A/N - After what I admit has been a long lay-off, The Final Countdown returns! I know this is not the first time, and having worked full-time and just all-but completed a master's degree, I can only ask for your patience. I hope enough people who have read the previous chapters still frequent the site. All that aside, I hope you enjoy this, the final battle. Please leave a review!
A blinding flash of lightning burst through the dark clouds, as the thick rain poured with a steady beat down over the Quidditch pitch of Hogwarts.
Whereas before the majestic old stadium was a celebration of sport, tonight it had been transformed into the most horrifying of prisons.
The stands were full on all sides; every single Hogwarts student and Ministry of Magic official and employee had been rounded up and brought here. Guarded on all sides by rows of Dementors, they all sat solemnly, already resigned to their grim fate, all positive life force drained out of them.
Professor McGonagall had been sat along the centre of the front row, flanked by all of the other Hogwarts teachers. Flitwick, Trelawney, Sprout, Slughorn, all of them wearing the same doomed look. She shook her head, disgusted at being held captive, front-and-centre and forced to watch whatever twisted, perverse spectacle that Voldemort doubtless had planned.
She turned her head to the left flank of the stadium, where the bulk of the Ministry officials were held. So many familiar faces she could spot…Shacklebolt, Arthur Weasley, Mad-Eye, Tonks, among others. Not even the Order of the Phoenix could escape Voldemort's fell swoop tonight.
The Death Eaters and Dementors had just swept into Hogwarts suddenly, with no warning and no detection. With so few students and a teaching staff caught totally unprepared for a fight, the Death Eaters' actions were swift and harsh, but not brutal. No one had been hurt, just all rounded up and detained in the Great Hall, then marched in columns down towards the Quidditch pitch. As the de facto Headmaster, McGonagall felt a great sense of shame as she was forced to lead them there.
What would Professor Dumbledore have done?
Looking out across the pitch itself, she struggled to think of any way that her predecessor would have stood for this; a great stone statue had somehow been erected, right in the middle of the grass. Its message was as clear as its form; Voldemort, standing triumphantly over Harry Potter's lifeless body. The detail, even from this distance, was very disturbing.
A muffled whimper from behind her made the professor turn around; one of the students, a second-year Hufflepuff, had broken down in tears, crying on her friend's shoulder as she tried in vain to comfort her. McGonagall offered her a sad smile, but knew that she could do no more, if she couldn't even inspire hope or happiness within herself.
Of course, she knew, this was the Dementor's doing. But these feelings of hopelessness felt so real, so convincing, that they could almost have been natural. And for the professor, that was the most frightening thing of all.
Potter…where are you?
* * * *
Harry, Ron and Hermione marched in silence through the stadium's innards, flanked on all sides by Death Eaters, led in a tightly-enclosed group by Lucius Malfoy towards the lift that went down to the pitch. Harry glanced around, trying to blot out the disturbing ways that this place, such a happy and formative part of his magical life, could turn so dark and so depressing. But he had to focus…he had a job to do.
Ron and Hermione marched right behind him, flanking on opposite sides. Harry felt so relieved to have them there, even if right now they could do nothing. He took comfort from their mere presence, and reflected briefly on how much they both completed him, as a person. Ron for his bloke-y sense of humour, love of sport and love of life in general, and Hermione for her depth, her warmth and understanding, her insights into…everything. Harry supposed that he should have these thoughts now, while he still had the chance.
Their march seemed endless, footsteps on wooden floorboards echoing loudly, providing an even, sombre soundtrack to what could be the Trio's end. Harry knew what he had in store, but what about Ron and Hermione?
They approached the lift. Lucius signalled to halt, and the Death Eaters closed in on the Trio so tight that they could go nowhere. Yet Harry betrayed no emotion, no feeling.
From behind the mask, Malfoy raised a hand to point at Harry ominously, "The Dark Lord awaits you…Potter."
The two Death Eaters in front of Harry backed away, allowing him passage into the lift. Harry simply looked at it for a moment, the old wooden box. He had never stopped to consider how plain and ordinary it was, always caught up in the planning of another Quidditch victory. But now, tonight, it was taking him to his end…maybe.
Harry stepped forward without a look back, following Malfoy into the lift and turning around.
Ron and Hermione both looked back at him, doing a slightly worse job of hiding what they were feeling. Ron made that face he always did, that old mix of horror and sudden understanding that this could be it. Hermione, Harry could tell, was fighting so hard not to cry.
Harry caught Ron's eyes, and gave him a quick wink.
He then caught Hermione's eyes, and lingered.
As the wooden lift began to close up, she mouthed it; I love you.
Harry just mouthed back; I know.
The hatch slammed shut, and began to descend.
Despite the coming darkness, Harry grinned to himself for a moment.
She loves me too.
His face turned to stone again. A voice spoke to him inside his mind; a calm voice, even and determined. What Harry found the most surprising was that it was not his mother's or father's, not Dumbledore', not even Sirius', but his own.
This is what your whole life has been building towards, Harry. Don't mess this up. Don't let all those people that died for you down. Don't let their sacrifices have been for nothing.
Strangely, it did more for Harry's psyche than a prayer might have. No one else was there for Harry tonight; he had to do this himself.
The hatch opened.
Harry looked out on two rows of Death Eaters, one either side in a kind of sick honour guard. Harry knew exactly what they were trying to do, to intimidate him. He braced himself, and began to walk.
He felt hundreds and hundreds of eyes on him as he began his march, sensing rather than seeing them all, Hogwarts and Ministry, together. He took great pains to keep his pace even and steady, to look each Death Eater he passed in the eye.
Only when he reached the end of their procession did he see the statue, dwarfing anything else on the pitch. And only then, strangely, did he notice the rain beating down on him, turning his hair to a wet mop and making his clothes cling to his body.
A crack of light, and he appeared.
Voldemort.
Clothed in a billowing black robe, the Dark Lord theatrically cast his gaze around the stadium, taking in the immense scene he had created. Behind Harry, the Death Eaters began to back off to stand guard around the edges of the pitch, save for one. Harry knew that had to be Malfoy; after all, he did have his wand.
Voldemort's eyes finally met Harry's, across the sodden grass and earth. Withdrawing his wand from his cape, he mutted Sonorus as he pointed it to his throat.
"Harry Potter", he said, his voice booming out across the entire arena, "it has been so long."
"We've both been busy," Harry said calmly. He found in this silence, he didn't even have to shout.
Voldemort pointed at him with a long finger, "You can run away from your destiny no longer, Potter. Your entire life's purpose is to die here tonight at my feet. How does that make you feel?"
Harry just stared him down.
"Are you afraid, Harry? Scared for your life, for theirs?" Voldemort said, nodding towards his captive audience, "What will become of them when you are gone? And your two friends, what fate will they endure?"
Harry kept that hot flash of anger buried, "They'll make their own fate. And I'll be there to see it."
Voldemort laughed, "Words, Potter, nothing but empty words. If you truly believe you can defeat me, you must have been driven so deep into insanity by now."
"I know I'm getting bored listening to you talk," Harry said.
"Indeed?" Voldemort said, pointing his wand-hand at Harry, "Then I shall grant you your last wish."
"Am I gonna get my wand back?" Harry asked. He knew, just knew, that Voldemort wouldn't kill him in cold blood. He wanted to beat Harry, here in front of everyone. That was the only reason Harry was still so calm.
Voldemort smiled, "Of course." He motioned at Malfoy with his free hand.
Harry turned his head back to see Malfoy take out his wand. Harry raised his right hand, and the wand flew across to him in a heartbeat.
"Hardly impressive," Voldemort said with disdain, adopting a duelling position, "but I shall enjoy this, Harry."
Harry stood with his wand still facing down, "Can I ask you something first?"
"I tire of your insolence, boy," Voldemort said, "Now face me!"
"What made you decide on using Horcruxes, anyway?"
Voldemort's face froze. Harry couldn't tell if it was in horror, shock, denial…
"Just a word from a text book, Potter, surely you cannot…"
"The wand…the ring…the trophy…the diary…the locket…maybe Nagini, now I think about it…and…"
Harry pulled the miniaturized Sorting Hat from his pocket, and restored the battered old hat to its normal size. He looked up at Voldemort, "Now, you're gonna love this…"
Harry reached inside the hat, and pulled it out. The sword of Gryffindor.
Harry held it, looking at it with reverence…then looked back at Voldemort and plunged it into the wet ground.
Before Voldemort could react, Harry quickly spun around. His green wand-blade flashed to life and sliced clean through the sword, breaking it in half across the hilt of the metal blade.
Harry quickly braced himself into a duelling position, "Now you're mortal…"
"You…will…DIE…for this!" Voldemort spat.
Harry just waited. The time for talking was over.
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