Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the Pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll.

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

~ "Invictus" by William Ernest Henley

A hand clawed through the blood. It pushed against the film like a rubber sac. Harry smiled in delight. As if sensing him, like a young babe, it reached out. Harry let it touch his face. The claws raked down his cheek, splitting his face. Harry laughed. He leaned down on his elbows and touched his face to the pool.

The monster rose up through him. Pulling the pool with it, it came like a waking, chest first. Harry gasped, what small light leaving his face. His eyes drooped. Something bright and blue rose out of him, worn on the beast. Harry slumped and did not move again.

The creature stepped out of Harry's body. There was no grace, no dignity in such a thing. It had only a structure that once might have been human a thousand years ago. Now, it stood, tortured into crookedness, all sharp pinioned points, smooth skin, jutting bone as if starved. Its only majesty was in its size, twice than of a man. It hid its head in its collarbone, hands cradling a skull smooth of distinction. Sacks of skin flagged over its groin, as if dripping, slowly sinking over its elbows and knees as well.

It whimpered.

Slowly, some of the Death Eaters, like curious schoolboys, started to move before Voldemort jerked and shushed them.

It twitched. Slowly, moving with all the coy flirt of a spider, it lowered its hands. With a slurp, the slack skin rolled, kneaded, and the legs and arms smoothed into an impressive man. Its hands were as large as the head, becoming long and regal - a strange, distended beauty. The face was smooth, empty except for the indentions of eyes and nose, like it was wearing a sack for a face.

With a pretty fingernail, it sliced itself a mouth, cutting through the brown skin.

Blocky teeth, large and with the texture of carrion-beetles, flashed. Inside the shiny filth of its skin, they were like insects inside a cadaver. It gave a smart smack of its lips and a practice grin, rolling its jaw

It turned towards the Dark Lord. In a slow, genteel motion belied by the ugliness of its face, it bent and addressed.

You are one who summoned me?

Voldemort hesitated.

Hmm, it hummed, tapping its lip. I scare you?

Voldemort stepped back. "No," he said, daring to give it an imperial look. "I fear nothing."

It laughed. It was a sound a wolf might make if it knew how. It opened its mouth, exposed an endless line of teeth, going further and further back into its throat. Dizzying. A few who tried to follow it suddenly fainted.

Huuumannn, it hummed. Pride, I see. Wrath. Hate. It laughed again. Desire. You dream destruction. Good to have dream.It tilted its head. But Death Eater are you?

Voldemort frowned. "What other man has done what I've done? I've killed! I've killed more than anyone else can dream," he said with a cruel smile. "And I've captured the Prince."

The saint stood still.

Yes, it said. You take Prince. But you are stupid, human. You ignore rules.

"What are rules to creatures like us?" Voldemort said. "We are chaos. We destroy."

The creature stared at him with its teeth.

We too are ruled. You are only half. Many kill. No fear to kill. It smiled. Fear to die. Dream only half. You are not King to command Prince.

A finger reached and tapped the side of Voldemort's face.

You should have learned rules, little mortè. Power is not enough. Never enough.

It breathed and despite his protests drew Voldemort into its face.

Soul is too small.

With a wet slurp, it sucked off Voldemort's face. When the flesh tore away, Voldemort was still screaming.

The Death Eaters tried to curse it. Unfazed, it continued to eat away the pieces of Lord Voldemort. All the while he screamed. It sucked in his fingers and gnawed them off, traveling up his arms. It crunched down on his legs, licking around the blood. And when everything but the gristle mess of his head was left, he was still screaming. The hel saint picked him up by the scalp.

You wish to live forever? It shall be your will. Live forever, Lord Voldemort. Forever and ever and ever.

It laughed and plopped the rest of his head into its mouth like a cherry. The Death Eaters had either scattered or sunk to their knees.

o.O.o

Crunching. Slurping. Screaming. It was a long time before the sounds stopped. The air was thick with sick, urine, and death, rolling through the putrid scent of brimstone.

The silence came, aided only by whimpers. The creature moved to the center ring and crouched where Dumbledore was crying, suspended on a throne of wire.

And you, wizard? Will you unlock secrets within Prince of Gallows?

"No," Dumbledore whispered.

It leaned closer, caressing the corner of the man's chin with its overlarge, bloody hand. Dumbledore shivered and tried to escape it.

You are sure? It purred gently. You might have love. You might have… Ariana. You might be able to save world. You could use me for greater good.

Dumbledore shuddered. "No."

The demon withdrew. Pity.

o.O.o

"Please!" Lily shouted. "Please, not him! Anyone but him!"

Draco opened his eyes. The scent was the first thing that hit him. It was full of blood and urine. He blinked, a complaint on the end of his mouth, but Lily's screams interrupted him again. He sat up and saw a creature standing over Dyre.

The night came back to him. With a rush of adrenaline and fear, he was wide awake. His tongue tripped around his teeth.

The creature crouching over Dyre, cradling him like a bird. It fastened its lips over his jaw and breathed. Dyre's chest swelled. A quiet flash passed between them, and Dyre blinked, looking up at the monster.

He sighed.

Yes, Brother, the creature said, moving his hair from his face. Captor is dead.

Dyre was silent. His face was grey and Draco suddenly recalled him tearing open his wrists. Even now, they lay gaping, a bare twinkle of blood sliding through them.

You are finished, it said. You are free.

Dyre made a small smile, cradled in the arms of a monster.

You are done.

The beast lifted him up. Dyre's limbs flopped. The creature carried him to the hole he'd made in the world. The darkness swam up to greet them, chewing delicately at the creature's feet. They began to sink.

No, Draco wailed. He found no support in his limbs, no strength in his mouth. He railed against his weakness but only pain greeted him.

He promised, he cried.

Dyre moved. He pushed against the creature's chest, only enough to resist if not to fight. Draco watched him with pity and anger.

The demon paused, and for a moment Draco wanted to crow in triumph. Then, it shimmered and transformed.

Dark became pale. It shortened, shoulders retracting, arms and limbs shrinking. Hair sprouted from its scalp in a crest of gold, and the body that emerged was intimately familiar.

Draco gaped. The copy was exact, down to the way he slicked his hair and the type of shoes he wore. The demon smiled and flicked hair out of his face with his chin.

"Dyre," he said in Draco's voice. "Dyre, come with me."

"Dyre!" Draco shouted, only it came like a croak. He coughed, burying his face in dirt.

"Dyre," it drawled lovingly. "We can be together forever. Just the two of us. And you can love me forever."

A slow, faint laugh grew and drifted over the gore-filled pitch. Dyre's face was much too pale, and green, the dark circles beneath his eyes worlds and worlds and worlds. He managed a broken smile on bloody lips, looking up at the demon with hooded lids.

"Draco…" he croaked, "is prettier than you."

Shock then fury erupted on the saint's face. Darkness flashed through the skin of the Draco's face. They were close to the hole now, and the demon fell over him with a snarl. It landed with a splash.

Dyre fell and the hole closed. He landed on the ground with a groan, making faint sounds that might have been curses if he weren't so exhausted.

Draco smiled around tears, the relief in his chest begging a different hole. It was over. The Death Eaters were gone. Voldemort was gone. Whatever the hell that thing was was gone. And Dyre was alive.

He sighed and waited.

And waited.

He raised his head. Lily Potter was yanking at the chains holding with enough force to throw out her arms. She screamed and ranted, but no matter how the earth gave, the chain extended deeper. Realization came over him. Dyre was free, but they could not reach him. None of them.

Draco winced and tried to get up. His muscles collapsed beneath him. That much exertion had him sweating bullets, limbs and lungs full of pain.

It was ridiculous, inconceivable, that the terror was over and he was still unable to move, unable to save the boy that had sacrificed all measure of control and power and honor to save them.

"Draco," his father called.

He looked up and didn't understand the expression on his face, full of pity. He had no allies. Victor, Hermione, and Sirius were unconscious. Remus was lost to his wolf, foam leaking from his snarls as he attacked his legs. His mother and Severus looked just as scared and battleworn but unharmed. James and Lily both were fighting the same fruitless battle as him.

Dumbledore wasn't moving, eyes for Dyre alone.

He jerked, almost pissing himself, when something touched his arm. Belated, Draco realized that it was Cetis, emerging from his hiding spot.

"Draco!" his father, mother and Severus all seemed to scream once.

"N-no," he stammered. "It's just… it's just Cetis."

"Cetis?" Dumbledore whispered, looking up.

Draco frowned. Something was wrong. The glass wyvern tried to pump its wings and failed. It sagged against his arm, and Draco realized that it was more than just cool. It was cold. It was losing patches of warmth. The blue flame sputtered small inside it.

"It's dying," he whispered. "No!" he shouted. "No, it's dying! Dyre! Don't you dare! You can't die! You promised! You promised!"

o.O.o

It was cold. The dark moved in and out above him. He felt like had been captive inside diamond, and he couldn't feel anything.

He knew his body was destroyed, his magic gone. Humans weren't meant to house gods. So much power, this world had lost the will for such magic long, long ago.

He'd done everything like he was meant to. Voldemort was banished, and the last of such maddening power was leaving the mortal realm. There was nothing more he was meant to do.

Life was leaving him. He was supposed to die now too. He could feel the Eye sinking, returning to the Well, and the last of his life was dissolving. A fading curse.

The dead do not walk among the living.

Harry died fifteen years ago. He'd been living on magic and Fate, and when that left, what remained but a corpse?

He didn't believe that though. No. He'd built a new soul. With the Maiden and Yrsa and Draco. He was sure.

Black magic, which had saturated the ley lines, thinned. In a few weeks, the balance would be restored.

It was over. He was free.

He was dying.

He hung to his breaths. He didn't have the strength left to free the prisoners. He tried, climbing once to his knees. The scars on his back lifted, like peeling paint, and flew away. He gasped, the last his immortal strength gone, and fell back on his belly.

The blackness beat against him like great wings. They were so large and heavy.

He had built his own soul. He had been given a new name. He wouldn't die.

It was funny, he thought. The spells binding the prisoners were tied to him. If he died, they'd be free, but what use would that give him.

He sighed, wishing dying wasn't such a bothersome affair.

He felt it when it came, the last of the Norns' truths. Something lovely white touched him. He recognized it. Smiling, he let himself be taken away, the last of him sundered. He drifted and split, like a string.

And Dyre was gone.

o.O.o

Leagues away, Morgan bid farewell to the boy he had only briefly known.