Written for QLFC Season 11, Semi-finals
Title: Love, Your So-Called Savior
Team: Caerphilly Catapults
Position: Chaser 2
Prompts: Only Power Remains. Additional prompts: (setting) Diagon Alley, (plot point) ghost appearance, (word) simmer
Betas: Queenie, Bea, Rose (Thanks so much!)
Warnings: Canon divergence, believed character death, swearing
Word Count: 2537
Author's Note: This is a rewrite of parts of the final battle from Voldemort's POV, so there are pieces of dialogue in here that are from the books, I do not take credit for them. Note that this fic diverges from canon in that it is set in Diagon Alley instead of the Hogwarts grounds and castle.
For the song, I was inspired by the dialogue between Lily and Voldemort and included them having interaction in this story. Another big inspiration for me was Voldemort's chorus: "Love; your so-called savior, your iron shield" and "Love; when all has ended"... "Only power remains". I used these lyrics as inspiration for the main theme of the story and a recurring conflict within my main character's thoughts.
'Love, Your So-Called Savior'
Voldemort was sitting in an adorned but summoned chair, staring at a bonfire in front of him that was fashioned from drab cotton blend robes that Lucius thought deserved to be burned. Him and his people were in what used to be Madam Malkin's, the very store's window that he'd gazed into as an eleven-year-old, face burning with bitter jealousy that he was forced to buy and mend second-hand clothing. The former store was now one of many shops in Diagon Alley that they had claimed as bases for their cause. The Lord had watched with a little too much glee when Bellatrix tore its sign off at his instruction.
His servants sat in the stores, the giants stood outside, and waited for the 'light' side to make their entrance to what both sides had decided would be the last battle, the deciding battle.
It was about damn time.
The battle had begun in the alley, with Potter bringing all of his pathetic people in an attempt to get a fleeting sight of hope that the Lord might fall and die himself, since none would be able to do it. But they had set up a meeting time for Potter to become a martyr and Potter hadn't shown up yet.
The wolves had created the bonfire out of Lucius' instructed fabrics, which mainly consisted of maroons and scratchy but cheap cottons, out of sheer boredom and as a way to ease the ever-present anticipation for what came next. As if they didn't know exactly what their places would be in the new world.
Voldemort felt none of the anticipation that it was meant to alleviate, but he allowed the waves of heat to simmer the rage that lay beneath his neutral demeanor. A rage that was getting more and more rampant as Potter took his time in arriving.
He usually had a bit of a temper, even he could admit, but it seemed that everything was getting on his nerves. The chair that Lucius had summoned was uncomfortable, its flashy jewels held no back support or comfort. His pet, Nagini, was away from him, sitting in a dark corner of the shop in a gilded silver cage (also summoned by Lucius) that was displeasing her. Her loud hisses of complaint only added to his worsening headache and the tense silence that those around him sat in.
All of his servants knelt beneath and around him, seeming worried, for whatever foolish reason, and tired, as if he himself did not feel anger at how long this ridiculous tirade was going.
The child, Potter, he sneered mentally, was choosing to make an appearance after six months on the run, fleeing from his last push into death's arms for too long. And after six months of making himself scarce and probably hearing about how Order members were being found and nabbed left and right, the boy apparently decided that him coming out would be the thing that pushed their side over. The thing that would let the light 'win'.
As if a child was enough to defeat Lord Voldemort…properly. The first time didn't count in his mind, the boy was a baby then and had no control over himself or his magic, and it wasn't possible that the baby had defeated him.
Just…no.
And as the child that he was now, he wasn't much better off.
Potter was a child for Merlin's sake but, for some reason, the entire Wizarding World was convinced that all it would take for Lord Voldemort to lie down and declare death was a singularly arrogant child backed by an unstable, and dead, Headmaster and his team of sloppy almost old wizards who were out of their prime.
Somehow, despite the fact that the Lord in question was the most powerful mage of their time, the Mudbloods and blood traitors stayed true to their belief.
They believed in their hero. They believed in their 'hero's' faith in love.
Love, what a disgusting concept.
The emotion that gave all the strong a weakness, a point that easily and effectively hurt them. A point that might bring one to their knees in pathetic desperation.
Somewhere in his mind, the image of a fierce fire-haired woman came to his mind. It made his anger simmer even more.
Right, his enemy's mother, Lily, the perfect example of love.
The woman had fallen at his feet, hands clasped together as she begged, sobbing for the man standing with a wand pointed to her chest to spare them. To spare her child, Harry Potter, the very child he'd come to do away with.
"Please, have mercy," she had blubbered, "I'll do anything–" Love hadn't saved Lily Potter. She fell with a single burst of green light from his wand, gone from the world in a single breath.
Potter was somehow different, but not because of love. Definitely not! It must've been some magical anomaly.
Harry Potter got lucky.
Lily Potter must have put a blood ward on the child's crib, the Lord must have missed the baby in its entirety and had his spell bounce off a strangely powerful protective enchantment, must not have meant it, must–
It didn't matter anymore. His luck would run out soon.
What mattered now was that Voldemort was the holder of history's most powerful wand. Its most successful wand.
What could a fluffy feeling do against the greatest wizard of all time, wielding the most powerful wand?
Voldemort let his gaze shift from the fire to where the pale wand lay in his grayish hands. He brushed his long fingers over the wood's grooves and mildly wondered how many before him had killed with it. How many had done what he was about to do?
The Elder Wand. The wand with which he would declare himself as the irrefutable winner of this unfortunately long war.
Not that he needed it, of course, but he supposed it couldn't hurt.
Voldemort glanced up from the wand to find his entire circle of beings staring at him. The Lord was about to shut his eyes and rub where he once had a nose when the noise of thudding footsteps took his attention. His scouts, Yaxley and Dolohov, had returned, an expression of barely hidden dismay on both their faces.
They both made their way in front of him and bowed. Yaxley kept his eyes focused on the ugly blue carpeted floors, while Dolohov looked up to meet his eyes. "No sign of him, my Lord."
Bellatrix simpered at him in response to the less-than-pleasant news, but he ignored her.
Potter had stalled long enough, it was time for him to come and greet death with open arms. To be the hero that he so claimed himself to be and save his army from more unnecessary death.
But he wasn't there. Voldemort couldn't sense him approaching their chosen area in Madam Malkin's and he almost felt disappointed in his enemy's cowardice.
He had expected him to come, and said as much aloud. "I thought he would come." He let his gaze shift back to the roaring flames, "I expected him to come."
No one around him said anything as he let his simmering anger focus on the flames, his mind easily folding this plan over in his mental diary, and starting a new one.
He sighed, irritated at how long this was dragging out, "I was, it seems… mistaken."
"You weren't." As if summoned, Harry Potter appeared in front of him, eyes as fiercely green as his Mother's. He stood on the other side of the fire, and his wand was not yet raised. Immediately, and simultaneously, all of his Death Eaters rose to their feet, and pointed their wands at the child, ready to fire when given command.
Potter didn't notice them. The child was only looking at Voldemort–how stupid of him.
With a nod, the Death Eaters lowered their wands slightly, and the Lord rose to his feet and brought his own to the child's throat.
With a wave of his hand, Nagini's silver cage opened and the snake slithered to his slide. He did not look away from the boy, he whispered "Harry Potter."
The boy nodded, silent.
"The Boy Who Lived." Another nod.
From somewhere outside the locked doors of the former clothes' shop, a lanky red-headed boy banged on the windows with his fists as he screamed, "HARRY NO–" His sound was cut off by a simple Silencio from Dolohov, but his movements were getting bigger and more jerky.
The boy in front of him saw him, saw the desperation, but didn't say anything.
"Who is that?" He wanted to know the boy's last words.
A pause. The boy was considering the question, eyebrows furrowed, "My best fri–"
Voldemort felt his lips twitch and head tilt as he watched the boy genuinely answer,
"Avada Kedavra." With a flash of green light, the boy, Harry Potter, was pale and on their carpeted floor.
And moments later, just as he was about to declare his strength, his power, Voldemort followed suit.
As if watching someone else, Voldemort saw himself wilt to the floor like a fainting lady and distantly heard Bellatrix shriek something as she rushed to his side.
Then everything went black.
"Hello, Tom."
He winced, expecting to open his eyes to find bloody Dumbledore of all people, but instead found a familiar red-haired green-eyed woman sitting in front of him. "Lily," he greeted, almost inadvertently.
She looked surprised. "I don't go by that name."
"I can't say I care." Her arms were crossed and her face angry, looking nothing like when she did when she was crying and begging him.
As if sensing his thought, the woman glared at him. She was sitting in front of him on one of those gray folding chairs that he'd seen everywhere when he was a child in the Muggle world. He looked down at his seat to find that he was sitting on one too.
He looked around, finding nothing in his surroundings but what looked to be an image of Diagon alley. It wasn't the real alley, he could tell from the lack of people and lack of damage to the street, merely a background to their ambiguous setting. There was also some kind of shield charm barrier between him and the woman so that neither could get in contact with the other.
Voldemort briefly thought about spelling his way out of there, but found no wand on his person and that he was bound to his chair. He turned back to the person in front of him. "Why am I here? And why are you of all people greeting me?"
She looked him straight in the eye, "I am in front of you because I have no choice, and because my death was significant to your life. But for the record, you are an absolute piece of–"
"I doubt your death was any more special to me than anyone else's," he scoffed, the anger that had finally calmed when he killed Potter starting to simmer again.
"Remember how you killed my family and then tried to kill my son?"
"Of course, I wish Harry had just died then and there." The woman balled her hands into fists and looked livid.
"Ignoring that, and the whole other reasons for why you are here because I don't need to explain that so I won't, since my lovely son is in this place, you are too."
He nodded and the two of them sat in silence for a couple moments until, "Are you aware that you will get to meet your son–"
Her sharp laughter cut him off. "He will have you choking for air and meeting Death before you even lay a finger on him."
The snake man snorted. "With what wand? With what power?"
"Love."
And then suddenly all the rage that had been simmering within him burst from him as he spoke to a woman who didn't care what he had to say, "Honestly, all of you 'light' people think that love will save you, but it won't. Love is nothing. Love is not power, and power is the only thing that matters in duels and in matters of life or death."
"Your evil powers are just corrupting what little of your soul you have left." Her choice of phrase had the Dark Lord squinting his eyes.
"I think you misunderstand, silly girl, power is–"
"I tire of this conversation. As does my son. Here's to you rotting in hell." With that, he felt himself falling back into darkness.
All of his senses returned to him as he came back into his body. He smelled the burning cotton of their bonfire, tasted sweat on his tongue, and heard Bellatrix screeching above him.
"My Lord… My Lord…" She was shaking him rather violently. When he opened his eyes to glare at her, her eyes grew brighter than he'd ever seen them before.
As he looked away from her, he slowly sat up and raised his gaze to find that their shop's secure doors and windows were now torn open. A large crowd of people stood at the entrance wall, now commanded by the boy who Potter called his best friend, and served as an angry blockade. A blockade that might make the first move if he gave them the time.
That thought had him scrambling to his feet as gracefully as possible, ignoring any and all who asked if he needed help. When he was finally as secure as he was going to be on his feet, the Lord looked over to make sure that Potter was still out. He was.
Just in case, he pointed Narcissa Malfoy in the direction of the body. "Go check that he is dead."
"Yes, my Lord." He watched as the woman knelt beside the body and tried to take his pulse.
After a few minutes of what must've been intense searching, she snapped her eyes away from the body and said clearly, "The boy is dead."
Voldemort held back a grin as he made his way around where the Bonfire had long burned out to his enemy. He presented the body with great arms and too much pleasure to the growling crowd.
"As you can see, people, Harry Potter is dead." At last. "Crucio."
A gasp of horror went through the crowd, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He pulled Potter's body up with a thick bunch of hair and showed his pale and bruised face off.
"You pathetic fools believed that love souls act as some iron shield that would always save you.
"Look at the state of your so-called savior. Love didn't protect him."
He threw the body to the ground. "Potter believed in love and is now dead, if you don't want to go the same way, you'll care about what matters. Power."
There was a noise behind him and a voice, that he had hoped he'd silenced forever, spoke.
"...Actually, I'm not dead." Oh for fuck's sake.
Why was this child not dead?
And as if the boy could hear his thoughts, Potter answered his unspoken question, with one simple but detestable word.
"Love."