A/N: This idea came almost instantly, and then I didn't have time at all to write for the first week. So here, have a story crafted in between meetings at work XD
I was actually super pumped to get this song out of all of the Game of Thrones songs available, only because I've now had an excuse to listen to the cover by Ramin Djawadi and Serj Tankian on repeat.
For those of you who haven't heard of the song, the wiki describes the song as follows: ""The Rains of Castamere" is a song which immortalises the destruction of House Reyne of Castamere by Tywin Lannister."
Thanks to WeasleyObsession, Hexibora, and Rena for the Beta!
Summary: Emperor Voldemort, after a twenty six year reign, has finally met his match.
Triggers/Warnings: beheading of an enemy, spiking of an enemy's body, non-descriptive dead/decaying bodies, displayed said bodies
Word Count: 1781
Prompts:
QLFC S10R6
The Rains of Castamere (Use of lyrics as dialogue; toppling of an authority, the price of arrogance)
"And Who Are You (the proud lord said)"
Explosions rocked the palace as Emperor Voldemort calmly sat upon his throne, wreathed in gold. Once upon a time, he would have covered himself in the silver of his house, but that was all in the past. Real leaders covered themselves in gold and jewels, and he had plenty of both. He had reigned over Wizarding Britain now for a steady twenty-six years and quelled many a rebellion in that time. This one would also fail.
The sounds of fighting only seemed to get closer as time dragged on, but still Emperor Voldemort sat, unworried. His knights were the final line of defense before the throne room, and all were willing to put their lives on the line for him. His inner circle had been renamed back to the Knights of Walpurgis in order to keep with the theme of his royal ascendancy. After all, a royal guard would be more beneficial to his legitimacy than having his fighting force be called Death Eaters.
Standing from his throne gingerly, he scowled at his aging joints and the greying hair that dotted his scalp. He would turn eighty come the fall of the current year, and had he been a Muggle, he would have felt all eighty of those years. As it was, his reflexes were slowing, despite being in the prime of his life as a wizard. His advisor claimed it was merely the lack of exercise that was dulling him. He personally blamed his age. More than once he had regretted not using Myrtle Warren's accidental death to make a Horcrux and anchor himself to this plane of existence, but otherwise his life seemed to have worked out well for him. He and his forces had overwhelmed the Ministry and Dumbledore's pitiful Order of the Phoenix, and the light of the opposition had been snuffed shortly after Halloween of 1981.
Sure, at one point he had been given some drivel of a prophecy foretelling of a baby born at the end of the seventh month defeating him, but he had never put too much stock into fortune-telling. He had run into enough Muggle hacks that pretended to see the future to rip tourists off when he was younger on orphanage-organized trips to the city. He didn't need to get sucked into the magical version of scam artists. He did acknowledge that, had he not been the clever strategist that he was back then, he might have gone crazy searching for a baby.
He scoffed aloud at his thoughts. What could a mere baby do to him? He probably should have had someone searching for that supposed child prophesied to defeat him, but he had read enough of Aesop's fables to know that trying to prevent a prophecy would make it come true.
No, he had chosen to fight and then best the famous Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts and Defeater of Grindlewald in a duel, subsequently winning the allegiance of the Elder Wand and the right to rule Wizarding Britain. He then showcased Dumbledore's head on a pike down Diagon Alley. A gruesome display, but wholly needed, for the rest of the Wizarding World had crumbled at my feet that night. Who else would stand up to me if not even their precious savior could defeat me?
The sound of the heavy doors to the throne room wrenching open and slamming against the walls drew Emperor Voldemort out of his reverie. The sounds of battle were loud, as if the fighting were now on his doorstep. A darkly cloaked figure stood in the doorway, a glimmering sword at his side. Emperor Voldemort could see the glint of rubies in the handle, and couldn't help but laugh at the sight of the Sword of Gryffindor.
"I see a lost relic of the Founders has been brought to the light once more!" he called out to the intruder. He stayed near his throne on its raised golden dais to give him a height advantage. One thing he learned in intimidation tactics was to always have the high ground. "Is this some gift you will then present to me, so you may then kneel and I knight you into my Order? Or have you come under the pretense of revolution to remove me from power?" He palmed his wand without worry. This wouldn't be the first time someone had breached his inner walls, and so long as he drew breath, this wouldn't be the last.
"Tom, it is you who should be bowing to me," the darkened man called out, his voice low and gruff. He strode forward, pulling his cloak hood down to reveal messy black hair, round spectacles, and piercing green eyes that glared at him fiercely in the dim light. Taking the opportunity to investigate the man further, Emperor Voldemort noticed the red dragonhide armor covering him under the cloak.
Chinese Fireball, perhaps? he thought to himself, a grin curling his lips as the man stopped before him at the bottom of the dais.
"And who are you, that I must bow so low?" Emperor Voldemort asked. He withdrew the Elder Wand, running his thumb over the bumps in the wood comfortingly as he faced down this intruder.
"Harry Potter, proudly of Gryffindor House. I'm here to defeat you, Tom," the man replied, readying his sword. Emperor Voldemort barked out a laugh at the use of his former name.
"So only a cat of a different coat, hm? In a coat of gold," he said, motioning to his golden armor, "or a coat of red…" He paused for a moment to motion to the red dragon hide that Potter wore. "A lion still has claws." Another motion towards Potter at the Sword of Gryffindor was made, and Emperor Voldemort saw Potter seemed unphased by the flowery language. "And mine are long and sharp, my lord," Emperor Voldemort continued, mockingly using a title for Potter that he knew Potter no longer held after all of the changes he made during his regime. "…as long and sharp as yours!" Emperor Voldemort flicked his wrist and rushed forward, his own sword appearing in his hands, his wand safely ensconced in the hilt of the golden blade in his hands.
The two swords clashed, Emperor Voldemort and Harry Potter's faces mere inches apart as each struggled to get the upper hand.
"Do you seek to overthrow me, Potter?" he asked before thrusting out and disengaging, causing Potter to stumble back down the stairs of the dais. "Take the throne for yourself, like so many others have tried?" Emperor Voldemort took a moment to motion to the tall metal spikes splayed out around his dais, each with a body or skeleton in some stage of decay. "Shall I add you to my collection?"
"I'm here to set us free, Tom. We will bring the Ministry back, and finally get rid of all tyrants like you!" Potter declared, his emerald eyes flashing in the light. He sent a spell flashing towards the dais with a flick of his sword, and Emperor Voldemort used his own to deflect it.
"You'll have to try better than that, boy!"
What felt like hours later, Harry Potter laid slumped against the dais, rain gently falling into the throne room from where the exploded roof had crumbled. The cool water felt good on him, and he couldn't help but close his eyes and tilt his face up toward the heavens, letting the rain cleanse him. The body of Emperor Voldemort laid impaled on one of the spikes, the golden metal of his armor roughly pierced through, his head having rolled somewhere behind the throne. Harry was too tired to stand up, let alone check for where the offending limb had landed.
That was the fiercest battle he had ever had to fight. The training he had received over the past twenty years barely prepared him for the monstrosity that had been the dictator of the British Wizarding World. Gashes and burns covered his arms and face; anywhere that hadn't been protected by his specialty-made armor had been hit.
Thanks Mum, for the gift, he thought, fully aware that the dragonhide saved his life more than once during that battle. Going in, Harry knew he was in over his head. Voldemort had decades of experience on him, and had learned from the finest institutions and tutors while Harry only had basement classrooms and rushed learning behind closed doors. Being a Gryffindor for seven years at Hogwarts was almost a death sentence for half-bloods like him, and once he graduated, he had to disappear.
But eight years later had him standing victorious over the tyrant who had caused so much trouble so quickly.
Truthfully, it wasn't even his skill that had caused him to get the upper hand, but sheer dumb luck. The knockback of one of their spells colliding as their swords clashed had made Voldemort misstep. Harry had been in the process of another full-bodied swing with an upward arc, fully expecting to find metallic resistance, when his attack hit true and the thump of a head hitting the ground filled the sudden silence of the throne room.
With a groan, Harry had hauled the body up and onto one of the spikes adorning the dais, deciding that this was a fitting end for the maniac who called himself an emperor.
Picking himself up from his huddled position, Harry registered the sounds of battle in the hallways fading. The collective sound of footsteps filled the air and he tensed for a moment, fully expecting to have to fight Voldemort's Knights on his way out. He relaxed, however, when familiar smiling faces filled his sight: his classmates, exiled Muggleborn–whom his mother had helped smuggle away–and even his comrades in the revived Order of the Phoenix
"We did it!" Harry called out, taking a halting step towards them, a laugh bubbling up inside of him that spilled out in joy as his friends and family reached him.
Amongst the elation of the group, Harry couldn't help but look to the ground to see the Elder Wand. It had reverted back from its sword shape the moment Voldemort had collapsed. Picking it up, he rolled the powerful stick between two fingers, feeling the texture of the wood, slightly slippery from the rain and pooling blood. Power filled him, and he couldn't help but grin at the opportunities this wand would give him.
He took the wand with both hands, and then snapped it in half, then half again, before tossing the pieces amongst the spikes on the throne. Turning back to the Order, Harry grinned widely again.
They did it. They were finally free.