Dark Rage
~The Dark~
***
Voices. Voices; he could still hear the voices in his awakened state, tormenting him. The agonizing cruelty of the dark masses that haunted his every living moment were beginning to strain his sanity. Conscious or unconscious, he could not escape them. They were planted into his brain, where they had rooted down into every nook and cranny of his mind: into his soul. Ever so slowly they were breaking him, shattering ever part of him so that he was hollow inside. The Dark was twisting its way into him, destroying his very humanity.
***
Harry Potter was ever so gently cradling his right arm. Since his return to the Dursleys, he had become a slave: worth less than the dirt that was brought in by his shoes when he had finished gardening for his aunt, and the act had given a brutal punishment. Brutal punishments, however, were not uncommon for Harry in the Dursley household. If he did not get breakfast on the table fast enough, he received no breakfast himself and a blow from his uncle somewhere on his upper body. If he talked back to his aunt, he would receive no meals and a nice, hard, slap on the face. If he did not finish one of his daily chores, he would receive no meals for a week, a lecture on how he needed to work for his stay, and a couple of blows to his body, sometimes a vicious beating if his uncle was angry or annoyed enough.
Recently Harry had obtained a very painful injury, one that had been given on his second week back at the Dursleys.
*Flashback*
"BOY! GET DOWN HERE! WHERE'S MY BREAKFAST?" Uncle Vernon bellowed up the stairs, looking livid.
Harry miserably got up out of the bed he was currently laying on, and walked over to the door, wrenching it open and passing through. He walked down the stairs and entered the kitchen, merely ignoring the presence of his hated relatives as set about his work of making breakfast. It was hard to keep this tactic up, considering that as soon as his presence was noticed, a large, angry purple face was in front of him.
"WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG, BOY?"
Harry didn't answer, and continued to fix breakfast. Again he was interrupted as large, meaty fists, grabbed his shoulders and spun him around.
"ANSWER ME BOY!" Vernon roared. Harry looked at him, his face expressionless.
"I was busy," Harry answered after a few moments' silence.
"Busy? Busy with what!" Vernon demanded.
"Busy with nothing," Harry replied, his mind a blank as he continued finishing up the chore set up for him.
"Nothing. You were busy with nothing," Vernon inquired.
"Yes, nothing. Here's your coffee," said Harry as he handed Vernon the coffeepot.
"What kind of coffee is this? De-caf?" he asked.
"Yes," said Harry.
"WELL I DON'T WANT DE-CAF, BOY! I AM TIRED OF YOUR STUPIDITY! ALL YOU HAD TO DO WAS MAKE GOOD COFFEE! MAKE SOME MORE!" Vernon practically threw the coffeepot at Harry, and as Harry reached out for it, the lid flew off, and the extremely hot liquid splashed all over the skin of his right arm.
Harry made no sound as the boiling-hot liquid covered his arm, but one could see the pain he was suffering clearly in his eyes. As Harry stood there, cradling his right arm, Vernon laughed.
***
The burn was still stinging painfully as Harry sat on his bed. His arm was completely red, and the skin was uneven and torn. It was rough too, and broke easily. If he moved it too much or too sharply, the skin would crack open and bleed.
Harry closed his eyes, willing the pain to stop, but it did not. He could only sit and wonder why his life was so messed up. Why did he have to suffer so much? Not only was he punished physically by his relatives, his mind, and body to an extent, were tortured by the demons in his nightmares. The voices that belonged to the demons were relentless in their attacks.
Every day, every night, Harry watched as people were tortured and killed, himself included. He watched as Voldemort would use magic to disfigure muggles and wizards, severing their limbs, smashing, ripping, tearing them, which inevitably led to their brutal deaths.
Voldemort would attack him to, and make him suffer pain to such an extent he thought he would kill himself in an attempt to get it to stop. Voldemort would have him bound to something, usually a rock or a tree, in an area full of people, where the scent of death lingered in the air. Voldemort would force Harry to watch as people, muggles and wizards, were graphically destroyed in every meaning of the word. And then Voldemort would tell him, say to him that his death would be like that, only worse. He would describe in excruciating detail how exactly Harry would feel pain that only torture could bring. He would promise that Harry would die a very painful death, assured him that he would suffer agony that no creature, man or beast, had ever felt before. After that was done, Voldemort would do exactly as he had promised, and Harry would feel the pain, the torment, and the anguish. Even after he woke from his nightmares, the pain would stay with him, as a reminder of what was to come.
And some nights, it was worse. Psychological pain was far worse than anything Harry could describe. Physical pain, physical wounds, they all healed quicker, the scars faded faster compared to psychological torture. To relive one's worst memories, to remember seeing the blankness of dead eyes, to remember being in a situation where there was no hope. To watch as the ones you loved died. To see their blank, lifeless eyes…
No, I refuse to think about that!
Harry woke up from his daydream-like state in his room. He was trembling, and his scar was aching. There was thin line of cold sweat running down his forehead. He was feeling nauseous, and he was starting to feel cold.
He was exhausted, and before he knew it, his eyes were closed and he was falling into a deep sleep.
The archway was speaking to him. The voices were calling, telling him to come closer, to walk through the veil. It swayed slowly, as if caught in a breeze. He wanted to meet them, to see who was talking to him. The whispers were making him curious. He walked towards the archway, reaching out to it.
Harry was knocked out of the way as someone fell through the archway, and just before they disappeared through it, Harry caught a glimpse of who it was…Sirius…
He could hear laughter behind him, and he turned around, expecting Bellatrix Lestrange to be there, but she was not. Instead, the pale face of Antonin Dolohov was glaring at him. To his right, he saw Hermione. She was looking frightened, as if she knew what was to become of her. Harry glanced back at Antonin, and saw him smile and point his wand at Hermione. He made a slashing movement with his wand, and what looked like purple flame flew from his wand and hit Hermione straight in the chest. She fell to the ground, and Harry ran towards her, screaming her name. He placed his hand on her shoulder, and gently shook her, trying to wake her. She did not stir. Neville came running over, asking what happened. He felt for a pulse, but his response was not one Harry could take.
"There's no pulse Harry, she's gone," Neville said quietly.
"NO SHE ISN'T! SHE CAN'T BE GONE!" Harry roared, "She can't be dead, she just can't be…"
Black spots were appearing in front of his eyes. He couldn't breath; he didn't even realize it when his knees hit the ground. His vision was swirling, he was dizzy, and he felt like he was going to vomit. Over and over again he kept muttering disbelievingly, "She can't be dead… Please, no, don't let her be dead… She just can't be dead."
There was a laugh, a loud, roaring laugh that made Harry's insides swirl with the greatest of rage. He spun around, and saw that Antonin Dolohov was indeed laughing. The fact that he had just killed someone that Harry loved, was enough to get Harry to want to destroy him, but to laugh about it…
Harry felt the rage inside him break free of its restraints, he let out a roar of fury, and before he knew it, he was on his feet and his wand was pointed at Dolohov. He was enraged, and it was fueling him, providing him with enormous power. He felt that power, felt it as it began running through his veins, making him feel alive with magical energy. Tendrils of the energy were beginning to escape his body, crackling and burning with pure anger and hatred. It was dark magic, but it was so powerful that Harry did not complain. With this power, he could do anything; he could do what he wanted, when he wanted, wherever he wanted. The Dark was clouding his judgment, showing him absolute power with no consequences, trying to persuade him to use it, to strike down at his enemies with all the hatred he could unleash.
And unleash it he did. His desire to hurt, to destroy, Antonin Dolohov, was too great; the fact that he killed Hermione, his best friend, was unbearable. In the seconds it took for Harry to summon all of that which is dark and look into Dolohov's eyes, was enough for Harry to discover that he had installed fear in the person of which he so hated. The knowledge that he, Harry, had put such fear there was empowering.
With his wand pointed at Dolohov and his body charged with magic, he uttered two words that showed how much he hated the person who stood before him.
"Avada Kedavra!" As Harry shouted these words, he felt as if a snake had just risen up inside of him, and coiled around his mind. The snake's desire was to kill, and so was Harry's. They both enjoyed watching as Antonin Dolohov's life was taken from him in a jet of green light.
Harry walked over to the lifeless man, and enjoyed the feeling of triumph. But as he looked into the lifeless eyes of the man, fleeting images flashed before his eyes.
Flash. The lifeless eyes of Cedric.
Flash. The lifeless eyes of Hermione.
Harry dropped his wand, horrified at what he had just done. He had just committed the most terrible of crimes. He had just killed someone. They had died, just as Cedric had, just as Sirius had, just as Hermione had…
A voice rose up in the back of his head: a high-pitched, cold voice. "I didn't know you were a murderer, Harry."
Harry instantly woke up; his scar was on fire, and he felt very ill. He vomited over the side of his bed, and then placed his hand on his scar, trying to get it to stop burning. Every time he touched it, however, he succeeded in only intensifying the pain.
There were voices echoing around the room.
"You're a murderer, Harry!"
"You've always been a murderer!"
"You kill everyone you get involved with!"
"What will happen when everyone finds out?"
"They will hate you!"
"You're just like Voldemort!"
"You are Voldemort!"
Harry fell out of his bed as choruses of "Murderer" were chanted, mocking him.
"I AM NOT A MURDERER!" Harry shouted, trying to get the voices to shut up.
"MURDERER! MURDERER! MURDERER!"
"SHUT UP!" Harry roared.
"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON IN HERE!" Uncle Vernon bellowed. The voices had ceased immediately as he entered.
Harry did not hear him; he was having trouble breathing, and he was desperately trying hard not to fall victim to the darkness that was beginning to fall over him.
Uncle Vernon continued to yell and shout at Harry, and did not realize that Harry was going to pass out. He was getting agitated that Harry was not answering him, and strode over to him. He gave him a good kick in the stomach, which was enough to send Harry into the pits of blackness.
***
"Wake up!" Aunt Petunia's shrill voice was enough to wake Harry from his unconsciousness, "It's time for you to make breakfast!"
"Argh," Harry moaned as he sat up. His body was stiff, probably because he had been lying on the floor for the past few hours. He also had a terrible headache, and his aunt's voice did nothing to quell the throbbing pain in his head. His stomach also hurt quite a bit, and he wondered why it was so sore until he remembered the night before. His uncle had kicked him.
As he stood up he had to suck in his breath as a wave of pain from his stomach region washed over him. He lifted up his shirt, and saw that there was a very large bruise there: purple, blue, black, and slight shades of green and yellow. It was not a pretty sight. The bruise stretched up to about an inch above the bottom of his ribcage, which is where it hurt the most. Just running a finger lightly over the bruise was enough to make his eyes water.
He carefully got dressed, making sure that he did not stretch anything in range of the bruise.
It took him a while to walk downstairs into the kitchen, the slightest movement from side to side hurt a lot.
He immediately began to cook breakfast as he entered the kitchen. He did not want his uncle to attack him again. He needed to have everything set out nicely for him so there would be no punishment.
He finished quickly; he wanted to get back into the confines of his room instead of staying in the openness of the kitchen.
He left just as Uncle Vernon entered, and only received a nasty glare from him.
An owl was waiting for him upon his return to his room. He untied the scroll that was attached to the owl's leg, and watched it fly off as soon as it was free of its burden.
Harry looked down at the letter, untied it, and found it to be from Dumbledore. Harry just threw the scroll onto his small desk, like he did for all of his letters. There were giant stacks of them everywhere, most of them being from Hermione. He never bothered to open them; he just couldn't summon the energy and will power to open them.
He settled down onto his bed, and stared up at the ceiling.
"BOY! GET DOWN HERE! YOU NEED TO MOW THE LAWN!"
***
Harry was afraid to sleep. Ever since that dream, where he had become a cold-blooded killer, he was afraid to close his eyes. Afraid to let sleep take him. Afraid to let the nightmares plague him.
He sat on his bed, gazing out at the wall opposite him. He never blinked, moved his eyes, or move at all, for that matter (except for the slow movements of his breathing). He was growing very tired, all the work he had done today had exhausted him. The bruise on his stomach was aching terribly, and his muscles were all sore.
As his eyes began to droop, images flashed before him. All of his darkest memories came up into the forefront of his mind. As he watched them all, a voice spoke inside his head.
Having fun, Harry?
Harry knew whom that voice belonged to. Only the voice of Voldemort could be so cruel, cold, and bone chilling.
Have you ever had the feeling, Harry, where you just want to kill someone?
Don't listen to him, don't listen to him, don't listen to him… Harry was trying to keep the voice out of his mind, but the harder he tried to ignore it, the more forceful it became.
If I'm not mistaken, it seems that you have committed a terrible crime, Harry. And I thought you didn't like hurting people.
Harry had his hands over his ears, trying to block the sound of Voldemort's voice. His scar began to burn very painfully; like a white-hot knife, slowly cutting his head into two pieces.
You have interesting memories, Harry. Mind if, we take a look?
At once the memory of the graveyard, where Voldemort had been resurrected, came into view. He could see every tomb, every Death Eater's mask in such detail that he thought he was there again physically. He could see himself and Voldemort standing, on opposite ends. Voldemort was trying to make him bow, "Bow to death, Harry…who knows, it might even be painless…I would not know…I have never died."
Harry turned around, and on the ground before him lay Cedric, his eyes open, looking as if he had been frightened… It was a haunting sight, and Harry was beginning to retch…
The graveyard faded, and in its place was the Chamber of Secrets… The young Tom Riddle was speaking in parseltongue, calling upon the basilisk… The basilisk fell from the mouth of a giant statue of Salazar Slytherin… It began its rampage on Harry; trying to catch its prey… Harry watched as his twelve-year-old self pulled the sword of Gryffindor out of the sorting hat, and stabbed the basilisk in the roof of its mouth…Harry felt again the pain of the basilisk's venom flowing through his veins…
He was in the room with Quirrel… He watched as Quirrel unwrapped his turban, and Harry saw Voldemort's face on the back of his head, asking for the stone… Quirrel grabbed Harry, and then started getting covered with blisters…
A hundred dementors were now swooping down upon Harry… His younger self was trying and failing to protect his godfather and Hermione with the Patronus Charm… He was about to get his soul sucked out through his mouth…
The Department of Mysteries loomed in front of him… Ron was struggling with the brain on the ground… Antonin Dolohov fired the purple flame at Hermione, causing her to go unconscious… Sirius and Bellatrix were dueling on top of a raised dais, where an old archway stood with a tattered old veil… Sirius dodged the first beam of light… The second beam of light hit him… Sirius was falling through the veil…
"NOOOOO!" Harry shouted, doing everything in his power to get the memories to stop. He could still feel Voldemort in his mind, laughing maniacally. Harry's scar was flaming, it was hot to the touch. He felt the few mental walls he had been able to come up with shatter easily, and Voldemort continued to laugh.
Not that skilled in Occlumency, I see. Well, then again, you actually believed the image that I put into your head last month of your dear old godfather. He's dead now, Harry, and it's all your fault!
Harry could feel a liquid trickling down his forehead as echoes of "It's all your fault!" rang around in his head. He fell off his bed onto the floor, where he vomited. He was curled up into a ball, enduring the pain that he was feeling.
Harry lie there all night, never daring to even blink his eyes anymore.
***
The rest of the week passed by torturously slowly for Harry. A combination of no sleep, little food, and a lot of work had put a real strain on his body. He was afraid to sleep, even the tiniest bit; he did not want to be forced to revisit all of those memories that haunted him.
The Dursleys were getting quite, well, aggressive was the only word he could think of to describe the way they were acting. They had all taken to shoving him around all the time, and inflicting a lot of physical `punishment', as they called it.
They were different though. They didn't seem to be the people they once were. As Uncle Vernon glared at Harry one afternoon, Harry could have sworn he saw the faintest tint of red in his eyes. However, it disappeared as soon as it came.
Harry's nights were not any better than his days. In fact, they were worse. He hardly slept anymore, and when he did, it was filled with nightmares of death and horrendous torture. Voldemort was making every effort possible to break him. Sometimes, Harry thought that he would die from sleep deprivation. The only time he ever slept was when his body shut down, and forced itself to sleep. Those were the bad nights.
There were times when Harry felt as if he was fading away; he felt thin as if spread far too much. His eyes were dull, his hair unkempt (well even more than usual), and his face pale. He was barely eating anymore; he would vomit it all up anyway.
Harry wanted it all to end. He wanted to get out…he needed to get out. This never-ending plague of pain and misery was turning him into nothing but a shadow of what he once was. He was imprisoned in his own anguish, guilt, and sorrow. All these feelings would then lead to great streaks of anger that would end in an almost nervous breakdown. It was a sort of pain that should never be felt by anyone; it was too horrific, too much like a fist was crushing him so that there was no hope to escape.
All the pain he had to endure was thrashing at his mind, breaking and ripping it to pieces, so that all he felt was the ever-greatening feeling of death and madness.
The Dark was growing…
***
It had been three weeks since Harry had arrived at the Dursleys. He was not what he was when he had arrived. He felt no joy, no sorrow, nothing at all. He was hollow. It seemed as if there was no person. He was like a machine: emotionless.
Harry had not checked his mail all summer. The only thing he did besides working for his relatives was write to the Order of the Phoenix, telling them that he was all right. In truth, he was far from it. But for some reason, he did not feel like seeing their faces; such happy faces, with no worries of anything. They could not imagine what he had gone through, what he was still going through, and what he had to go through. There was no way they could comfort him, they could not understand. But who would want to understand? The only way to understand something like this would be to experience it for themselves. There's no way anyone would want to do that.
Why must I suffer so? Is it something I did? Have I not done my part? Is the prophecy foretelling my part in this world? Must I fight Voldemort and kill him, when I have already stopped him when no one else has? Am I just some tool, to be used and then thrown out when there's nothing left for me? Why can I not live a normal life, a happy life? Why must my life be so horrid?
"Why must I suffer?" Harry asked quietly…
***
Four weeks had passed since Harry's imprisonment at the Dursleys. A month of torment and agony was all that was on Harry's mind. He was breaking. One good hit was all that it would take to shatter Harry completely. The Dark had nearly encompassed him entirely.
He had been having many nightmares about the Dark. Horrendous, they were. They were based in areas of desolation and death, where the foul stench of evil creatures and dark entities reigned supreme in the air.
Voldemort was not the only one trying to destroy Harry Potter.
***
The kitchen was dark and empty at eleven o'clock. Harry was standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring off into space. He had not slept for many days now, and he was very tired. The Dark had kept him awake.
A gust of wind blew throughout the kitchen. None of the doors were open, as Harry had just closed and locked them all recently. Harry stood rooted to the spot, listening for any rustle of movement. He could hear a low murmur of cold voices. They began to grow louder; speaking in a language that instilled fear into the hearts of many. Their chant was echoing in Harry's head, making it play over and over.
The chant immediately as one voice, colder and more terrifying than any other, began to speak.
"Harry!"
It came from right behind him. Harry spun around, only to see no one there. His breath quickened, and his heart began to race.
"I see you…"
Thump thump…
The beating of his heart seemed to have magnified, so as Harry could hear it as clear as if it were speaking to him.
"Scared, Harry?"
Thump thump…thump thump…
There was figure not three feet in front of Harry, encased in shadow and impossible to identify. It was large, and it was moving.
"I can hear your heart beating so very fast…you must be frightened…"
Thump thump!
"You should be…"
The figure was closer; Harry could see its outline. It was a man… The figure came even closer from the shadows, and Harry could see some detail on his face. No, it can't be…
THUMP THUMP!
"Surprised, Harry?" Uncle Vernon asked evilly.
The voice that was coming from his uncle's mouth was not his usual unkind bellow; it was the cold voice of Voldemort. Uncle Vernon was smiling maliciously, his eyes glinting with a cruel glare. But they were not Uncle Vernon's eyes… Uncle Vernon did not have eyes like a cat, which leered red in such an inhuman way.
Voldemort was possessing Uncle Vernon.
"Have you had fun this summer, Harry?" Voldemort asked cruelly, "I sure have. It is always fun to torment those you hate, those you want to see in pain."
Harry could feel his anger rising to the surface. All the darkness that he had been keeping inside was threatening to break his strongest walls of will.
"I'm going to kill them," Voldemort said cheerfully, "Every last one of them. I know their names, Harry. I know where they can be found. I know that their deaths will rip you apart, they will destroy your life."
"My life's already destroyed, Voldemort," said Harry, as his fury began to become apparent, "You've taken everything from me. EVERYTHING!"
Harry whipped out his wand and pressed the tip against his uncle's windpipe. The Dark was clouding his mind again, controlling his thoughts and actions.
"Avada Ke-"
"I wouldn't do that Harry. You see, if I go, your uncle dies."
"You think I care about that?" Harry chuckled. "I care nothing for the life of this insignificant muggle."
"What will your friend's say?" Voldemort asked quietly. "I don't think they would enjoy being around a killer. But then again, you already are one, considering you murdered Antonin Dolohov that one night."
Harry's eyes widened as the Dark receded from him. "But that was a dream, it wasn't real!"
"It was very real. You killed him. I have the body still with me. Would you like to see?" Voldemort laughed.
The body of Antonin Dolohov appeared in front of Harry on the ground. It was rotting, and the scent of decay burned at Harry's nose and made his eyes water. He felt sick.
"Now, Harry, enough chitchat," Voldemort said casually, "It's time for me to get down to business. I have been preparing for this moment for a long time. You don't know how long it took me to discover how to break the shield surrounding this house, but I finally managed it. It seems that killing your aunt was the easiest way. The shield fell as soon as she hit the ground."
Harry was shaking. Is legs felt like jelly, and he almost fell to the ground. They killed her. I never wanted her dead.
"Now it's time for you to endure your slow painful death," said Voldemort gleefully. "Mortifer poena!"
Such pain came upon Harry that he knew not who he was, where he was, or what was happening except that he was feeling a torment of immeasurable agony. The pain of being possessed by Voldemort in the Department of Mysteries was the only pain that rivaled what he was feeling now.
The Curse of Deadly Pain was not lifted for what seemed to be hours to Harry. His body jolted in different places from the aftereffects of the curse. Blood was spilling from his mouth. It was coming out from his pores, drenching him in the liquid. He knew he was going to die sometime soon.
"You have not shrieked with agony yet, it seems I have not made enough of an effort. Do not worry Harry, for I shall fix this problem immediately."
In an instant, Uncle Vernon was gone, only to be replaced by none other than Voldemort's pet snake, Naginni.
The snake slithered over to Harry. It was larger, much larger, than the last time he had seen it. Its fangs were as long as Harry's fingers, and black venom was dripping from the tips. The snake's eyes were the exact same as Voldemort's, and were mocking in the darkness. Its tongue was as black as the venom that dripped from its fangs.
The snake coiled around Harry, ever so slowly crushing him. With each outward breath of Harry's, the snake's body would tighten around his own, suffocating him. Harry felt his ribs crack underneath the strain, and would have screamed if he had the breath.
The Dark was fighting up to the surface again. It needed to keep its host alive. The Dark would not let Harry die.
As the Dark began to strengthen Harry, the snake's coils were loosened. Sensing resistance, Naginni moved her head around to Harry's neck. Naginni could feel, almost taste, the blood pumping through the veins in her prey's neck. She bit down, releasing her venom inside him.
The venom flowed quickly throughout Harry, causing everything in its trail to burn with unimaginable pain. The Dark, however, would not let the venom kill Harry. It began to destroy the venom; diluting it so that it was no longer lethal. It did nothing to lessen the pain.
Voldemort was laughing as he sensed his victory almost achieved. There was no way for him to lose now.
A second person began to laugh. The laugh of a man with no sanity. It was a dark, maniacal laugh, chilling even Voldemort.
Harry Potter was laughing as he fought back from near death.
"How is this possible?" Voldemort asked incredulously.
The snake Naginni was suddenly thrown from her prey. A rush of magical energy blew throughout the house, upturning all objects not connected to the ground.
Harry's hair was blowing as if in billowing breeze, and the magic seemed to radiate from him. His eyes were changing. The irises were beginning to change to a blood red color, as his pupils disappeared. He was smiling in a way that showed that he knew cruelty, knew how to deal pain and destroy lives.
The Dark had broken free of all of its barriers, and taken control of Harry's mind and body.
"Did you actually think you could stop the host of the Dark?"
A flicker of fear passed over Voldemort's eyes as the demonic sound of Harry's changed voice rung through the room. He had not known of this. The Dark was a dangerous force.
"I see the fear in your eyes."
Voldemort had to think of a way to stop the Dark Harry Potter from killing him. An idea came to him quickly. He remembered it from all of Harry's torture sessions; it was a technique Voldemort favored.
"Legillimens!"
A swarm of memories flowed through Voldemort's and Harry's minds. Voldemort began to search through them, as the Dark Harry tried to fight him out. Just before he was thrown out, Voldemort found it. The memory of the dead Hermione from Harry's nightmare.
As soon as Harry saw it in his mind, the Dark was pushed away as emotions he had not felt in a long time washed over him. He was back to his old self.
"I'm going to finish this now!" Voldemort roared. "Avada Kedavra!"
The jet of green light was rushing toward him. It was reflected in his eyes. The end had come.
He wished he could be anywhere other than here. He did not want to die, although it would be a welcome reprieve from the suffering he had done lately.
He closed his eyes, waiting for death to claim him. He could see his parents and Sirius, waving at him, welcoming him. He could see Hermione and Ron, mourning at his gravestone. How he wished with all his heart he could be there with them.
There was a flash of light…
He was speeding down a blinding tunnel…
He landed on pavement…
His whole body hurt. Blood was spurting from his mouth onto the white pavement beneath him. His vision was blurry and there were black spots everywhere.
He lifted his head, and saw a blurred shape running towards him, screaming his name.
All was darkness…
-->