Year 7-28: Death's Emissary

A/N: I've had a rough draft of this chapter saved on my hard drive for nearly two and a half years now. It was the second chapter I ever wrote after the prologue, and the entire reason I started the fic in the first place. It's gone through plenty of revisions since then as the story morphed and grew, but the core has remained intact. I hope you enjoy.

Darkness.

Harry blinked, but it did nothing to clear away the oppressive black void all around him. Did he have eyes anymore? Was he even conscious? Or was this truly the end? Eternal emptiness – nothing to fear, nothing to perceive?

But Harry instinctively knew this couldn't be the case. It felt too surreal, too familiar to be true death. He drifted forward, feeling as if he'd been here once before. In another life. In another body. Another time…

Sure enough, the darkness slowly receded as he emerged onto a bright station platform of purest white. King's Cross, Harry thought glumly. The place between life and death. He'd come here seven years before, after passing through the Veil, chasing after Sirius. Only this time, he didn't think he'd be getting any second chances. He'd taken his one lifeline from Death and squandered it.

He did not bother exploring the space this time. He merely sat on a bench and waited for his train to arrive. Perhaps his family would be joining him here shortly. It gave him some small consolation, knowing that at least they could be together here—

"Harry?"

He looked up. He was not alone in this place. To his surprise, Neville Longbottom strode across the platform towards him, eyes wide. He looked exactly the same as he had in life, only there was no lightning-bolt scar on his forehead, which was blemish-free.

"Neville?" said Harry, standing to greet the boy. "What are you doing here?"

"I was gonna ask you the same thing," Neville grimaced, looking around the space. "I heard Voldemort say the Killing Curse, saw the flash of green light, and the next thing I knew I woke up here. With that thing."

Neville pointed towards a nearby bench, and Harry instinctively recoiled. There was a shriveled, baby-like figure curled beneath the bench, looking similar to the infant form Voldemort had taken on in their fourth year. He felt the Dark magic radiating off of the thing, and knew it must be the fragment of Voldemort's soul that had resided in Neville's scar, now sent to the other side with them.

"But...but why are you here?" Neville went on. "Did you get him? Did you manage to kill Voldemort after I died with the horcrux?"

"No," Harry sighed despondently, returning to his seat. "I lost. He got the upper hand on me, then he killed me too."

"Bloody hell," Neville sighed, sitting beside Harry on the bench. "I suppose our fates really were linked all along, weren't they?"

"They sure were," Harry chuckled hollowly. "The prophecy turned out to be true after all: neither of us could live while Voldemort survives."

"You wizards and your foolish prophecies are so predictable."

The unfamiliar voice caused Neville to leap upright in alarm. But Harry recognized the figure at once: Death, striding down the platform towards them, smiling cryptically at them.

"Who are you?" Neville demanded shakily. "Identify yourself!"

"I am Death," the figure explained calmly. "You are here, in this liminal space between the living and the dead, before passing on to the other side. It has been quite the busy evening for me, but I needed to speak with you both before we go our separate ways once more."

"Save it," Harry groaned. "I already know the drill. Just do whatever you're going to do, then let us move on and be at peace."

"Wait…" Neville muttered, glancing from Death to Harry. "You two know each other?"

"You could say that," Harry laughed hollowly. "This tosser sent me into your reality after I died the first time."

"My reality?" Neville repeated, confused. "You died already…? Wait, does that mean you're—?"

"A time traveler, yeah," said Harry, causing Neville's eyes to go wide. "I'm no Seer, Nev. I have no special abilities. I'm just a moron who's lived all of this before."

"On the contrary, Harry Potter," said Death. "You may not be a Seer, but you are special. You have many exceptional qualities, but one in particular that drew my interest in you, in your last timeline, and compelled me to make you an enticing offer."

"Let me guess," Harry said dryly. "Love? Is my special talent that I'm just so damned good at loving? I have a couple ex-girlfriends that would heartily disagree."

"You do have a remarkable capacity to love," Death conceded. "Your compassion for your family, and even those whom you disagree with, has given you a strong moral compass to guide you. But that is not what makes you special. It is your tenacity, your unflappable perseverance that sets you above the rest."

"Again, I have several professors that would disagree with that assessment," Harry scoffed. "I usually finished behind Hermione in class because I couldn't be arsed to do my homework."

"And yet, when faced with insurmountable odds that would break most men, you succeeded," said Death. "You hunted down and destroyed each and every one of Tom Riddle's horcruxes. You did what even Albus Dumbledore failed to do, with his one hundred-plus years of life, and you did it in only seven."

"But I failed," Harry said glumly. "I didn't get the most important soul fragment. Voldemort still lives, and now I'm stuck here."

"Says who?" Death demanded. "I decide who comes and goes from this place. I am the final arbiter of who passes to the other side, not Tom Riddle. And I am not finished with you yet, Harry Potter."

Harry blinked in confusion. "You can send me back?" he asked. "So the Deathly Hallows can make you immortal? I really am the Master of Death?"

"I have no Master," scoffed Death, looking affronted by the very idea. "Such is the notion of fairy tales and myth. I gifted my Hallows to the Peverell brothers as mere tokens of my power, nothing more. They confer no ability to evade my grasp, even when unified."

So we were right all along, then, Harry thought glumly. There WAS no way to save Neville. But it still didn't answer the most pressing question.

"Then how?" he asked. "How could you send me back, if I am not immortal?"

"Because you are my Emissary, Harry Potter," said Death. "I chose you to fulfill a specific task in this world, and your mission is not yet complete. As long as your body continues to function, I can send you back as often as I like, until you deliver Tom Riddle's soul to me."

That answer only served to confuse Harry even more. "Hang on," he muttered. "That's not what you told me the last time we met. You said you sent me here as a reward, to enjoy a new life with my family, free of the burden of Voldemort—"

"I lied, Harry Potter," Death sneered at him. "I knew that you could not keep yourself from doing what needed to be done. Tom Riddle remained at large, and you stepped up to meet his threat head-on, just like I knew you would. I had to entice you to come here, knowing that once you arrived, you would dedicate yourself to the task of delivering me my most coveted prize."

"So then...you tricked me," Harry muttered. "You had no intention of letting me live a peaceful life. You wanted me to wage war against Voldemort, because you couldn't do it myself."

"Precisely," said Death. "There exist many different timelines in which Tom Riddle eluded my grasp by rendering himself immortal. In all those alternate universes, Tom Riddle performed unspeakable acts upon his soul to hide from me. And in each case, someone was there to stop him. Well, except for a couple exceptions."

"Exceptions?"

"The variables in each universe are slightly different. In this one, for instance, Neville Longbottom was the Boy Who Lived, rather than yourself. And for as pure of heart as Neville is, he was too meek and mild-mannered to take on Tom Riddle himself. Not alone, anyway, and not with this version of Albus Dumbledore to guide him."

Neville looked somewhat abashed by this description of himself. But Harry couldn't spare the boy's feelings right now – he needed answers.

"What was wrong with this version of Dumbledore?" Harry asked.

"He was far too obsessed with collecting my Hallows," said Death. "He never learned the lesson from his youth, that I cannot be tricked or avoided. He was blinded to the true nature of the horcruxes in his own quest to secure immortality. The conditions were therefore just right for Tom Riddle to slip through my fingers. Which is why I brought you here, to tip the scales back in my favor."

"So I'm just a puppet, then," Harry deduced. "Sent to do your bidding in whatever timeline you need me."

"I gave you a tremendous gift, didn't I?" said Death. "I did not lie when I said you would get to experience a life of love with a family who adores you. The last seven years you experienced here were far more joyous than the sixteen you spent in your last body, were they not? Not many can say they got to experience life a second time, but you are my Emissary, and the rules do not apply to you the same."

Harry supposed he couldn't argue with that. He felt far happier with his life than he ever had in his original timeline, even though he had lost. But he still felt used, like Death had manipulated and exploited him by dangling the one thing he always wanted in front of him. And like a dutiful pack mule, he had reached for it.

"I suppose it doesn't really matter anymore," Harry sighed glumly. "Even if you send me back, it's over. Voldemort beat me. I have no legs, and he took the Elder Wand from me. If I couldn't beat him before, I don't see how I'll manage now."

"I'm certain you will find a way," Death smiled. "As I said before, it is your tenacity that sets you apart. You always find a way to accomplish the impossible, even if it takes you several tries to get it right. You are the unstoppable force destined to unseat the immovable object, and I will send you back as many times as it takes to finish Tom Riddle for good."

Harry considered this grim reality. He could go back to his body, lying broken and defeated at Voldemort's feet, as many times as he wanted. The Battle of Hogwarts was lost, but both he and Voldemort would live to fight another day. Harry would be forced to recover from his wounds, his army defeated, his family slaughtered, and hunt down Voldemort anew. Only this time, the odds would be even more stacked against him, and it could take him years, if not decades, to find a way to beat him.

Dying sounds far preferable, Harry thought. I could just move on and join my family on the other side. That doesn't sound so bad.

But deep down, Harry knew he couldn't abide by that. Just as with his last timeline, he had unresolved business to attend to. He could not live with himself knowing that he twice failed in his goal and died unfulfilled. He had to see this thing through to the end. He had to defeat Voldemort, no matter how many tries it took. Though he hated to admit it, Death was right: he was no quitter, and even if it made him predictable, he would keep going until he eventually succeeded.

"Fine," said Harry, getting to his feet at last beside Neville. "Send us back. I'm ready."

"I'm afraid only one of you will be returning, Harry Potter," said Death. "You are my Emissary, but Neville Longbottom holds no such claim to life. He will be coming with me to the afterlife, once the soul fragment he brought with him is disposed of."

"But...you told me it was possible last time," Harry frowned, thinking back to his last interaction with Death. "Neville had two souls in one body. And his body is still intact. That means he can go back to it, can't he?"

"As I said, Harry, I was not entirely truthful with you the last time," said Death. "I did not send you here out of kindness...it was to fulfill a specific purpose. Neville serves no purpose to me. He will not be permitted to join you on your mission."

"But that's not fair," Harry muttered. "He was the one that was supposed to live...this whole time I've been looking for ways to bring him back, not myself…"

"There was nothing you or Albus Dumbledore could have done to save him," Death said matter-of-factly. "He was marked for death as a baby, and his fate was unavoidable."

"Harry, it's okay," Neville muttered beside him. "You don't have to argue on my behalf. I can move on."

"We have little time to waste, Harry Potter," said Death impatiently. "You must return to the land of the living to complete your mission."

"Will you stop calling it a mission?" Harry snapped irritably. "I don't remember agreeing to one. I'm doing this for myself and my family, not for you."

"Your motivations matter not to me," Death chuckled. "Not so long as I get what I desire in the end."

"So you're just going to take credit for what I accomplished?" Harry said hotly. "I'm the one who destroyed all the horcruxes, not you! You needed me, not the other way around!"

"You're welcome to believe that," Death smiled. "But tell me this: imagine I sent you to another alternate universe right now. You find yourself in another instance of your body, in another reality where Voldemort threatens to rise to power once more. What would you do?"

Harry understood what Death was getting at. He wanted to argue the point, but knew it was futile. "I would do everything in my power to stop him," he sighed resignedly.

"And that is why you are my Emissary, Harry Potter," said Death. "Your very essence prevents you from allowing an abomination like Voldemort to exist. You are the necessary counter-weight to maintain the delicate balance between life and death – acting out my will in the land of the living, where I have no agency myself."

"So you do need me, then," Harry deduced. "And what if I refuse your offer this time? I won't go to any more alternate universes. I'm done acting on your behalf. I want to move on."

"Is that so?" Death smiled. "You have no one waiting for you on the other side, Harry Potter. Your family carries on without you now. You will be forced to watch from afar as they grieve for you. Your parents will be forced to bury their own child. Your sister will forever be missing a part of herself. Would you leave them to suffer such a fate?"

"Stop manipulating me!" Harry bellowed. "You are not my master, any more than I am yours. You don't get to dictate my future for me. I will decide what I do, not you."

"Let us do away with such foolish notions as free will, Harry Potter," Death scoffed. "A man can want what he wills, but he cannot will what he wills. We both know what you will choose, because there was never any other choice. Your conscience would not allow it. So say your goodbyes, and let us proceed with the mission you were always destined to follow."

As Death spoke, there was a rush of imaginary wind as a train pulled into the station. Its compartment doors opened, revealing a bright white light within. The train to return to life. Harry stared at it uncertainly, not wanting to leave Neville behind.

"Go on then, Harry," said Neville gently. "Give 'em hell. I'll be watching from the other side."

Harry turned to Neville. "What about you?" he asked. "Don't you want to live?"

"Doesn't matter, does it?" Neville shrugged. "You heard Death...I was always meant to die. I can go be with my parents now."

Harry studied Neville expression. The boy was putting on a show of calm, of quiet acceptance, but his eyes told a different story. He looked profoundly sad, staring at the train of light, at the promise of a future he'd always wanted. An adulthood free of pain. A family of his own. A life free of Voldemort.

"Be honest with me, Nev," said Harry. "Did you really want to die?"

Neville hesitated before answering. He may be putting on a brave face, but Harry suspected the truth. His bravado was slipping, and Harry knew what the answer would be before it came.

"No," Neville admitted. "I thought I would have more time."

Figured as much, Harry thought grimly. Like Harry, Neville would always feel unfulfilled, having been denied a chance to live his own life, free of the manipulations of others. It truly was unfair, to be marked for death at such a young age. And Death was inflexible, it seemed, except when it came to his Emissary.

That gave Harry an idea. Let's see how badly Death really does need me, then.

Rather than head for the train, Harry returned to bench and sat back down, staring defiantly up at Death. "I'm not going," he said flatly. "Not unless Neville can come back too."

Death narrowed its eyes at him. "Of course you are," he said. "You have unfinished business in the land of the living."

"I think I'll let some other bloke handle it," Harry said, yawning and stretching exaggeratedly. "When does the next train come in? I think I'll get on it with Neville and check out this 'afterlife' everyone's been raving about."

"I cannot send Neville back," said Death. "It is impossible."

"Yeah, well, achieving the impossible is kinda my specialty," Harry smirked. "It's why you chose me to begin with, isn't it?"

"You cannot bargain with me, Harry Potter," Death said hotly.

"I beg to differ," said Harry. "Because from the looks of things, if I don't get on that fancy train of yours, Tom Riddle will forever elude your grasp. It would seem that I hold all the cards in this scenario, don't you think?"

Death studied Harry for a moment, as though struggling to comprehend what was happening. "You are my Emissary," it repeated. "You will complete the task of retrieving Tom Riddle's soul for me—"

"I've decided I won't, actually," Harry said firmly. "I'm going to stay right here." And for good measure, he crossed his legs beneath him, acting nonchalant about his fate.

"I will not allow you to move on," said Death. "You will be stuck here, in limbo, forever."

"Fine by me," Harry shrugged. "It's nice here. Clean. Peaceful. There are worse ways to spend eternity."

Death was clearly getting frustrated now. It was not getting the answer he wanted, and as Harry had hoped, it did not seem to have the power to force Harry to do anything.

"You would resign yourself to defeat?" Death demanded. "In order to spite me?"

"That's right," Harry nodded. "And your 'most coveted prize' will never be yours."

"You would doom this world to the clutches of Voldemort forever," Death pointed out. "Can you live with that on your conscience?"

"It's not my world though, is it?" Harry shrugged. "And it seems like you're more bothered about it than I am. Must suck knowing that Tom Riddle actually found a way to beat you...maybe he was the true 'Master of Death' all along."

"This is how you would repay me, Harry Potter?" Death said angrily. "For giving you the life you always wanted?"

"Let's not mince words with one another any longer," Harry spat. "You didn't do it out of the goodness of your heart. You did it because you knew I would be motivated to protect them. You knew how desperate I was for affection, and that I'd do anything to keep them safe. You used me, and I'm done being used."

"Your family would suffer immensely in your absence—" Death tried to reason with him.

"Briefly, perhaps," Harry shrugged. "But soon enough they'll be at peace on the other side, while you continue to watch helplessly as Tom Riddle's soul eludes you forever."

"You cannot do this, Harry Potter!" Death roared, and the figure took on a monstrous form, towering over Harry menacingly as Neville dove for cover. "This is not how your service was meant to end!"

"Too bad," Harry shrugged. "Either Neville and I get on that train together, or neither of us does."

He did not fear Death one bit, not any more. There was nothing Death could do to him now, nothing he could take away. Harry had the power now, and he intended to use it.

Death regarded him for a long while, working through this new conundrum. Harry knew that he must have struck a nerve, as Death seemed truly at a loss, unable to accept that someone would willingly accept their own demise. Maybe that's what true mastery of death is, Harry thought to himself. The ability to accept your own demise rather than run from it.

It was a long while before Death addressed him again. The figure paced angrily to and fro across the platform, trying to find a way to force Harry to do its bidding again, but it clearly could not find one. Eventually Death rounded on Harry once more, looking furious but begrudgingly compliant.

"Very well, then, Harry Potter," Death sighed. "I will grant you what you wish. However, in exchange, I have a condition of my own."

"What kind of condition?" Harry asked.

"Once your mission is complete, I will permit you to live out the rest of your natural life," said Death. "But when you expire, you will owe me another service."

Harry's stomach dropped. "What kind of service?" he asked nervously.

"There are yet more universes in which Tom Riddle evades my grasp," said Death. "As with this one, the conditions are not quite right for his defeat, and they require a more direct intervention to untether him from the land of the living."

"I would have to do this all over again?" Harry groaned. "Start over from scratch and figure out how to defeat him?"

"Yes," said Death. "And I cannot promise the conditions will be advantageous this time. Your family may not be alive, and your journey may be far more difficult. This version of Tom Riddle may have even found alternate means of immortality besides horcruxes, and you will have to discover for yourself how he did it."

"What about my friends and loved ones in this life?" Harry asked. "What will happen to them?"

"They will eventually pass over when their time comes," said Death. "But you will not be allowed to cross over to the other side with them. You will be sent on to the next life to complete your service once more."

Harry considered this. It was a steep price to pay on someone else's behalf. Was it worth saving Neville's life, if it meant he would be unable to see his family again after death? If he would have to potentially suffer once more, and spend another lifetime fighting Voldemort? He was of half a mind to refuse, to simply let Neville pass on and be with his loved ones again. Surely he would understand, wouldn't he?

But Harry's conscience simply wouldn't allow him to do so. Neville deserved the choice to live. He'd never been given a proper chance to, having been destined to die young and alone since before he was even born. How was it fair that Harry got a second chance at a loving family and Neville didn't? He should be the one to thrive and be happy. Harry could shoulder the burden for him. It's what he was accustomed to by now.

"I'll do it," he told Death firmly. "I'll complete one more lifetime of service. Then I'm done forever."

Death smiled at him, as though knowing once more what he would choose ahead of time. "Then let us not waste any more time," said Death. "Lord Voldemort awaits...I suggest you make this next life count."

"I will," Harry said resolutely. "Ready to go, Nev?"

Neville walked forward in a daze, staring at Harry in disbelief. "I...I don't understand," he stammered. "Why would you do that for me?"

"Because I made someone a promise," Harry smiled. "And I intend to keep it."

He thought of Dahlia, back in the land of the living, who had asked him to return Neville safely to her. And he thought of Fleur, to whom he had also made a promise to return. Who was to say he couldn't achieve both? He always did have a knack for doing the impossible.

Harry and Neville walked across the platform towards the waiting train, and stepped into the carriage together. The train lurched into motion, pulling out of the station at last.

"Good luck, my Emissary," Death called after them. Harry ignored the voice as the train doors slid shut. He closed his eyes, steeling himself for what was to come as he was whisked off into a swirling mist of blinding light…

Pain.

Harry had to bite his tongue to avoid screaming out in pure agony. He'd forgotten just how painful the land of the living could be, compared to the blissful serenity of purgatory. And right now, he was in about as much pain as one could be, with two bleeding stumps for legs and an entire battle's worth of bruises and scars littering his body.

Then there was the emotional pain. He heard the horrible screams of his family – his parents, his sister, his uncles, his cousin, and his partner, all wailing at the sight of Harry dead on the ground. The sounds of lamentation pierced his heart and threatened to overwhelm him. He wanted to reach out and ease their suffering, to let them know he was okay.

But he couldn't right now. Not with a maniac Dark Lord standing over him, gloating in his victory. Harry cracked his eyes open just enough to see Voldemort standing over him, twiddling the Elder Wand between his fingers. He could do nothing but play dead and avoid drawing Voldemort's notice.

"And now, this war is truly mine!" Voldemort sneered, arms outstretched in challenge to the remnants of the resistance army around him. "Who else dares to stand against me? I, who is more powerful than any alive, and now has the most powerful wand in existence at my command?"

Nobody dared speak. The crowd was afraid – they knew they had lost. After the fearsome display they'd seen between Voldemort and Harry, none believed they could ever stand a chance.

"You have all fought admirably," Voldemort said, though he sounded reluctant to admit it in his current state of anger. "The wizarding world will need strong witches and wizards like you to rebuild from the ashes of tonight. And if you pledge yourself to me peacefully, I will forgive your past transgressions and allow you to live."

"We'll never bow to you!" Hermione screamed hoarsely.

"Silence, foolish girl!" Voldemort snapped. He raised his wand to strike her down; as if by instinct, Harry's wrist flicked upward to defend her, even though he had no weapon. Hermione ducked as Voldemort's curse sailed just over her head, missing her by inches.

"The next person who speaks will not be so lucky," Voldemort seethed. "Now, bow to your better, if you know what is good for you. Bend the knee to your conqueror, Britain, or suffer my wrath."

Slowly, the survivors of the resistance began to bow. They each dropped to a knee, some more reluctantly than others. The foreigners were the first to do so, just wanting to return home in peace; the Brits were slower to swallow their pride, but one by one they did so, lowering their head towards Voldemort in fear. It was eerily similar to the scene Harry had seen in the Mirror of Erised, only instead of standing over them all, Harry was crumpled in a heap before them, his vanquisher soaking in the praise in his stead.

"Good, very good!" Voldemort laughed. "Of course, not all of you will be permitted to live. Some among your number must suffer the consequences of their repeated failures to listen to reason. Starting with you, Mr. Potter."

Voldemort snapped the Elder Wand, and James Potter was dragged out into the open, grunting in pain as he clutched his injured leg. "Haven't you taken enough from my family tonight?" James spat bitterly.

"Your family has been a thorn in my side from the very beginning, Mr. Potter," Voldemort spat. "I gave you ample opportunities to prove your loyalty to me, but still you resisted me. You must be punished for your insubordination."

"I don't fear death," James spat. "Go ahead and finish me off, Tom. I'll be laughing at you from the grave, reunited with my son once more."

"You will be with your son shortly, Mr. Potter," Voldemort sneered. "But that would not be sufficient punishment for you, would it? First, I am going to force you to watch as the person you care about most is slaughtered."

Harry heard a high-pitched scream as somebody else was dragged out into the open. He chanced another peek through his eyelids, stomach lurching as he saw Voldemort clutching Dahlia by the hair, struggling and kicking to get free to no avail.

"Don't hurt her!" James shouted hoarsely. "She's done nothing wrong!"

"No, she hasn't," Voldemort admitted. "Her only sin is being loved by you. And as I have just proven to your son, love is a curse, Mr. Potter. She will suffer because it will make you suffer even more."

There came a choking sob from the sidelines as Lily watched on helplessly, trembling in Fleur's arms. Harry knew he had to act somehow, had to get to his Kneazle wand in his robes, pinned beneath his weight. But how to do so without drawing Voldemort's attention, still hovering directly overhead?

"You're a monster," Dahlia growled, glaring angrily at her captor.

"I do not deny it," Voldemort said simply as he raised his wand. "Say goodbye to your daughter, Mr. Potter. I hope her screams of anguish cause you as much pain as you have caused m—"

"Let her go!"

All heads turned towards the sound of the disruption. It had not come from James, or Lily, or even Harry. There were collective gasps of shock and amazed whispers as the gathered crowd realized who it was. Neville Longbottom, limping forward into the circle from the direction of the castle, a look of grim determination on his face.

There were whispers of awe at the boy's arrival: "He survived!" "The Boy Who Lived!" "The Chosen One!" But the crowd went silent once more as Voldemort released his hold on Dahlia at last, circling dangerously around to observe Neville properly.

"Impossible," Voldemort breathed. "It must be a trick. I watched you die with my own eyes."

"Wouldn't be my first time surviving the Killing Curse, would it?" Neville chuckled darkly. "Now I've come to finish you off."

Voldemort's surprise was slowly wearing off, eyes raking up and down the newcomer's form. Neville wore a brave face, but he looked unsteady on his feet, limping slightly and clearly not ready for a fight. Even in the dim lighting Harry could see that he was not holding his own wand, and Voldemort seemed to recognize this, too.

"Whose wand are you holding, Neville?" he asked softly. "I seem to remember snapping yours when you surrendered to me."

"Found it," Neville shrugged, looking down at the stubby black wand in his hand. "Think it belonged to one of your people."

"Oh, but this is rich!" Voldemort laughed, suddenly back in control of the situation. "You mean to fight me with a wand that is not your own? The twin cores cannot protect you this time, Neville...you lack your phoenix feather wand, and I have the Deathstick now. We fight on skill alone, and you will be slaughtered."

"Doesn't matter," Neville said stubbornly. "I won't let you win. I'll keep fighting you as long as it takes until you're dead."

Neville doesn't stand a chance, Harry thought grimly. He'll be annihilated if he tries to fight Voldemort.

Harry knew he had a brief window of opportunity to act. Everyone, including Voldemort, was staring transfixed at Neville across the clearing. With one fluid motion, Harry reached underneath himself and grasped the hem of the Invisibility Cloak, throwing it over himself. Not a soul noticed as he disappeared from view.

"I know not how you continue to survive my Killing Curses, Longbottom," Voldemort muttered. "But I care not how many times you come back. I will continue killing you until you learn to stay down."

"So be it," Neville grimaced, raising his wand. "Do your worst."

Harry carefully rummaged through his pockets until he located his Kneazle core wand and grabbed hold of it. The immediate warmth it brought him was a pleasant change from the icy cold of the Hallows. It was as if the wand was rewarding him for returning to it at last, for calling upon its aid once more.

And he had the perfect task for it now. The Trickster had one last request of the trickster wand. The Phantom had one last victim to haunt.

Voldemort raised his wand to strike, but it was also the precise moment Harry chose to act. He twirled his wand beneath the Invisibility Cloak, and a crackle of thunder and lightning rippled across the darkened sky above them, causing everyone in the vicinity to flinch.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle…" a voice boomed ominously in the sky. "Come to meet your end at last."

"What? Who said that?" Voldemort demanded, eyeing the swirling clouds overhead warily.

"I am Death," Harry directed the disembodied voice to growl. "You have fled from me in vain, Tom Riddle. I have come to claim my prize: your soul."

"It will never be yours!" Voldemort cackled triumphantly. "I have delved deeper into dark magic than any before me! Even Death bows before the great Lord Voldemort."

"Did you really think your precious horcruxes would save you?" Harry taunted through the voice, causing Voldemort to blanch in surprise. "A cup, a locket, a diadem, and a sword? A ring, a diary, and a snake?"

Voldemort had never looked more shocked as his horcruxes were rattled off one by one, which he'd believed to be unknown to anybody but himself. "Impossible," he muttered in horror. "Simply impossible…"

"None can hold domain over what is mine, Tom Riddle," Harry spoke through the embodiment of Death. "You have already lost."

"What are you?!" Voldemort roared at the sky, firing bolts of green death at the smoky apparitions in the sky. "I tire of your games!"

"And I tire of your existence," Harry taunted him. "Accept your end with dignity, Riddle."

"ENOUGH!" Voldemort roared; he swiped the Elder Wand viciously through the air, sending a gust of wind outwards that dissipated Harry's illusions. He then redirected the wand at Neville's heart. "Time to die, Neville Longbottom. Avada Kedavra!"

Voldemort's jet of green light rocketed across the clearing. Neville flinched, but Harry flicked his wand upwards; a massive black shade erupted from the ground, swallowing the Killing Curse whole and flying off into the black of night. There were murmurs of shock and surprise from the onlookers, as even Neville looked stunned by what had happened.

Voldemort tried another green bolt of death, but it too was intercepted by a mass of darkness. He tried again and again, stubbornly repeating the Killing Curse over and over. And one by one, Harry blocked them, gouging out chunks of earth to stop them while surrounding them with illusory creatures of darkness for dramatic effect.

"Die!" Voldemort snarled as he continued trying to kill Neville in vain. "Why won't you die?!"

Eventually he stopped in his fruitless assault and stared at the boy, bewildered. Neville looked just as perplexed as Voldemort did, but he stood strong, gaining confidence by the second. Whatever force was protecting him, he certainly wasn't questioning it now.

"Your parlor tricks are...impressive, Neville," Voldemort said through gritted teeth. "But they accomplish nothing. Even if you will not die, you cannot hope to defeat me."

"He beat you once before!" Ron Weasley shouted from the crowd. "He'll beat you again!"

"Silence!" Voldemort seethed, rounding on the redhead. Harry instinctively flicked his wand upwards to intercept the spell fired at Ron, but there was no need; Voldemort's aim was off, his green jet sailing harmlessly over the heads of the crowd. Apparently in his anger and bewilderment, the Dark Lord's accuracy was suffering.

Voldemort turned back to Neville, red eyes narrowed in reproach at the teen. "I tire of your games, Longbottom," he snarled. "Fight me like a man. Die with honor, not as a coward, like your sniveling parents did."

Neville quivered in fear as Voldemort circled him like a hawk stalking its prey. The boy was afraid. And Harry was, too. He could not keep up these charades for long, and was unsure what he should do. Neville would not be able to stand for long against Voldemort's full power. And Harry was unable to stand to face the man himself. Unless—

Unless he used Neville to stand for him.

Harry spun around beneath the Cloak, a wild idea forming in his head. He aimed his wand not at Voldemort, but at Neville, whispering, "Imperio."

He could feel Neville's panic as Harry's mind connected to his consciousness, trying to wrench control away from him. Unlike Amycus, who had been easy to dominate, Neville put up a fight, his Occlumency barriers fighting to push Harry out. It's me, Nev, Harry reassured him. Let me in. Let me face him for you.

Neville hesitated, unsure what to do. But clearly his fear of Voldemort was greater than the fear of relinquishing control, so he dropped his defenses and allowed Harry in. Suddenly Harry found himself standing in Neville's shoes, holding an unfamiliar wand, staring down Voldemort once more.

"Very well, Tom," said Harry through Neville's mouth. "Let's finish this."

And Harry launched into an attack, channeling his will through Neville to strike Voldemort with everything he could. Voldemort seemed surprised by the effort, the casual smirk on his face vanishing as he re-focused to defend himself.

Neville's body protested against Harry's commands...he lacked the physical and magical stamina that Harry had built up over the past seven years. His stolen wand also protested the strain, clearly not responding well to being used by someone other than its chosen master. Harry's spells were not as powerful as he would have liked, and Voldemort was able to recover quickly, swatting aside the otherwise-dangerous curses and quickly regaining his confidence that he was the superior wizard.

This isn't going to work, Harry realized. I'll never be able to break through his defenses this way. He paused in his assault to re-assess the situation, but Voldemort did not give him the chance to.

The Dark Lord struck. It took all of Harry's willpower to shield through Neville, unable to dodge and duck like he normally would due to the boy's limited mobility. Neville's stamina was draining quickly as well, and Harry was not sure how long he could keep up the defense. Voldemort's attack was relentless, throwing a wide variety of arcane and Dark magic at his opponent to overwhelm him. The only thing keeping Neville upright was Harry's recognition of these spells, granted to him by the Elder Wand.

But wait – Harry no longer held the Elder Wand. Then how was he able to identify each spell Voldemort threw Neville's way? It was as if he could predict each spell before it was cast, performing the necessary counter-curse each time. Voldemort seemed bewildered by this, snarling in anger at each failed attempt to smite his enemy.

Harry felt Neville's strength waning and knew he would not last much longer. But he felt something else, deep down – something entirely separate from Neville's consciousness. A small whisper in the back of his mind, calling out for his attention. Like an old friend beckoning him home. A lost pet separated from its master, begging to be reunited. All Harry had to do was reach out and grab it.

Harry's real arm twitched beneath the Invisibility Cloak as he struggled to maintain the connection with Neville's mind. And out of the corner of his eye, he caught an imperceptible movement – a small twitch from Voldemort, his wand arm skewing just slightly to the left, missing his target before resuming the assault.

And suddenly, Harry understood. He knew what had to be done.

Voldemort finally paused in his attack to catch his breath. Neville's stamina was almost completely spent, but Harry did not hesitate for a moment. He summoned what strength remained and aimed Neville's stolen wand at Voldemort, bellowing, "Avada Kedavra!"

Time slowed to a crawl as the jet of green light burst from the stolen wand and rocketed across the clearing towards the Dark Lord. Voldemort's eyes briefly flashed with surprise, then he actually laughed at Neville's decision. The Killing Curse was powerful, but also easily telegraphed and trivial to counteract for a wizard of his caliber. Voldemort lazily raised the Elder Wand to block the incoming bolt of death.

What he didn't account for was Harry abruptly withdrawing from Neville's mind and returning to his own body. He turned his attention fully to Voldemort and focused not on the man, but the wand in his hand. He felt the Elder Wand calling out to him, to its true master, yearning to answer to him again. Just as it had during the fight against Grindelwald. He did not have to be holding the wand for it to respond to him.

So Harry reached out with his consciousness and took it back.

Voldemort twirled his wand to block the incoming Killing Curse, but it failed. The Elder Wand had not responded to the command to protect him, because it no longer answered to him. The Dark Lord's eyes widened with shock, realizing too late that he was truly vulnerable for the first – and last – time.

The curse hit Voldemort square in the chest and sent him sprawling backwards. The look of shock never left his face even as his red eyes went eternally dark. He hit the ground with a dull thud, unmoving, gaze fixed upon the starry sky above, unseeing. Lord Voldemort was dead at long last.

Two seconds of stunned silence followed, and then the battlefield erupted with cheers and screams of relief. Neville swayed on his feet, nearly toppling over from all the energy he'd just expended, before he was mobbed by supporters, grabbing at him, shouting incomprehensibly, sobbing uncontrollably at the fact that it was over, it was finally over.

No one paid any notice when the Elder Wand left Tom Riddle's dead fingertips and soared through the air towards Harry. He sat up, the Invisibility Cloak slipping off of him as he did so, and caught it in his free hand. He dropped the Kneazle wand in the process, with no intention to retrieve it. He would never have need for it again. Another wand had taken its place, a wand that was his by right. A wand that would answer to no other so long as he lived. A wand that could never be claimed from him, even by death, because he was Death's Emissary.

Harry stared blankly at the body of Tom Riddle, unmoving in the grass, forgotten amidst the celebrations. He's gone, Harry thought dully, head spinning with exhaustion. He's actually gone. A stupendous feeling of relief settled deep in Harry's bones...seven years of preparations, seven years of struggle were finally at an end.

"Harry!" a nearby voice shrieked. A moment later, Harry was bowled over by Dahlia, clutching onto him for dear life. Then James was there; then Lily and Fleur; then Sirius, Remus, and Damian, all huddled around him, crying as they clung to one another. The Potter clan had somehow made it through the war intact. And Harry would never take that fact for granted.

Nobody paid any mind to the Potters in their little huddle, as the rest of the surviving army mobbed Neville. They hoisted him onto their shoulders, ignoring his ashen look of bewilderment, worshiping their savior. The hero of the Light. The Boy Who Lived. The Man Who Won. Neville played his part well despite his exhaustion, accepting their well-wishes, clasping the hands of the bereaved – a proper leader to guide them out of war times and into a lasting peace.

And it was with bittersweet emotions that Harry realized he would never be viewed in such a light. His own actions in the war would forever be tainted, his image tarnished by the dark path he was forced to walk down. The corrupted hero, seduced by the dark side, doing Voldemort's bidding in the public eye. Many would never accept his heroic about-face, would never believe that he was on the right side of history all along. Harry Potter would forever be a name associated with the evil deeds committed in the final year of the war.

But right now, Harry couldn't care less. The opinions of the masses had never concerned him much before – why should they now? All he cared about was that his family was safe. There would be difficult days ahead, but Harry would meet these challenges head-on with no fear. He had conquered his demons at last.

He had won.

A/N: Three chapters to go now until we are officially done. Also – I realized after posting the last chapter that its chapter title was an accidental pun, which amuses me. Apparently amputation-related humor is my specialty.