmoving, looking at the place where he had seen Daphne's body vanish.

Being forced to laugh, it seemed, had sent him into a state of shock.

Sokaris had likewise regained her footing, though the air of confidence that had surrounded her was gone. Still, she waved off Matou's assistance, the way she was hunched over, arm guarding her stomach indicating all too well that she was in pain and did not want to be touched.

"First time facing a boggart?" he asked, feeling a pang of sympathy for the girl. That was probably one of the nastiest creatures Quirrell could have used here – and yet, they should have expected it.

The Defense Professor, had, after all, said time and time again that the worst possible enemy one could face was fear itself, since fear could paralyze and disable where spells otherwise could not. And well, what was a boggart but a reflection of one's fears, taking on both the form and power of what one feared most?

"Yes."

Her answer was…terse, to say the least, with Robert Hillard making the wise decision not to pry further. What the boggart had become had obviously upset her, though he couldn't really picture her as a vampire – and the assertion that this "Tatari" character had disgraced what was apparently her family, the Eltnam, puzzled him.

People could be turned into vampires, but that wasn't their fault – it was because a vampire bit them. Could she be a part-vampire? No, that didn't fit either. She didn't bear much of a resemblance to Lorcan d'Eath, the only one he was aware of, at least.

But this really wasn't the time to be thinking about these things.

There would be time enough after the Stone, since right now, he was needed to help protect Sokaris and Harry - to help protect the group, really, from anything else Quirrell sent at them.

And that there would be something else, Hillard was certain, as the smell of the chamber was all too familiar.

Troll.

In the aftermath of the boggart incident, Shinji tried to approach Sokaris to see if she was alright, given the ordeal she'd endured, but the alchemist had rebuffed him. It stung a little to see her pulling away from him, but the fact that she was refusing help from anyone else made him feel a little better. After all, if she simply didn't feel like talking to anyone, that was something he could understand.

Though the words she and the…boggart-made apparition had exchanged was something he couldn't – didn't want to understand.

TATARI, she'd called the man. The name of one of the most dreaded vampires in the world.

The Night of Wallachia, the Thirteenth of the Twenty-Seven Dead Apostle Ancestors.

TATARI's successor, the man had called her. His daughter.

His mind reeled, turning away from that line of thought as Shinji's legs nearly buckled, but he forced himself to stay calm. That was simply an illusion, a reflection of what she feared most. It was not necessarily her.

And anyway, Harry seemed to need help, as the Boy-Who-Lived wasn't even moving from where he'd fallen, a haunted look in his eye, his gaze fixed and unwavering.

"Harry, are you alright?" Shinji crouched down beside his friend and waved a hand in front of his face, only to receive no response, no flicker of recognition. "Harry? Can you hear me?"

But if the Boy-Who-Lived could, he wasn't showing it.

Footsteps echoed on chamber floor, with Shinji looking up to see Sokaris making her way over to the two other first years.

"Sokaris," he said, acknowledging her presence.

"I will see to the Boy-Who-Lived," the young alchemist intoned quietly, opening a small satchel she had with her. Her expression was hard, but what worried him more was her tone, which had gone utterly flat. "Take this."

She fished out a phial filled with an acid-green suspension, and offered it to him, only for Shinji to blink.

"Isn't this one of your explosive potions?" he asked, confused as to why she would want him to hold it for her. "I have my ofuda for that."

"No, Matou Shinji - this is Shrinking Solution," she corrected, wrinkling her nose. "In case of trolls."

Shinji raised an eyebrow but accepted the phial.

"But don't trolls have magic resistance?" he questioned, remembering just how many ofuda it had taken to slow the wretched creature he and the other Stone Cutters had fought at Halloween.

"Indeed, Matou Shinji," the girl replied. "But that does not apply to what they swallow." There was a flicker of her old self there, but only a flicker. "Now go."

"As you wish."

That Sokaris was a bundle of secrets, if Sokaris was even her real name, was something he knew well. But he had no right to complain about that now. He'd known from the moment he met her that she was different, that like him, there were things about her that shouldn't be looked at too closely.

After all, he kept his share from her as well.

"How is he?" Hillard asked as Shinji rejoined the other Stone Cutters.

"I don't know. Sokaris is seeing to him," the Japanese boy said. "She said something a troll."

"She's right."

Hillard's reply was rather unhappy, with the older boy rubbing his eyes with one hand.

"There's one sleeping over—"

"—on the other end of the chamber, blocking a door," the Twins added helpfully.

"And it's even bigger than the one we fought at Halloween," Hillard said grimly. "There's no room to run. No Peeves to distract it. Only four of us in any condition to fight. And Sokaris and Harry on the other side of the room. I'm…open to suggestions."

Shinji couldn't help but smile as he held up the phial Sokaris had given him.

"How about Shrinking Solution?"

Hillard lifted his finger and opened his mouth as if to protest, but then closed it.

"…actually, that would probably work," he said with a bit of chagrin. "Weasleys, any more ideas?"

The Twins pointed to their brooms.

"We'll fly around and keep the troll focused on us—"

"—the prefect can levitate the troll's club—"

"—and if wee little Matou can make the troll swallow the bit of Shrinking Solution—"

"—good old Robbie here can smash it flat."

Hillard mouthed the word "Robbie" incredulously as the twins did their little back and forth, but nodded after a moment.

"Fine. As good a plan as any, I suppose," the prefect grudgingly allowed. "Matou, any objections?"

"None."

"Good. Let's mount up."

The ensuing fight was fast, brutal, and rather bloody, but at least there were no dungbombs involved this time, nor any marauding poltergeists.

The Twins, remembering that one of the most annoying ways for someone to wake up was to have a cold bucket of water dumped on their head, did one better, casting the Freezing Charm at the troll.

A freezing wind howled, an ice cold gale rushing at the great Troll – who opened its eyes in irritation and roared in fury.

Sadly for the troll, it wouldn't get a chance to do much more than that, as Shinji swooped by and levitated the phial of Shrinking Solution neatly into the beast's gaping maw, with the creature inadvertently swallowing as it hit the back of its throat.

The troll lumbered to its feet, but it was too late, as the potent mix – brewed using the recipe of Zygmunt Budge himself – took effect, with its form shrinking, shrinking, shrinking – becoming the size of a human child who shrieked and shook its fists impotently at the broom-riders above.

Whereupon Hillard, who had used Wingardium Leviosa to levitate the oversized club next to the troll at the beginning of the fight, brought the weapon down with a vengeance.

There were many ways for one to deal with fear.

Channeling it into anger and purging through violence was certainly not the best way, but for the Stone Cutters, it was what they had. If Quirrell had almost stopped them cold with fear, then they would let that fear become anger, anger become hate and use it to further empower their spells, to stiffen their resolve.

So the club came down over and over and over again, ignoring the troll's screams of pain and agony, ignoring the sound of bone breaking and organs pulping, over and over until the once fearsome magical being was no more than a smear upon the ground.

For through victory their chains were broken.

Hillard, Shinji, and the Twins pulled open the next door, wands at the ready in case this next room – presumably Snape's – contained some other monster of legend. It wasn't exactly a secret that the Head of Slytherin House had long desired the post of Defense against the Dark Arts instructor, so they weren't actually sure what to expect.

…and on the off chance there was another boggart or worse, Hillard had decided to take point, since the last thing the Stone Cutters needed was to run into something like that…TATARI creature.

Whatever they were expecting, a table with seven differently shaped bottles upon it wasn't quite it, but they'd take the reprieve from combat.

They turned as one at the sound of footsteps and a grunt of pain to see Harry Potter and Sokaris approaching them, with the Boy-Who-Lived's form being supported by the purple-haired girl.

"Hey guys," Harry greeted weakly. "Sorry I…"

But Hillard stopped him by giving the boy a deep bow.

"Harry, what you did – charging Sokaris' boggart like that – was a very brave thing," the prefect said, knowing how fragile the boy probably was at the moment. "The rest of us were frozen by whatever that thing it showed was. But you…you acted, and you saved her."

"Indeed," the girl agreed. "And I…thank you for it."

"I…"

Truth be told, he had only acted to stop his worst fear from coming to pass, to keep Sokaris from being killed from whatever that monster was. Harry had had no idea that was a boggart, or that it wouldn't just kill him for his interference.

But then, he hadn't thought. He'd just pushed past the fear of death and acted, because there was something he feared far worse than dying.

"I know." Sokaris interrupted him. "But there is a virtue to being able to act, even so."

"…if you say so, Sokaris."

There was little more to say, as the group stepped over the threshold together. The moment they did so, purple flames whooshed into existence in the doorway behind them, with flames the color of night blocking the doorway leading onwards.

They were trapped.

Shinji groaned, remembering the room he'd had to deal with in his Dungeon Challenge – the one with salamander fires blocking every passageway.

"…this is going to be another puzzle, isn't it?"

"Presumably," Hillard answered, looking about the otherwise featureless room. "And unless we solve it, we're probably trapped down here too."

The Weasley Twins, who had been looking a bit more closely at the table, discovered a roll of paper lying next to the bottles.

"Good old Snape—"

"—a riddle this is!" they exclaimed as they read the text – and riddle it was. Hillard and the others moved forward to have a look as well, blinking as they saw what was written there.

"You know, this might be difficult for some people, but Ravenclaws have to answer riddles every day just to get into the Tower," the prefect mused. "I would have expected something more…sadistic from Snape, to be quite honest."

In plaintext, the riddle said that of the bottles upon the table, one contained a potion that would allow the drinker to move forward through one set of flames, with another to let the drinker go back through the other. Two contained wine, and three contained poison.

It wasn't very difficult to figure out which potion did what, unless the riddle itself was a trap, and predictably, the bottle that would let them advance was the smallest.

There was enough for one – maybe two – people to go forward.

"I guess we have to split up," Hillard noted. His expression was grim – this was the last thing he wanted, for whoever went on would have only one person to back him or her up. But… "Sokaris, I imagine that as the person who has the most knowledge about the Stone, you wish to go on?"

"Correct."

"Who else then?"

"Me," Harry said weakly, grimacing as he steadied himself. "I'll do it."

"…are you…sure?" the prefect asked. He wasn't sure that was a good idea, since the Boy-Who-Lived didn't seem fully recovered even now. "I'm sure one of us wouldn't—"

"Please," Harry whispered, nearly pleading as he met the older boy's eyes. "I can't…I need to see this to the end."

To that, Hillard knew he could not say no, not when the Boy-Who-Lived seemed like he might fall to pieces otherwise.

"I understand, Harry," the prefect said grimly. "The rest of us will wait here then. Leave your brooms."

'…and here we'll make our stand.'

"I would advise taking a bezoar before imbibing any potion, just in case," Sokaris warned, placing one of the stonelike masses into her mouth as she took a small sip of the potion they thought would take them forward. "Hmm…it seems safe."

Harry followed suit.

The moment he took a gulp, ice flooded his body.

"Let's go, before it wears off," the alchemist said quietly, though she paused to drop a bag of empty phials on the table. "I'm sure you can work out a mischief to be done with these."

And with that, she and Harry passed through the flames into the final room.

The rest of the Stone Cutters did not simply stand idle. Fred and George filled the empty phials Sokaris had left with the potion to allow them to exit the chamber, replacing the contents of the flasks that had once contained potions to allow someone to move forward and back with poison.

Indeed, they added a bit of poison to the wine as well, for a nasty trick should Quirrell defeat them.

Shinji laid some binding ofuda on the ground to trap anyone who entered, with sealing ofuda to keep them in place.

Hillard raised a Protego Totalum about the room,to help buy time if it was necessary, though he had no great illusions that it would hold Quirrell off for long.

After that, they concealed themselves around the room, disillusioning themselves, drinking an invisibility potion, or hiding under a cloak of invisibility, readying themselves to spring an ambush if need be.

They were ready.

They were—

"Confringo."

For a moment, as he passed through the flames, Harry could see, hear, feel nothing but dark fire, but then he was through into the final chamber, with no further doors in sight.

They'd made it

They were deep in the bowels of Hogwarts now, in a chamber ribbed with cathedral-like vaults. But there was no stone here, only a mirror he'd seen once before – a magnificent artifact with an ornate gold frame, standing on two clawed feet.

He walked toward it slowly, almost as if entranced, but paused as he saw Sokaris and heard her speak.

"Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi - I show not your face but your heart's desire," Sokaris spoke, reading the inscription carved around the mirror's top. "The Mirror of Erised."

"…I didn't expect to see this again," Harry admitted, looking around uneasily. "But where's the stone?"

"I suspect it is within," Sokaris replied, averting her gaze from the looking glass. "After all, it would be a cunning trick to hide what one desires within an illusion, would it not?"

"Can you get it out?" he asked.

"No," the other admitted, shaking her head. "The Philosopher's Stone is not what I desire most. Not even now. But you desire it, don't you?"

"I just want to find the Stone before Quirrell does," Harry replied, walking up to the mirror. "That's what I want most in the world right now. Otherwise, everything we did. Everything we faced, it will have been for naught."

"Then focus on that desire and look," his companion urged him, with Harry complying.

At first, he saw only his reflection, pale and scared-looking.

But a moment later, the reflection smiled at him. It put its hand into its pocket and pulled out a blood-red stone. It winked and put the Stone back in its pocket – and as it did so, Harry felt something heavy drop into his real pocket.

He pulled it from his pocket to look at it, marveling at how light it was, at how it seemed to glow with an inner warmth.

"The Philosopher's Stone," he could hear Sokaris murmur reverently.

Against all odds, they'd succeeded. They'd gotten the Stone. They'd won.

They'd won.

"It—"

And then Harry found himself bound and on the floor, the Stone flying out of his hands and seeming to disappear.

What had…?

Sokaris whirled to attack some unseen enemy, but was thrown to the ground when the Mirror of Erised exploded, with her prone body slammed with a halo of crimson light, and her wand flying up into the air, where it was caught by a disembodied hand.

No…not a disembodied hand.

The hand of someone under an invisibility cloak, something that was made quite obvious when shimmery fabric dropped to the ground to reveal the form of Professor Quirrell, who proceeded to cast a simple Expelliarmus on the Boy-Who-Lived and claim his wand as well.

"Voldemort," Harry all but spat. "Bind!"

But a snake of fire consumed the ofuda shooting from his sleeves, burning away his clothing and any ofuda he had left as well.

"An acceptable attempt, Harry Potter, but hardly inventive," the man commented, though he looked surprised that the Boy-Who-Lived was unharmed. "Your friend Matou was far more creative, though not half as clever as he believed. Though I suppose I should give credit to Severus for making his potions so effective."

"You…"

"And it is good that you know the name of the one who truly bested you," Quirrell continued, his lips drawing up into a cruel smirk. "I had wondered if you would. Frankly, I had thought the Ravenclaws were the brains of your outfit. But then I suppose it's fitting that the Boy-Who-Defeated-Me-Once reminds me of…me."

Harry flinched.

"I'm nothing like you!"

"Oh really? I think the coming investigation will show otherwise," the man commented, his unwavering gaze making Harry feel like his forehead – no – his whole body was on fire. "It will find that Harry Potter deceived his comrades and coaxed them into helping him steal the Philosopher's Stone."

"No…you…"

"After all, it is well known that Lord Voldemort sought immortality, so why should the Boy-Who-Lived, the Parselmouth and so-called hero who vanquished him, who shares some of his powers, be any different?"

Harry swallowed.

"You…"

"You conspired with the half-giant who was expelled from Hogwarts for raising a monster in its halls, learning the secret of what was hidden here. You used him, just as you used your allies, those fools who thought they could trust you simply because you helped them defeat a troll."

"My friends…what did you…"

"You slew them, of course, in a tragic, but inevitable betrayal. Sadly, you were betrayed in turn by your co-conspirator, the girl named Sokaris, and ended up dying by the other's hand."

"You…killed them?"

Quirrell only laughed, a dry, cold sound that reminded Harry of every villain he'd ever hear of, a mad mocking cackle.

"Oh, not yet," the man confided, his blue eyes dark cold with malice. "I think my story would be far more convincing if it was your wand that took their lives, no?"

"No…please…no…"

"Ah, I had forgotten how nice it was to hear begging. But sadly, I cannot grant your request," intoned the cool, passionless voice of Quirinus Quirrell, as he pointed the length of olive in his hand – Sokaris' wand – at Harry's heart. "After all, the story must unfold. The savior must become a villain, and the villain a hero."

"You…you…won't get away with this."

"I think you overestimate your teachers, just as you did your friends. Of course, the official story will be that Hermione Granger came to me, concerned for your whereabouts and that of your friend Sokaris, and fearing the worst, I came to investigate." He smiled then, a thin, tight-lipped expression that brought Harry anything but comfort. "Dumbledore and McGonagall are gone, after all, and in the absence of the Headmaster and his Deputy, it is the Defense Professor who is responsible for the castle's protection. Still, it was a pity I arrived too late. For by the time I reached the final chamber, you and your comrades were already dead."

"You…" Harry's head swam, horror filling him as he realized that people might actually believe it. That Quirrell had outwitted him. That it was Voldemort who had won. "You'll pay for this!"

"So many have said, Harry Potter. But don't worry – your friends will join you soon enough," he said, in an intimate voice much like that of Sokaris' boggart. "After all, it is only right that they will, Boy-who-Lived. It wouldn't do for me to leave behind such…messy details not taken care of."

Harry struggled, but it was futile.

He could not move, could not squeeze out of the ropes. His ofuda were gone. His wand was gone.

He could not do anything in the face of this enemy – a man who had bluntly said he was going to kill all of his friends. A man whose strength had showed him that all his power, all the tricks he could muster were useless in the face of an overwhelming foe.

That was Quirrell's final lesson – the lesson of futility.

For further words, struggle, resistance would be futile. In a moment, Harry knew he was going to die.

"Messy details? Is that all we ever were?" he asked.

"Indeed," the Dark Wizard confirmed. "Simply an unseen snag in the plans of Lord Voldemort. But with magic, such snags are easily undone, such messes erased from existence. Avada Kedavra!"

A green jet of light arced through the air, slamming into the chest of the Boy-Who-Lived—

—and the world went white.