Year 7-27: The Last Stand

Harry felt like the entire world had stopped spinning. He stared blankly at the ground in front of him, at the body sprawled out across the grass, unmoving. The body of Neville Longbottom. The body of the teen he'd tried so hard to save for the past seven years. The body of the Boy Who Lived.

Then, a great war cry filled his ears, and he remembered that he was in the middle of a battlefield that was about to erupt. He flinched as spellfire erupted into the air all round him; he raised his wand to defend himself from an oncoming assault from Voldemort, his army, or the resistance storming the grounds. But it was none of the above. Instead the attack came from the angry students behind him, distraught at their hero being killed, firing directly at the Dark Lord.

Voldemort seemed stunned by the audacious attack from the children standing before him. He summoned a heavy shield, deflecting the spells to the sky with a resounding gong. He trained his murderous gaze on the students, who immediately seemed to sense they'd made a mistake. Voldemort raised his wand, all pretense of civility abandoned, prepared to smite those who had disrespected him so—

But then, spellfire began to rain down upon him from behind, as the resistance closed ground on him. Voldemort was forced to ignore the students and turn to meet this oncoming force head-on. His army began to pour out of the Forest as well, bellowing war cries as they rushed to meet their foes, as Harry too sprang into action at last.

"Take cover!" he bellowed as loudly as he could. "Get to the castle!"

The students immediately heeded this advice, even though Harry was still invisible beneath the Cloak. They scrambled over one another for safety, pouring back up the stone steps and through the great oak doors. To Harry's relief, the teachers immediately sprang into action to defend their brood.

"Single file through the doors, everyone!" McGonagall shouted over the din. "No need to panic – walk, don't run!"

But the students had very good reason to panic. The two warring armies began to clash one another, with rogue spellfire flying in all directions. Many errant hexes and curses sailed askance and threatened to hit the students at the back of the pack; Harry was forced to jump in their path and begin deflecting them all. There were even Killing Curses sprinkled into the fray, forcing him to summon physical objects to block the incoming bolts of death.

You won't get away for long, Harry thought murderously as he watched Voldemort disappear into the fray of battle, unable to leave his defensive post. I'll find you and end you as soon as I can.

Slowly but steadily, the mass of students were herded through the oak doors and into the castle. The cooperation of the teachers was essential – Harry remained under the Invisibility Cloak, and he couldn't blame the students for being wary of a disembodied voice barking instructions at them. Harry, Flitwick, and McGonagall protected the flanks of the students as the last stragglers crammed into the Entrance Hall.

"What do we do?" a hysterical fourth-year Gryffindor screamed. "Where do we go?!"

"We should send them to the back exit," Flitwick suggested to McGonagall. "Perhaps they can make a run for it from there."

"No," said Harry, removing his Cloak at last. "Send them to their common rooms."

"They'll be sitting ducks there!" McGonagall protested.

"We've opened the transportation wards for them to escape," said Harry. "Please, Professor, trust me...we have a plan."

McGonagall surveyed Harry's face, as though deciding whether to believe him or not. Fortunately, a friendly voice called out from nearby: "Hufflepuffs, this way! With me!"

Ron Weasley emerged from the hallway leading towards the kitchens. There was a great roar of excitement when the students saw him, and at once, the Hufflepuffs began to congregate towards him.

"Slytherins, with me!" shouted Mark Davis, emerging from the dungeons to a similar reception. "Quickly now!"

Harry turned back to Flitwick and McGonagall, who looked stunned by the appearance of their two former students. "Can you take the Ravenclaws and Gryffindors back to their towers?" he asked. "Hermione Granger and George Weasley are waiting there to Portkey them to safety."

The mention of yet more beloved former students of theirs finally spurred them into action. "Gryffindors, with me!" McGonagall barked, striding forward towards the stairwell. Flitwick followed suit, as the red and blue-clad students scurried after their respective Heads of House.

"What if we want to fight?!" shouted Seamus Finnigan, eliciting whoops and shouts of agreement from the other students.

"Only if you are of-age," said Harry. "It's too dangerous for the rest of you."

"And who put you in charge?" demanded Ernie Macmillan. "Aren't you on You-Know-Who's side?"

"Not anymore," said Harry, rolling up his left sleeve to show off his Mark-less arm. "If you want to fight, talk to Fred Weasley in Central Hall. He's organizing the defense of the castle."

Fortunately Ernie, Seamus and the others seemed to heed this advice, sprinting off in search of the Weasley twin. Harry hoped that they would be safer in the castle than out on the open battlefield. He would have to ensure a decisive victory tonight so that Voldemort would not turn his attention on the students once more.

"Oi, Harry!" Ron called out to him, as he ushered Hufflepuffs down the hallway. "You find Neville yet? Is he okay?"

Harry felt a jab of pain at the reminder of what had transpired just moments before. He saw the hope and fear in Ron's expression, and could not bring himself to tell the truth.

"Not yet," he lied. "I'll find him."

"Good luck then, mate," said Ron. With a small salute, he hurried off behind his students down the hall. Harry headed in the opposite direction, back out the oak doors and into the fray.

He was immediately disoriented, as the battle was raging on in all directions before him. The sights, sounds and smells of death surrounded him – bodies sprawled unceremoniously on the grass, injured soldiers screaming from their lethal wounds, the odor of blood and ozone choking the air. Harry was overwhelmed, searching the haze desperately for Voldemort, but not seeing him anywhere.

An errant spell whizzed past his ear, and Harry was shaken from his reverie. He could not afford to stand here like a statue while his allies suffered without him. He pressed forward to join the fight, raising his wand against the first enemy he saw. The black-clad figure turned to greet him, raising his own wand to duel—

"Oi Potter, duck!"

Harry heard a metallic whizzing sound behind him, and instinctively ducked, as he might dodge a Bludger on the Quidditch pitch. The enemy fighter was not so lucky; there was a loud CLANG as he was bludgeoned in the head by a heavy metal object, collapsing instantly to the ground and moving no more.

There was a whoosh as someone swooped low on a broomstick, and Damian Dursley dismounted cleanly beside Harry. "Alright there, cousin?" he grinned.

"Damian!" Harry exclaimed. "What the hell are you doing here? You should be in the States by now!"

"Bugger that," Damian scoffed. "You lot get to fight for the future of Muggle-borns, and I have to sit back and watch? I won't let you have all the fun."

Harry had about a million other reasons he wanted to reprimand his cousin, but there was no time to belabor the point. "What did you just throw?" he asked instead.

"A Head-Hunter," said Damian. He snapped his fingers, and a small metallic ball zoomed from the fallen fighter's head into his palm. "Newest Weasley twin invention. It's like a Bludger, but lighter, faster and designed to cave people's skulls in. Pretty mental, innit?"

There was a primal war cry nearby as another enemy fighter rounded the corner towards them. Harry raised his wand to defend them, but Damian simply chucked the Head-Hunter at the man. It collided with his forehead with a sickening crunch, and he too was down for the count.

"Where's your wand?" Harry demanded, as Damian summoned the Head-Hunter back to his hand, now coated red with blood.

"Dunno," Damian shrugged. "Dropped it somewhere over the Forbidden Forest, I think. Never much cared for attacking with spells, did I?"

"Well, I'd feel more comfortable if you had one," Harry muttered. He flicked his own wand to summon the fallen enemy's weapon, handing it to Damian.

"If you say so," Damian chuckled, tucking the stolen wand behind his ear. "I'd best go regroup with the other flyers. Oh, and I'd avoid the west grounds if I were you; Hagrid's brother is stomping around over there and trampling folks on both sides. Later, Potter!" And Damian kicked off from the ground again into the night sky, leaving Harry to shake his head in bewilderment at his cousin's nerve.

Better up there than down here, he supposed. Damian was an adept flyer and had an arsenal of miniature Bludgers at his disposal – he was practically in his element.

Harry decided to take Damian's advice and head east, away from the sounds of Grawp's rampage and towards another group of fighters. He could not quite make out who was who in the darkness, but he saw plenty of flashes of light being exchanged across the grounds and rushed forward to help where he could.

He skidded to a stop when he realized something was very wrong. Most of the flashes of light were coming from his own people – the blue and gold-clad resistance fighters, valiantly defending themselves against some mysterious enemy. Harry saw a blur of movement streak across the grounds as one of the resistance fighters fell, crumpling to the ground in the blink of an eye. More streaks of movement were barely perceptible, as whatever the resistance was fighting was fast.

Then, something abruptly changed course and streaked directly towards Harry. The Elder Wand reacted before he could, whipping around to ensnare the oncoming attacker in a tangle of vines. Harry was shocked to see a ghostly-pale figure with pitch-black eyes, fangs bared, blood dripping down its chin as it hissed angrily at him.

Vampires, Harry thought with a sinking sense of dread. From the looks of things, there were dozens, if not hundreds, of the dark creatures roaming the grounds, attacking resistance fighters and Voldemort loyalists alike. Terrifyingly fast and immune to most curses, they were tearing people to shreds before his very eyes, dragging poor, screaming souls into the Forest to feed.

Then Harry heard a chilling roar as something massive and hairy burst out of the treeline. A werewolf, fully transformed, leaping twenty feet through the air to trample another resistance fighter to the ground. The woman screamed shrilly for half a second before the terrible beast ripped her throat out with its teeth, feasting upon the defenseless fighter.

Harry looked up to see a false moon hovering high above the Forbidden Forest, at full strength, empowering the werewolves. The combination of their raw power and resilience, compared with the blinding speed and agility of the vampires, was simply too much for the fighters to overcome. Within minutes they would all be slaughtered, unable to match the onslaught of the dangerous creatures.

Unless Harry did something to turn the tides. And he had just the solution.

He aimed his wand at the false moon and began muttering incantations under his breath. He could have simply dispelled the moon, as Dumbledore had two years ago, to prevent the werewolves from transforming. But he had two enemies to deal with tonight. So instead he began to transfigure the heavenly body into a different one, heating the rock so it melted down into liquid, turning the suspended orb into a glowing magma sphere, giving off a blinding bright light as it was set ablaze.

But Harry did not stop there. He continued to supercharge the molten rock, increasing the pressure and temperature until even the base molecules could not survive the heat. The moon erupted with massive energy as the atoms began fusing together, giving off a burning heat that instantly transformed the pitch-black night into day. Harry stepped back, examining the false sun he had just created, suspended over the Forbidden Forest.

The werewolves had long begun to transform back into their human forms again, disoriented, as the resistance fighters rounded on them and began to cut them down. The vampires were a different story altogether. They looked up to see their mortal enemy, the sun, bearing down upon them, their skin beginning to sizzle and melt under the blazing heat. There were screeches of pain and discomfort as the dark creatures fled for the safety of the only shade they could find: the Forbidden Forest.

Bad move, Harry thought, stalking forward after them. For he knew the secondary weakness that all vampires shared. And he was about to use the forest itself against them.

He whipped his wand in a circle over his head, uprooting several nearby trees and breaking them apart to swirl around him in a cyclone of shattered timber. He began to reshape the splinters into long spears, sharpening the tips until he had hundreds of makeshift wooden stakes at the ready. He marched straight into the Forbidden Forest, now lit up with the power of a miniature sun, prepared to strike down any dark creatures he encountered.

Any other day Harry might show mercy. He knew that every vampire in existence had once been a human that was turned against its will, much like werewolves. But this group had chosen to come here, had chosen to fight on Voldemort's behalf to feed on the innocent. There would be no mercy here. Every vampire Harry encountered was going to die.

So Harry began hunting. One by one, he located the vampires lurking in the shade of the trees and cut them down, spearing them through the heart with his wooden stakes to end their existence for good. It was brutal and methodical, as Harry calmly but effectively neutralized the threat, snuffing of the lives of the terrified beasts that had made the mistake of facing off against the Master of Death. You're welcome, Harry thought grimly as he delivered hundreds of wayward souls to Death, waiting greedily to accept them on the other side.

The job done, Harry turned his attention away from the Forest and back to the grounds. He extinguished his false sun, plunging the grounds back into darkness once more. Some vampires had escaped, but they were no longer his concern. He still had a Dark Lord to kill.

"Where's Voldemort?" he demanded, as dozens of wide-eyed resistance fighters gawked at him. One pointed a trembling finger to the north, shrinking away from Harry in fear. He knew he likely cut an imposing figure at the moment, slaughtering hundreds of vampires in minutes, but he could not think about that right now. He knew he would hear the terrified screeches and dying breaths of those vampires in his nightmares for the rest of his life. He could dwell on what he had done another time, assuming he survived the night.

Harry stalked back up the hill towards the castle. The fighting had migrated in the direction of Hogsmeade...he hoped that did not mean the resistance was being pushed back, that they were failing to overpower Voldemort's army. He sprinted through the darkness, not even bothering with his Invisibility Cloak, trying to rejoin the fight as soon as possible—

He heard a chorus of shouts nearby, and ducked as half a dozen curses whizzed past his ear through the night. He turned towards the assailants, expecting more of Voldemort's men; instead, he was stunned to find a small group of Hogwarts students bearing down on him.

"Surrender yourself, Potter!" shouted Michael Corner. "We won't let you get away with this!"

Harry hesitated. These were not Voldemort sympathizers at all – they were old members of his defense club from fifth year, who had likely continued training with Ginny in secret over the past year. The collection of Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs spread out before Harry, wands trained on him, looks of stubborn determination on their faces.

"You've got the wrong idea!" Harry shouted. "We are not enemies!"

"Save it!" spat Parvati Patil. "We all know what side you're really on!"

Harry's heart ached at the sight of his once-friends now firmly set against him. He knew he would have time to explain everything later, once the war was over. But right now, he had a war to wage, and could not spare the time to reason with these impulsive teens.

"Please get out of my way," he said. "I don't want to fight you."

"Tough shit," scoffed Zacharias Smith. "We're taking you in, Potter, so just come quietly."

"I'm sorry about this," Harry sighed. And he opened fire, unleashing a salvo of non-lethal spells at his former classmates. The students raised their wands to defend themselves, working in tandem to defend themselves (and each other). Under normal circumstances, Harry would have been impressed with their teamwork, with the accuracy of their spell-casting. But right now, it was a hindrance more than anything. And he had other places to be.

Harry pressed forward, mixing in different branches of magic with his casting to overwhelm his temporary foes. Seamus Finnigan went down to a crackle of illusory lightning; Sue Li failed to keep her balance as Harry transfigured the ground beneath her into ice; the Patil twins were overrun by conjured golems of earth and stone, pinning them to the ground. One by one he overpowered the teens, until he found himself standing alone with a dozen Stunned students at his feet.

He was torn on how to proceed. He could not revive them and have them attack him from the rear as he rejoined the battle; but nor could he leave him here, exposed to the elements and passing dark fighters. So he bundled them all together and levitated them off the ground, transporting them closer to the castle, searching for a place to hide them away.

Harry decided to deposit them in a thicket of bushes, not far from where he'd been hiding prior to Neville's execution. He made certain that no arms or legs were sticking out of the greenery before turning away, satisfied that they were out of sight. He then began to head back towards the fight, leaving the students behind.

He paused. Someone was lurking nearby; he could hear them rustling in the bushes, just out of sight. Had he failed to Stun someone properly? Were they trying to sneak up on him?

Harry fired a Stunner through the dark towards the unseen presence; he heard a yelp as the spell connected, sending someone crashing backwards into the bush. He yanked his wand back to drag the person out into the open, groaning when he saw who it was. He trained his wand on the newcomer and muttered, "Ennervate."

Draco Malfoy came to, sputtering and gasping as he regained his bearings. He looked up to see Harry's wand in his face, eyes going wide with terror.

"P-please," Draco stammered, throwing up his hands in surrender. "Don't kill me. I'll do anything."

Draco did not appear to be a threat in the slightest...in fact, he didn't seem to have a wand. It occurred to Harry that the teen had been unable to evacuate via the castle, considering the anti-Dark Mark wards Harry had erected at the entrances.

The memory of Lucius Malfoy's final moments replayed in Harry's mind, using his final breaths to beg mercy for his son. But was it wise to leave an enemy such as Draco alive? He may be powerless now, but given time to assume the head of the Malfoy estate and build up his wealth and influence again, he may prove to be a dangerous foe one day, seeking to avenge his father's death.

Kill him, the Elder Wand whispered in his mind. He's a loose end.

But he didn't turn me in, Harry thought. He knew I was the Phantom and said nothing.

That's his folly, not yours, the Wand whispered. Don't reward him for cowardice. He's dead weight.

But Harry couldn't bring himself to do it. Draco never had a choice in who his allegiances were. He was forced into Voldemort's service and given no opportunity to choose his own path forward. He deserved that opportunity. And if he chose wrong? Well, Harry would deal with him then.

With a flash of red light, Draco was sent sprawling to the ground, unconscious once more. Harry grimaced and slashed his wand at the boy's left arm, severing it at the elbow; Draco's body squirmed painfully at the sudden trauma. Harry cauterized the wound and summoned heavy bandages to cover it; he then levitated Draco's Stunned form back into the bushes, out of immediate danger from the battle.

You'll regret that later, the Elder Wand chided Harry as he kicked aside the boy's severed arm, the Dark Mark now extinguished upon its skin.

Shut up, Harry groaned internally at the bloodthirsty object. You'll have your chance to kill again soon enough. Preferably a Dark Lord.

My specialty, the Wand whispered gleefully back.

Harry followed the length of the castle wall back towards the sounds of battle. Bodies littered the grounds in all directions, as fallen soldiers lay dead or dying from their wounds. Harry spotted a white-clad figure flitting from body to body, tending to their injuries. A Healer. And following close behind them was a figure in black – one of Voldemort's people.

Harry got a bad feeling in his gut, increasing his pace towards the pair. They did not appear to be in conflict, but nor did they look particularly friendly with one another. And as he drew close enough to recognize them both, his stomach lurched with discomfort.

"...shouldn't be here, my darling!" the Death Eater was saying. "This is no place for a wife to be."

"And who says I am going to be your wife?" the Healer retorted. "I never agreed to such a thing, and you never asked me what I wanted!"

"You'll learn to love me with time," the Death Eater insisted. "I may not be as handsome as some of the boys your age, but I can be a generous lover! I'll make you happy, I swear it!"

"Don't touch me, you creep!" the Healer protested, wrenching her arm out of the man's grasp.

"Get away from her!" Harry bellowed, raising his wand. A Shield erupted between the two; Peter Pettigrew staggered backwards as Dahlia righted herself, straightening her robes indignantly.

"We needn't be enemies, Harry!" Peter insisted. "We can be brothers once the betrothal is finalized – we'll be family! You wouldn't hurt your own brother, would you?"

"I have no brother," Harry growled. "Just a creepy uncle who never learned to take no for an answer."

Harry raised his wand against Peter, but Dahlia was quicker. With a roar of anger, she jabbed her wand forward; Peter grunted, doubling forward and clutching his midsection. Harry watched in horror as blood began to seep out of the man's eyes, nose and ears; he opened his mouth to speak, but only a grotesque, guttural sound was emitted. The purple-faced man keeled over, twitching violently for a moment before going eternally still.

"I had him under control," Dahlia sighed, stowing her wand away as she knelt beside the next victim in need. "But thanks for stepping in anyway."

Harry stared in shock at the scene, torn between asking where she had learned that spell and whether she was okay. But a more pressing question pushed those to the back burner.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded. "I thought you were back at the warehouse with Alessia!"

"I was," Dahlia said evasively. "But I couldn't bear to think about Madam Pomfrey dealing with the wounded out here by herself. Most of these lot will die if we don't treat them soon, won't they?"

Harry glanced around at the gruesome sight of death and suffering all around him. Fallen fighters were screaming out in various states of agony – most looked like they had perhaps minutes to live. Several others looked ghostly and still, but Harry realized they may have been placed under Stasis Charms by his sister before they succumbed to their wounds.

"Still, you shouldn't be here," he muttered, as he deflected a stray curse sent their way. "If Voldemort realizes you're here, you'll become a priority target."

"Then give me a disguise or something!" Dahlia huffed, as she placed the fighter she was tending to under stasis. "I'm not leaving!"

Harry groaned...he hated knowing his sister was exposed to danger, but her logic made sense. As long as they didn't realize she was a Potter, the chances of a fighter targeting a Healer on either side were low. So he drew his wand and pointed it at Dahlia's face, mildly distorting her features and changing her hair color to a faded brown. It wasn't a perfect glamour on such short notice, but she should be nondescript enough at a glance – someone that would not be perceived as a threat nor a target.

"Stay out of trouble," he said, before turning to return to the battle.

"Wait!" said Dahlia, grabbing Harry's arm before he could go. "Have you seen Neville yet? Is he alright?"

Harry's stomach squirmed as he saw the fear and hope in her eyes. He could not bring himself to tell her the truth. That the boy she loved was dead.

"I'll find him," he lied. And he took off, slipping gently from her grasp to rejoin the fray. He shoved his guilt aside, knowing there would be plenty of time for it later.

He still could not see Voldemort anywhere through the darkness, but he was encouraged to see the number of blue uniforms still standing. The resistance seemed to have the advantage, forcing Voldemort's forces back away from the castle. But Harry knew that numbers meant nothing so long as the Dark Lord remained alive. He had to find him quickly and put an end to him to finish this war once and for all.

A number of dark fighters spotted Harry and engaged him, but they were cut down in short order. None were powerful enough to stand against the Elder Wand...hell, Harry doubted they would have stood a chance if he was using his mahogany wand. He would not be deterred, not now, not to these low-level goons. He had a Dark Lord to slay, a higher destiny to follow.

As he drew closer to the center of the fighting, however, Harry found his progress more and more difficult. Enemy fighters seemed to recognize his threat level and respond in kind, attacking him in groups of two, three, or even four. Harry effortlessly defended himself from their onslaughts, but was surprised by their level of coordination and skill, outpacing even most Death Eaters. Voldemort had recruited well, as he had some talented fighters in his employ.

"Surround him!" one of the masked fighters shouted to his fellows. Harry recognized his voice at once. And suddenly it all made sense: these were not your typical pure-blood recruits who had signed on out of nationalistic pride. These were paid recruits – mercenaries, likely scouted from The Spiked Chalice the year before by Barty Crouch and others. And they were not to be taken lightly.

"Hello again, Reaper," Harry greeted the speaker. "It's been too long."

The Reaper stared at Harry for a moment, puzzled, before recognition seemed to dawn on him. "Phantom?" he asked. "You're still alive? And fighting on the wrong side?"

"It's you who is on the wrong side," Harry said coolly, as he shot down the mercenaries who were attempting to circle around behind him. "Some causes are worth more than mere money."

"Never took you for a bleeding heart, kid," Reaper sneered. "Shame I'll have to rip yours out for you."

And without further preamble, the Reaper launched into a vicious attack, trying his hardest to maim his opponent. Harry blocked the incoming spells with lightning speed, and was frankly not sure if he would have been able to without the Elder Wand's assistance. This was the first real test he'd faced on the battlefield tonight.

The two men exchanged blows back and forth, poking and prodding at one another's defenses. Neither over-extended themselves or left any obvious openings, clearly respecting one another's talent. The other mercenaries watched on in awe, momentarily stunned by the display of skill. They both knew what the other was capable of in combat, and neither would be holding back tonight.

"What are you waiting for, you fools?" Reaper panted. "Attack him!"

The other mercenaries snapped out of their reverie, moving forward to gang up on Harry. But they would not get the chance. Harry summoned thick, snarling vines from the ground, pinning the men and women to the ground. Some tried to summon flames to free themselves, but only succeeded in lighting themselves and their fellows on fire, leaving a cacophony of screams around the two fighters.

Meanwhile, other resistance members realized what was happening and came forth to Harry's aid. They engaged the other mercenaries, allowing Harry and Reaper to battle uninterrupted. It allowed Harry to enter a flow state, focused on nothing but the enemy across from him, his entire being channeled into the fight.

Reaper realized quickly that he was fighting a losing battle. He tried every underhanded trick in the book, attempting to catch Harry off-guard, but nothing worked. He even tried a last-ditch illusion to fool Harry's eye, but he was well-versed in such magic himself, ignoring the false visions being thrown his way and focusing only on his very real opponent, who was losing ground fast.

Finally, Reaper faltered. His defenses slipped, a Cutting Curse slipping through his Shields and opening a heavy gash in his right arm. The man grimaced and fell to his knees, dropping his wand as heavy ropes caught him around the torso and sent him sprawling to the ground, defeated.

"Wait!" Reaper stammered as Harry moved in for the kill. "Don't kill me! I have money – I'll give you whatever you want!"

"I don't care about your money," Harry spat, leveling his wand at the man.

"I have a family!" Reaper protested. "In Florida! Just let me go home to them, and I'll never return to Britain again!"

"I have a family, too," said Harry. "You should never have come here and endangered them. Avada Kedavra." There was a flash of green light, and the mercenary went still.

Harry had no remorse for killing the man whatsoever. In many ways, he was even worse than the pure-bloods who had been deluded by Voldemort. At least they stood for something...they hadn't sold their souls to the side of evil for something so basic and selfish as money. Such men did not deserve second chances.

He pressed onward through the battlefield, fending off attacks and carving a path through the mayhem. He had yet to encounter any of his loved ones, but he sensed he was drawing closer. The skill level of these fighters was far higher than at the fringes of the fighting, and soon only the elite fighters would remain. He saw Death Eaters and Aurors lying among the dead, and knew Voldemort must be close.

One enemy seemed to be drawing significant attention from the resistance, fending off multiple attackers at once. And as Harry drew closer, he could see why the man was such a target: Gilderoy Lockhart, the 'Reaver of Memories' and puppet Minister of Magic. The man's hood had slipped as he fought viciously, cutting down fighters left and right with dark magic that few seemed to recognize. Voldemort had used the Time-Turner well, crafting the once-bumbling charlatan into a formidable fighter indeed.

Harry raised his wand to engage the man, but somebody else cut in front of him, eager to get her shot at him first.

"Hello again, Mr. Lockhart," Tonks growled, poised in a fighting stance. "We have unfinished business to attend to."

"Do we?" Lockhart smirked, eyes raking up and down Tonks' form. "I'm afraid I have no memory of us meeting."

"Funny you should say that," Tonks growled. "Neither do I."

And she launched into a furious attack, immediately putting Lockhart on the back foot. But he quickly recovered, his features resolving into a snarl as he met Tonks' deadly force with strength of his own. Soon both were firing lethal curses at one another, holding nothing back, each desperate to get the upper hand over the other.

Harry joined Tonks in the fight, Shielding and parrying the Reaver's deadly assault. Even the two of them combined made it a nearly equal fight, as Lockhart was able to handily defend himself while keeping them both on their toes with his arcane arsenal. If it wasn't for the Elder Wand, Harry wasn't even sure if he'd be able to recognize and counter most of the curses sent his way, which he'd never encountered before in his studies.

He heard a low grunt beside him, as Tonks was grazed by a Blasting Curse that slipped past her defenses. She stumbled to one knee as Harry stepped forward to protect her. Lockhart grinned in triumph, doubling his efforts to overwhelm his opponent's defenses. Harry was forced onto the back foot, panting from the effort of keeping up with the man's furious pace.

Give me control, the Elder Wand whispered. I can handle this flea with ease.

Harry was sorely tempted to give in. He knew Lockhart would be no match for the power of Death, and he was rapidly expending stamina just trying to keep up with the man. But there were too many resistance fighters in the vicinity – collateral damage that would be caught in the crossfire once Death was unleashed on the battlefield. He was still reluctant to have so much blood on his hands, despite knowing that it may be necessary to win the fight—

"Harry, on your right!" a friendly voice shouted. He turned to see Sirius and Remus jump into the fray, engaging with Lockhart to ease the pressure on Harry. Lockhart snarled with rage at the new arrivals, as he now found himself on the receiving end of three enemies, each fighting as hard as the last.

Now it was Lockhart on the back foot, desperately defending himself beneath the onslaught. All four fighters were fatigued, their spell-casting slowed and ponderous, throwing curses with as much might as they could muster. Harry continued to press forward, seeking the finishing blow, trying to slip one past Lockhart's frantic defenses—

But it was Remus who finally punched through. His Cutting Curse hit Lockhart in the neck, causing blood to coat his uniform; the man sputtered and grabbed at the wound, attempting to stem the bleeding. That opened him up to the follow-up from Harry and Sirius; their spells hit the man at the same time, causing him to topple backward, hitting the ground with a dull thud.

Harry turned back towards Tonks, who remained on one knee, catching her breath. "You alright?" he asked as he extended his hand toward her.

"I could've taken him," Tonks quipped, though she accepted his hand up. "Thanks, Harry."

"Any time," Harry asked. "Where's Cedric?"

"Took a Bludgeoning Curse to the back," Tonks grimaced. "He's alive, but only just. Pomfrey is transporting him to the Apparation point as we speak."

Harry could see the worry in her expression, glancing wistfully towards the castle even as the battle continued around them. She was distracted, and that would do her no good in this setting.

"Go," said Harry. "Get out of here. Go be with Cedric while he recovers."

"What?" Tonks scoffed. "But there's still a war to be won here!"

"You've done more than enough," said Harry. "And you'll need patching up too, once the adrenaline wears off."

He beckoned to her side, where Lockhart's Blasting Curse had grazed her. Tonks' uniform had partially burned away, exposing charred and mottled flesh that looked incredibly painful.

"Right, yeah," Tonks grimaced, tenderly poking at her exposed rib cage. "Suppose I should. Stay safe, eh, Potter?"

"You too," said Harry.

Tonks limped off towards the castle, as Harry turned to rejoin the fray. Sirius and Remus were now engaged in a vicious duel with two Death Eaters, who had stepped up into the void left behind by Lockhart. Their hoods had slipped, revealing themselves as Yaxley and Dolohov. Harry rushed forward to the aid of his two surrogate uncles.

But as he did so, he heard a loud, guttural roar, a moment before something streaked across the battlefield towards him. Harry was knocked askance, stumbling to one knee as Fenrir Greyback launched himself at him again. A powerful Shield Charm was barely able to contain the man, who was knocked sideways but recovered quickly, looking like a man possessed. He was no longer transformed thanks to the false moon, but he looked dangerous all the same, mouth bloody from a recent feast. Harry wondered if he was being augmented by some kind of stimulants, magical or otherwise.

Greyback snarled and leaped at Harry again with inhuman speed. But a spell caught him mid-air, sending him sprawling again. Harry turned to see Mark Davis approaching, fury in his eyes as he engaged his former attacker.

"You won't be hurting any more students tonight, Greyback," Mark said angrily. He began throwing more spells at the werewolf, who was forced to defend himself with his wand, still snarling angrily. Harry stepped forward to aid Mark in the assault.

"What's happening in the castle?" he asked as they took on Greyback together. "Are the students safe?"

"Yeah, they're all out," said Mark, as Harry sighed with relief. "We thought You-Know-Who's people might try to siege the castle, but nobody has bothered. Most of us have come out to rejoin the fight."

Harry saw more familiar faces now amidst the fighting: the Weasley twins, Ron, Hermione, and several other students that had stayed to fight. His heart soared to see them working so well together, even though he remained terrified that any number of them might meet a bloody end.

He redoubled his efforts, as he and Mark showed Greyback no mercy. The werewolf remained stubbornly upright for some time, and Harry suspected his skin had some kind of unnatural resistance to spellfire, as his defenses were sloppy at best. Finally, a Bludgeoning Charm sent the man sprawling to the ground, and Harry's summoned vines pinned him to the earth at last.

Harry summoned a thick silver spear to finish off the werewolf for good. "Please," said Mark. "Allow me."

Harry relented, allowing Mark to have his revenge. He took the spear in his hands, not even bothering with magic, and approaching Greyback with anger in his eyes. The werewolf stared ruefully back, refusing to beg, fury in his eyes.

Mark plunged the spear downwards into Greyback's chest. The werewolf lurched in agony, blood gurgling from his mouth as he writhed from the mortal wound. Finally he went still, as Mark's chest heaved from the effort, trembling at the sight of his fallen tormentor. Harry clapped the teen on the shoulder in solidarity.

There was no time to contemplate the kill, however. The fight raged on, as Harry and Mark were separated by attacks from different directions. Harry made his way back towards Sirius and Remus, relieved to see that both were still standing. Remus had overwhelmed his target, joining Sirius in the fight against Yaxley. Harry ran forward to join them.

But there was no need. Sirius caught Yaxley under the chin with a smoky black curse. The Death Eater fell to his knees, scrabbling at his throat as his skin began to turn a gruesome shade of puce. He eventually fell to the ground, twitching violently as the curse did its work, slowly throttling the life out of him.

"Black family specialty," Sirius said grimly. "My ancestors were right bastards, but they knew more ways to kill a bloke than most Dark Lords."

"Have you seen my parents?" asked Harry. "Or Fleur?"

"Fleur's with her father," said Remus, pointing nearby. The two Delacours were dueling back to back, a fearsome duo engaged in a delicate dance of death. None of their enemies seemed too eager to engage the two, and Harry felt hopeful that they would not come to harm any time soon.

"Your mother took a bad spill earlier," said Sirius. "She's alright though – broken ankle, we think. Last we saw, Pomfrey was struggling to keep her still while she tried to rejoin the fight."

"And my dad?"

"In the thick of it," said Remus, pointing towards the worst of the fighting. "We'd best go find him."

The three rushed forward into the fray, protecting one another as they searched for James. Harry recognized more and more of his friends and loved ones now, among both the living and the dead. His heart ached as he recognized more and more of the bodies littering the grounds: Angelina Johnson. John Dawlish. Terry Boot. Andromeda Black. The amount of senseless death was staggering, and it took all Harry had not to fall to his knees in despair.

Don't let their deaths be in vain, he told himself. They wouldn't want you to despair. Win this war for them.

It took several minutes for Harry, Sirius and Remus to locate James. When they did, he too was engaged in a savage battle with a Death Eater, lethal spells being fired in both directions. Harry realized at once that this was no average fighter his father was facing...the hooded man was trained in combat, lethal in his spell selection and accurate in both his defense and casting.

James fired a rapid salvo at his opponent, using his trademark Transfiguration combined with powerful curses to overpower his enemy. The Death Eater canceled the conjured attackers while spinning away from the worst of the curses, but one of them caught him in the cheek. The man grunted as his hood caught fire; he yanked it from his face, snarling as he faced his enemy once more. Several people gasped when they saw who it was.

Snape.

Harry could not understand it. Wasn't he on their side? Hadn't he assisted Harry and the resistance movement all along? Hadn't he given them the tools to wage this battle with more favorable conditions? Why was he now standing beside his old master and betraying the side of the Light?

James and Snape resumed their fight in earnest, neither man holding back. "No!" James roared, as Sirius rushed forward to help. "Back! Get back! He is mine!"

Snape also appeared to be yelling at a fellow Death Eater offering his assistance, who backed away meekly. And suddenly Harry understood. This was not a fight for the war, for good versus evil. This was a fight for Lily, between the two mortal enemies who loved her most. This was what Snape had wanted all along, the outcome he'd masterfully maneuvered himself into: the opportunity to draw his true target out of hiding, to remove the one obstacle keeping Lily from him. Not Harry, not Voldemort – James.

There was cold murder in Snape's eyes as he tried his hardest to kill the man that had gotten the better of him for the past three decades straight. James too looked furious, unleashing his anger at the man who had tried to steal his wife from him. They were equally matched; James was the better fighter, despite his years of rust since last serving as an Auror two years prior, while Snape had a more vast vocabulary of dark magic to draw from, keeping his enemy on his toes.

Harry watched on with mixed elation and terror as the two mortal enemies did their best to kill the other. The bout had attracted many eyes, the surrounding battle momentarily pausing to watch the two skilled wizards duke it out. Nobody dared intervene, either because they could not hope to keep up with the furious pace or they did not want to disrupt what was clearly an honor duel.

Harry was torn...should he step in and help his father? He knew James would be angry with him for it, would feel that his pride was wounded. But what if Harry didn't care? What if the only thing that mattered was his family's survival, the consequences be damned. He agonized over the decision, watching the two men trade blows, praying the worst would not happen.

But the decision was soon taken from his hands, as someone did step forward to join the fight. Lily, hobbling on a bandaged ankle, Shielding her husband from what would have been a deadly blow to the rib cage. She then began to fire curses of her own at Snape, joined soon after by James. He seemed surprised by the new arrival, but not nearly as surprised as his opponent.

"Lily...what are you doing?" Snape asked, aghast, as he fought to stave off the double attack.

"What I've always done, Severus," Lily said resolutely. "Defending my family."

My family. Harry saw something break behind Snape's eyes at her words. Perhaps he'd hoped otherwise, had plotted meticulously over the past two years to insert himself into Lily's life, to become someone she considered family. But he was wrong. Her heart belonged to James. Their bond truly was unbreakable. And Snape knew in that moment he had failed.

The fight went on for a minute more, but Harry sensed that Snape was just going through the motions. He was dueling on instinct now, purely on the defensive, moving mechanically and without purpose. And when his defenses failed – when Lily's immaculate charm work slipped past his shields and overwhelmed him – he did not seem surprised or angry. He simply fell to his knees, wand clattering to the ground, all the fight sucked out of him. Severus Snape had already been defeated – this was simply a formality.

James stalked forward, wand trained murderously on his foe. His lifelong enemy. And Harry saw the fury in his father's expression, a look he had never seen on him before. He had murder on the mind. And Snape knew it too.

"Go on, Potter," Snape muttered. It was said without malice, without fear – just quiet acceptance. "Put me out of my misery."

James' chest heaved as he trained his wand between Snape's eyes. And Harry truly wondered if his father would do it. If he would go against his own code of ethics and take the man's life. Nobody intervened, nobody protested...it would be completely justified in the throes of war. Even Lily looked away, giving her husband tacit approval to kill the man she had defended all these years. And yet, James hesitated.

Finally, he made up his mind. "This is for my children," James spat. And he slashed his wand viciously downward; Snape flinched, expecting the killing blow to come. Instead, the man groaned as his left arm was severed at the elbow, flopping to the ground, the Dark Mark fading to white upon his forearm. James followed it up with a Stunning Spell, causing the wide-eyed man to fall backwards to the ground, unconscious.

Everyone in the vicinity stared as James conjured a ribbon of cloth to tourniquet the bleeding. Then he looked up and noticed everybody was looking at him. "What are you lot staring at?" he demanded. "Do we still have a battle to fight, or what?"

That broke everyone out of their temporary stupor. The group dispersed, re-engaging nearby enemies and clearing out the courtyard. Harry met James' eyeline and gave him a brief nod of support. James merely shrugged and beckoned him forward, back into the fray. So father and son charged forward, side by side, to finish the war together.

Harry and James were a formidable duo, carving a devastating path of destruction through the battlefield. Lily, Sirius and Remus covered their flanks, ensuring that neither would fall to surprise attacks from the peripheries. Fleur and her father joined in as well, forming an impenetrable bubble around the two men as they cut down enemies left and right. And for perhaps the first time in this timeline, Harry felt that he was right where he was meant to be. Fighting the good fight with his family by his side, protecting them as they protected him in kind. Everything he'd done in both of his timelines had led him to this moment – a vessel of war, fighting for the people he cared about most.

Harry did not know where Voldemort was, but he could sense they were drawing closer, as the Death Eaters and other dark loyalists began to consolidate towards the northwest. There were no strategic landmarks drawing them there, yet they all seemed to gravitate towards something – or someone – in that direction. No words needed to be exchanged between him and James. They pushed onward, mowing down everyone in their path as they approached the heart of the battle. The Potters never backed down from the tough battles, and their toughest challenge yet lay ahead of them, but neither hesitated for a second to confront it.

Finally, they saw him. Voldemort, smiting his foes left and right at the center of the fray – a furious buzz-saw of death. Resistance fighters were scrambling over one another to get away from the zone of death, as anything that got within twenty feet of the Dark Lord was annihilated in short order. Only a few were brave enough to fight back, and their lives were summarily snuffed out.

But Voldemort's forces were waning. Only a few Death Eaters remained alive, and Harry could see them on the edges of the battle, reduced to lifeless husks as Voldemort drained the last of their magic for himself through the Dark Marks. A few hundred dark loyalists remained, but many were surrendering, realizing they were outnumbered and on the losing side of the battle. That number only increased as Harry and James reached the heart of the battle, rallying the other resistance members to redouble their efforts and overwhelm the enemy.

None of that mattered anymore. The only thing that counted was Voldemort himself. If he escaped, he could retreat to nurse his wounds and rebuild another army from scratch. Perhaps create another horcrux or two. The only way this war would end for good was with his death. So Harry and James continued onward, knowing there would be no terms of surrender. This was a battle to the death.

Voldemort finally saw the two Potters approaching, a manic smile crossing his features. "I wondered when you two would arrive," he sneered, as he simultaneously unleashed a blast of dark energy that killed a dozen resistance fighters in an instant. "The foolish Potter men, come to die at last." He fired another blast of energy at the two approaching fighters, but Harry and James thrust their wands forward at once, deflecting the blast into the night sky, careening away with an eerie screeching sound.

The battle seemed to come to a dead stop as everyone realized what was happening. The two primary forces of the battle had arrived to settle things once and for all. A ring of onlookers formed as Voldemort squared off on one side of the grounds with Harry and James on the other.

"Two against one?" Voldemort sneered as he sized the two men up. "Hardly a fair fight...for you."

"As if you've ever played fair, Tom," James laughed humorlessly. Voldemort's smile evaporated at the use of his real name, morphing into a vicious snarl.

"Very well, then," Voldemort spat. "I should have killed you both long ago. Now, all will understand that nobody is powerful enough to match the power of Lord Voldemort."

He struck without warning, unleashing devastating curses at Harry and James. The duo split apart at the same time, rolling away from the torrent of dark energy and returning fire in turn. Voldemort actually laughed as he effortlessly defended himself from the split attack and continued to fire deadly curses at his two foes. Like Harry, he too was in his element, demonstrating his immense power before a captive audience.

Harry and James each delved into their own specialties in an attempt to overwhelm Voldemort with a variety of attacks. James demonstrated his transfiguration mastery by harnessing the elements around them, sending beasts of rock and dirt at the Dark Lord while warping the air and moisture around them to disorient him. Harry was a blur of motion, using agility and speed in an attempt to catch Voldemort off-guard. But Voldemort effortlessly evaded it all, dodging and spinning away from the worst of Harry's assault while turning James' own creations against him, forcing him to end the animations.

"Is this truly the best Britain has to offer against me?" Voldemort taunted. "A schoolboy and a washed-up Auror?"

Harry and James regrouped, each panting hard as the duel fell into a lull. Harry knew that he was capable of more, could unleash a far more devastating attack against Voldemort if he gave himself over to the Elder Wand. He could hear it whispering to him now, begging for a change to be unchained. But he could not do so with his father in such close proximity. The Deathstick did not distinguish between friend and foe, and would pose just as much of a danger to James as it did to Harry's intended target.

The fight resumed in earnest, this time with Voldemort on the offensive. Harry and James became a blur of synchronized motion, defending one another from the deadly onslaught. James took on the brunt of the defense, his Shields valiantly holding up against the minor curses, while the Elder Wand took care of the more devastating magic that neither man recognized. Harry knew without a shadow of a doubt that without the arcane knowledge of the centuries-old wand, they both would have been felled by now.

And he also knew that Voldemort was the superior wizard in every way. It did not matter how many blood rituals Harry had undergone. It did not matter if James had been at his peak performance after years away from his Auror training. Tom Riddle had gone farther than any wizard before him to strengthen himself beyond any reasonable human level.

Harry and James were out of their depth. And it was only a matter of time before one of them made a mistake.

Harry was too slow to raise his Shield when a surprise counter-attack came from Voldemort. James reacted in time, blocking the Blood-Boiling Curse that would have hit Harry in the chest. But it left him exposed to a follow-up; a moment later, James grunted in pain as a silent Cutting Curse hit him in the thigh, splitting him open to the bone and causing thick red blood to gush down his leg.

But James did not go down. He valiantly remained upright, continuing to aid Harry in the defense. But now it was Harry forced to take up the brunt of the Shielding as James' strength quickly waned. Harry did not know how severe the injury was, but he could feel his father fading fast, unable to stay in the fight for long. And Voldemort sensed his weakness, a gleam of triumph on his face as he pressed in for the kill, like a shark smelling blood in the water.

With a roar of effort, Voldemort unleashed a powerful Blasting Curse directly at Harry. He gritted his teeth and summoned the strongest Shield he could to absorb the blast. It held, but only just; the curse collided with his shield with a deafening BANG as Harry was forced five feet back from the impact. And James, too weak to brace himself, was knocked askance, flying sideways to the grass. Alone. Defenseless…

The jet of green light was in flight before Harry even registered it. He watched with horror as the Killing Curse rocketed across the battlefield to claim his father. He felt like he was moving in slow motion as he whipped around to try and deflect the curse from afar. But he was too late. James was too far away, unable to raise his wand in time as Death rushed forward to greet him—

At the last possible moment, James was yanked backwards, the Killing Curse splashing into the ground where he'd just been. He flew haphazardly through the air, and was caught awkwardly by Sirius, Remus and Lily, who had reacted just in time to save his life. James tried to get up and rejoin the duel, but he was in no further state to fight. He was forced to sink to the ground as Dahlia rushed forward to tend to his wounds, officially out of the battle.

And now Harry stood alone. He turned to face Voldemort again, steeling himself as the Dark Lord roared with laughter. "Your father can't protect you any longer, young Harry!" Voldemort sneered. "I gave you the chance to join me and become more powerful than you can imagine. Now, you will die."

"Not today, Tom," Harry said coolly. "One of us will die tonight, and it won't be me."

"You think you can stand against me?" Voldemort laughed. "A mere child, against the most powerful wizard in history?"

"You're forgetting about this," said Harry, twiddling the Elder Wand in his hand. "I have the Elder Wand. I have the power of Death at my beck and call."

Harry could see the hungry gleam in Voldemort's eyes, the undisguised desire for the powerful object, but it disappeared behind his cool demeanor in a flash.

"The Wand is not infallible, Harry," Voldemort sneered. "It could not save Gellert Grindelwald from defeat at the hands of Dumbledore. And it will not save you from me."

"I guess we'll find out," Harry shrugged. And he lowered himself into a fighting stance, preparing for the fight of his life. A ghost of a smile tugged at Voldemort's lips as he, too, readied himself for battle.

Time to show me what you're capable of, Harry told the Wand in his hand.

I thought you'd never ask, the Wand whispered triumphantly, as Harry felt its cold, invasive magic wash over him for what he hoped would be the last time.

Voldemort struck without warning, throwing powerful curses his opponent's way. The Elder Wand flashed through the night, meeting power with power and blocking Voldemort's assault with ease. The violent crashing of magic between them was overwhelming, causing all onlookers to back away several feet to avoid being caught in the crossfire.

There was a lull in the Dark Lord's offensive, and Harry calmly began his counter-attack. He became a blur, combining his own strength and dexterity with the centuries of knowledge and experience the Wand gave him. Voldemort seemed shocked by the breadth of Harry's arsenal, forced to alternate between Shielding and dodging his attacks. Even he seemed to not recognize some of the arcane magic being thrown his way, looking more uncertain and overly-cautious than Harry could ever remember him being.

For the first time in either lifetime, Harry felt that he had the upper hand. Voldemort was tiring, his frequent explosions of rage and power finally taking its toll. Harry had youth and stamina on his side, while for all of Voldemort's rituals and dark sacrifices, he was still an old man. Harry kept him on the back foot, not ceding any ground. He was done with hiding his true potential, done with hiding in the shadows. He had come to fulfill his destiny, to claim what was rightfully his.

Voldemort backed away from the furious assault, panting hard and sweating profusely. He pressed his forefinger to his Dark Mark, presumably to draw more power from his followers, but there was none to be taken. All of his Marked followers had either been killed or amputated. His reserves were spent. Lord Voldemort had no more followers to exploit, no more horcruxes to save him. He was completely alone.

Harry knew the end was nigh. Voldemort's face was scrunched up in an expression of utmost fury, as he realized he was well and truly cornered. The Dark Lord eyed him with utter hatred, stalking forward with terrible purpose. Harry prepared himself for one last assault, knowing Voldemort was not going to go down without a fierce fight.

They continued trading blows, with each spell cast powerful enough to reduce entire city blocks to rubble. The onlookers were terrified, forced to look on helplessly, unable to comprehend much less counteract such violent magic. It was the final stand of the most powerful dark wizard who ever lived, being matched blow for blow by the embodiment of Death, channeled through a teenage boy who would not be denied. This was his moment. Harry Potter would not fail. He'd lived multiple lives to get to this moment, and nothing would stand in between him and victory.

Voldemort knew the battle was lost. His rage burned bright and fierce, but it was dwindling fast, his reserves spent in this last-ditch effort to overwhelm his opponent. The man looked more human now than he ever had, his skin wrinkled and pallid, his body drooping and frail. Harry stood strong, his own strength waning, but his iron-clad resolve refusing to give in. Just a bit longer, and his enemy would tire, and he could deliver the finishing blow…

With a mighty roar, Voldemort canceled his offensive and swiped his wand angrily upwards. Harry readied himself for the next blow, but it never came. He paused, confused...had Voldemort missed his attack? Was this some kind of fake-out to rattle his nerves?

But then, as the crowd began to murmur around him, Harry understood. Energy was building in the air above them, forming into a deadly maelstrom of magic, waiting to be unleashed. But where? Voldemort sneered at Harry, before swiping his wand downwards, sending the terrible vortex of power screaming downwards. But not at Harry. At his family, standing together behind him.

Harry spun around. James was still on the ground, being tended to by Lily and Dahlia; Sirius, Remus, Fleur and Damian looked skyward, seeing the doom careening towards them. They raised their wands, but it would not be in time. They did not have the combined power to stop such an attack. Harry watched in dismay as Voldemort's spiteful beam of death rushed down to strike down everyone he ever loved.

Harry couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't.

With a great roar of effort, he jabbed the Elder Wand towards the oncoming magic and fired a blast of his own. The raw magic collided just ten feet over the heads of the crowd, causing a colossal explosion. Bodies went flying, as those who were unable to defend themselves were pulverized and scattered across the grounds. Only those who managed to raise Shields survived – Harry's heart leapt as he saw that the combined efforts of Fleur, Sirius and Remus had protected his family from the worst of it.

But his elation was short-lived. His back was now turned towards the enemy, and Voldemort took advantage. Harry felt the spell coming and tried to roll away from it, but the savage Cutting Curse caught him in the legs, severing them just below the knees. He screamed in pain, dropping his wand as he fell to the ground, clutching his bloodied stumps in agony.

Through the haze of immense pain, only one coherent thought pierced his brain: I have to get back to the Elder Wand. Harry crawled blindly in the direction he thought it had landed, ignoring the horrified screams of the onlookers. He could not give up. He had to get the Wand back. Had to finish Voldemort off, before—

Then, he felt Voldemort's heel crunch down on his outstretched wrist, pinning it to the earth. He saw the Elder Wand flick out of the mud and into his enemy's hand, as Voldemort stood over his fallen foe.

"So predictable," Voldemort spat. "So weak. I told you all along that your allegiance to family would be your downfall. You could have struck me down and won the war. Instead, you foolishly chose to save them instead of yourself."

Voldemort kicked Harry roughly in the side so that he was on his back, staring up at him. Harry could only glare up at his conqueror, unable to move. The Dark Lord aimed his wand directly between Harry's eyes, not repeating the same mistake Grindelwald had. There would be no monologuing. No gloating. Only the cold finality of Death remained.

"Goodbye, Harry Potter," Voldemort snarled.

Harry could not bear to look. He turned his head to gaze out across the silent crowd, eventually settling on his family. They were the last thing he wanted to see before he met his end. James and Lily, staring at their son with haunted expressions. Dahlia, beside herself with tears, clinging to Sirius and Remus for support. Damian, bloodied and bruised from the battle, looking drained of the will to live on. And Fleur, looking absolutely shattered, sharing his sense of loss and absolute defeat.

I'm sorry, he silently pleaded with them. I wasn't strong enough. I failed.

This was the end. There was nothing more he could do. The war was lost.

Harry Potter closed his eyes as Voldemort shrieked the dreaded two words. His vision filled with green light, and then there was nothing.

A/N: The end. Or is it?