The Real Voldemort

She raised her sword.

The battlefield was covered with dead witches and wizards — blood soaked the brown, dry grass, and the choking smoke of many spells lay heavily over the field. Dead — all were dead. She was the only one left, an ordinary Muggle who’d been summoned by Dumbledore, just for the final battle. She alone knew the truth.

The day was ending, the last rays of the dying sun turning the sky as violently red as the field beneath her feet. And he was coming. Voldemort. Looking to her side, she saw open, staring green eyes under the famous, blood-smeared scar. She sniffed in derision. Not far off were two entangled bodies, red hair vibrantly alive despite the pale skin and deadened, brown crust of blood. Brown — as brown as the bushy hair of the corpse next to him.

Those three, the saviors of the wizarding world, were dead. Everyone who had ever been a member of the Order of the Phoenix was gone. And thousands of others, from hundreds of nations, littered the battlefield, now only so much used cannon fodder.

But she knew the truth. "Voldemort!" she shouted. "I’m waiting! Where are you?"

A figure popped into existence less than ten feet from her. She lifted an eyebrow at the dramatic, purposefully sudden appearance, and an expression — was that a smirk? — flickered swiftly across her face, gone before it fully appeared.

"Foolish Mudblood," hissed the high, cold voice. "You challenge me with nothing more than a sword." He casually raised his arm, wand pointed at her heart. "Avada Kedavra!"

Nothing happened.

She laughed.

Shocked, the Dark Lord tried to hurl hexes, but every one of his spells failed to generate even so much as a spark.

"You’ve lost," she said calmly, still smiling.

"No!" he hissed, furious.

"Don’t you understand?" she asked, raising her sword. "You’re in MY world now, Voldemort." At this, she stepped forward and with a smooth thrust, plunged her sword through Voldemort’s sternum.

The Dark Lord screamed, a high-pitched, feminine sound, bone-chilling in its stark despair. His skin began to peel away as a white light emanated from the wound, shining through cracks in the crumbling skin. The tortured howl sliced through the last rays of the sun as that glowing orb slowly dropped below the horizon. The dark figure was lined with a blazing light that illuminated — and burned. Withdrawing her blade, the girl said coldly, "Welcome . . . Rowling!"

The screaming stopped abruptly, and the light disappeared, leaving the field bathed in gentle twilight. Where the Dark Lord had been, was a shorter, thin Caucasian woman with strawberry blond hair.

"What — how . . . " the Dark Lord — the author — was in shock.

Plunging her sword into the earth, the girl stood straight. "You don’t understand? Let me enlighten you.

"I’m not a witch — not even a Mudblood, as you so . . . inventively called those with Muggle parentage. I’m a Muggle."

"No — this can’t be — I - "

"I was the only one who saw the message that Dumbledore managed to slip past you, within the lines of your own book. I came when I read the cry for help. I saw what you were doing, of course — since the beginning of book five. It was clever — I expected nothing less. That’s why I’m the only one here." The girl gestured at the battlefield, empty but for blood and bodies, then continued speaking. "He knew your plan, of course. And then, once you were figured out, he only needed me to tell him who Voldemort really was." The girl’s face was slightly sad. "He knew, when the battle came, that I would survive. For I am beyond your control, Rowling." Her voice was strong, confident, and utterly sure of the truths that were about to be revealed.

"Your entire scheme — total control through unpredictability — was brilliant. You knew the stereotypes, knew what people would predict as being ‘unexpected’, knew that readers would anticipate the least likely thing to happen and prepare for it. And so you used those stereotypes, those predictions, to assume total control. You sacrificed a good storyline, a decent plot, and most of your writing skill, simply to disguise your true motives." The girl grimaced, her disgust evident. Rowling cringed.

"Then came your fatal mistake. You revealed your plan through the death of Sirius Black. It wasn’t enough, was it, that you made him a twelve-year prisoner in Azkaban for a crime he didn’t commit. It wasn’t enough that he had barely two years of freedom, spending that time in hiding, locked away in a house of dead relatives that hated him. You turned him into a complete git, a total jerk — and then you killed him. And nobody cared. That is unforgivable." The girl’s face was hard, her features unyielding. Rowling shrank from her anger, hiding within the draping black robes that had once — and still did — envelop Voldemort.

"Then, topping that, you fell back on an easy way out, to hide your intentions. You pulled in a prophecy. You maneuvered the entire situation so that Fate could be blamed." The girl looked at the author before her in disgust. "How long did you think readers would fall for that? How long did you think you could keep on isolating one immature, whining little character before we became fed up, and refused to read?"

"No — this isn’t happening," the woman declared staunchly. "I prepared for everything — no one was better than I - "

"You’re right," the girl admitted. "You were good. You prepared for almost everything. You forgot one crucial detail. Time."

At the confused expression on Rowling’s face, the girl enlightened her. "Your audience waited, Rowling. Two years — perhaps longer, some of them. We waited, and we had no Time-Turner. I was the same age as Harry, over there - " she pointed to the corpse "-when you started with book one. But I grew, over those two summers. And when he finally returned to my life, to the life of your audience, we had grown, and matured. Harry wasn’t a substantial character anymore. He simply was an immature, whining brat. And you lost your appeal and support in that moment."

At this revelation, Rowling’s face crumbled. Tears started pouring, her nose and face red and blotchy.

The girl refused to relent, however, pulling her sword from the ground. Her brown eyes were hard, her gaze unyielding. "To be honest, Rowling, I never read the following books. I felt that it just wasn’t worth the effort of wading through seven hundred pages of the trio’s schoolwork just to find out that Harry killed Voldemort."

Rowling said, voice shaky, "But you said you didn’t read it — how could you know?"

The girl grinned. "It just wasn’t important whether or not Dumbledore died, whether Harry or Voldemort won. After all, it was fate." The last word was spoken like a curse, and Rowling flinched. The girl lifted her sword once more, surveying the clean blade.

"You — you can’t - " said Rowling, stumbling backward. "Even if you try to — you’ll never defeat me. I’m a published author! And besides, the pen is mightier than the sword." As she spoke, Rowling seemed to gain new confidence, standing straighter and pulling the mantle of arrogance around her like an impenetrable shield.

The girl smiled, and with her next words, Rowling’s defense was obliterated. "The pen is my sword. And you are well and truly defeated, whether you know it or not." She turned away from the pale features of the published author, and began to walk away.

A sputtering voice from behind her called out angrily, "Who — who are you?"

The girl half turned and looked back. She smiled, a smile of complete confidence. "I’m a fanfiction writer," she stated coolly, then turned and walked off the battlefield, strewn with dead characters, leaving the shocked author standing in defeat amid pools of blood and ink.