I Have a Rendezvous with Death

"I Have a Rendezvous with Death"

by Paracelsus

Chapter VIII: the Druid's Dolmen

It lacked a good half-hour before the sun would be at her zenith in the clear blue skies. On this lovely day, the grasses around the Druid's Dolmen whispered in the light breeze. The Dolmen itself, an ancient trilithon of weathered grey stone, provided the only shade on the hilltop. It was an idyllic storybook scene, picturesque and peaceful.

Beside the Dolmen, with a pop of air a slender figure materialized: raven-haired, bespectacled, and garbed in pure white. Harry Potter took a moment to survey his surroundings. He walked around the Dolmen, a battered satchel in hand, and viewed the surrounding countryside. No other living person was to be seen. He was the first to arrive.

Satisfied, he set the satchel down on the ground and opened it. He took out his wand and held it before him, like an orchestral conductor about to begin the final movement. He drew a deep breath. "This is it," he said aloud.

He felt something cold touch his cheek, as light as a kiss. Harry stroked the spot with his fingertips and gave a quick smile. This was, indeed, it. He gathered his powers and began the first step in the scrying ritual: the setting of the protective wards.

"From any charm / that would me harm,
This circle guard me.
From all that will / to do me ill,
This circle guard me.
From aught that might / disturb my Sight,
This circle ward me."

At the spell's last word, his wand stood quivering erect, like a compass needle near a strong magnet. Then it flew from Harry's hand and, speeding low over the ground, began scribing a circle some fifty feet in radius with Harry at its center. Three times it orbited around Harry, drawing three close concentric circles deep into the turf. When the third circle was complete, the wand returned to the center of the circles, where it stood upright, still vibrating as it gave power to the scrying wards.

Harry looked at his wand and felt a heavy weight settle in his stomach. He'd known that, as long as the wards were to remain in place, he couldn't use his wand. He'd known it intellectually. But now that he was here at the Druid's Dolmen, without his wand he felt oddly naked. It had been his trusted companion since his eleventh birthday, and now he was preparing for battle without it.

He had planned for that battle assuming he'd be wandless, of course, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

Reaching into the satchel again, Harry brought out a pendant sheathed in green leather, hanging from a delicate gold chain. With care not to touch its contents, he removed the leather sheath - to reveal a slender ivory plumb, six inches long and sharply pointed. Tiny runes were carved into the scry-point's flat end, where the gold chain was attached. Holding the chain in one hand, he rummaged in the satchel with the other, and removed a small glass bottle, partially filled with fine powder.

Gently swinging the scry-point by its chain, Harry mumbled the words of the attunement charm, the next step in the scrying ritual. Once done, he began to walk a slow spiraling path outward from his wand. With each circuit he stopped a moment, repeated the attunement charm under his breath, and continued to walk. He watched the scry-point intently: the spell's design would change the arc of its swing when it was properly attuned to the object being sought.

He was able to continue walking for ten more minutes before he was interrupted. There was a sudden quick succession of popping noises outside the three circles that marked the wards' boundary. Dark-robed figures, masked and hooded, were Apparating to the Dolmen - or rather, trying to Apparate, and being stopped by the scrying wards. Harry saw them angrily gesticulating at him, but had no chance to react...

... for his scar suddenly blazed with white-hot needles of agony, and it was all he could do to stand erect. He didn't need the sound of someone Apparating inside the wards to tell him who had arrived. He knew Who.

Harry dropped the glass bottle as he made a scrambling dash back to the circle's center. The bottle shattered on the stony ground, but he ignored it: he bolted for his wand, stretching out his free hand to grasp it, only to be stopped by a blast of light that cratered the ground in front of him.

"Now, now," said a familiar voice, "you won't be needing that. It would only be a distraction. We will do much better today if it stays where it is." The high-pitched voice, though it sounded amused, was arctic in its coldness. Fighting the pain, Harry slowly straightened, holding his head high as he turned to face his adversary.

His dark garb served to emphasize the pallid whiteness of his skin. Skeletally thin, wand at the ready, he swayed slightly where he stood, like a cobra ready to strike. Hairless, lipless, with only serpentine slits for a nose, Lord Voldemort's face lacked almost every human detail: the deep red eyes were the prominent feature. Those eyes were locked on Harry as his lips formed a mockery of a smile. "We meet for the final time," he said. "Harry Potter."

Harry nodded once in acknowledgement. "Tom Riddle."

Voldemort's smile vanished abruptly. His voice became an angry hiss: "I am Lord Voldemort!"

"Well, actually, I checked the records office, and you never had your name legally changed," said Harry apologetically. "But we'll compromise." He gave Voldemort his most patronizing smile. "Tom Voldemort."

The air around Voldemort seemed to swell with power. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer - and far more menacing. "Bravery is one of the few things I admire, Harry Potter. But I will not tolerate stupidity: not in my Death Eaters, and not in you. You would do well not to anger me."

Privately, Harry was astounded at his own bravado. He'd expected to feel panicked fear when confronting his foe today - fear, or else anger at his parents' murderer. He'd thought his own emotions would be one of the obstacles he'd be forced to overcome. Instead the fear and anger were tiny echoes, present but locked away in a distant corner of his head. This wasn't numbness; this was an icy clarity of mind that left him free to do whatever needed to be done. Harry was calm, prepared, ready to face whatever his Fate brought to this place.

"I don't quite see how I can fight you without angering you," he replied steadily.

"I am Death incarnate. You cannot fight me; you can only surrender to me." From any other being, this would have been laughably melodramatic. From the skull-faced figure before him, whose aura of power was almost a tangible thing, the words were utterly convincing.

"You didn't come here today to demand my surrender, did you?"

The thin smile returned. "No, I didn't. Nor would I expect you to give it, had I asked." He raised that portion of his face where a normal human would keep an eyebrow. "You didn't expect to see me here, I take it. Did you think Lord Voldemort would be so foolish as to not track his enemy's movements? Did you truly think your simple wards were strong enough to keep me away?"

There must be a user's manual for Dark Lords, Harry thought flippantly. 'Chapter One: Gloating.' Go ahead and talk, old snake. Anything to convince you I'm helpless. He didn't let himself so much as glance at the fine powder, now free of its bottle, slowly being scattered across the hilltop by the breeze. The more time it had to spread, the better.

(And miles away, in a secret cavern beneath Hogwarts School, a circle of the same powder began to glow with a pale golden light.)

"It was an admirable scheme, Potter. You were quite right, I would have found it difficult to maintain my organization had you stripped me of my power. But I was aware of your scheme from the moment you first proposed it to your insignificant little friends - you cannot keep secrets from Lord Voldemort. My faithful servants provided me with the book you found in the Hogwarts library, and I saw at once how you would attempt to attack me. I could never permit that, of course...

"I admit to being inconvenienced when you managed to block my Clairvoyancy. But your efforts made no difference in the end. I simply found another means to monitor your activities. A judiciously placed Imperius Curse gave me access to the Museum library - do you not recall poor Ieuan Price yesterday, during your visit? Despite your attempt to disguise yourself, I know everything that transpired between you and your pathetic Mudblood toady."

Voldemort's smile turned brittle. "Perhaps you hoped I would be too occupied with your Aurors' attacks on my legions to give thought to your expedition today. As you see, Potter, your hope was empty. Those attacks have not destroyed me - they have inspired me. They are but my latest inspiration, if I may say so: I've suffered many years of such indignities, thanks to you. I've spent those years planning for the day when I would have you as I do now: friendless, helpless, with nothing to stand between you and my vengeance."

"Oh my. Really?" Harry kept his tone light. He was determined to treat this oratory as comedy - nothing would more infuriate Voldemort. "You know, that sort of fixation can't be healthy. Have you considered psychological counseling? They say it can work wonders."

"Enough!" Voldemort bared his teeth in rage. "I will not be mocked, boy! You have earned a double dose of the punishment I've prepared for you!" He raised his wand with slow deliberation and pointed it at Harry.

Too slow, old snake. I'm not as helpless as you think. Here's where all my practicing pays off... In a single fluid motion, Harry unclasped his white robe, shrugged it off his shoulders, and flung it at Voldemort's face. The robe caught the brunt of whatever curse Voldemort had intended for him - it burst into flames and dropped smoldering onto the ground.

But in the instant Voldemort's vision was blocked, Harry pulled up the hood of his father's legacy: his invisibility cloak, which he'd worn underneath the woolen robe.

He didn't remain motionless once invisible. He immediately darted to one side, quietly but quickly, keeping his eyes on Voldemort. Voldemort turned his head left and right... his nostrils flared, he was seeking Harry... Harry knew he only had seconds to act...

Angrily, Voldemort swept his wand before him like a scythe. A wave of something grey and gritty, like ashes, flew outwards in all directions from the wand's end. It struck Harry, and at first he thought it had no effect. Then he realized he was no longer invisible: his cloak had become a dull silvery-grey, and he was exposed - and vulnerable.

But he was also now behind Voldemort. He abandoned stealth and rushed his foe.

Voldemort heard Harry behind him, turned a fraction of a second too late. Harry was upon him, plunging the ivory scry-point into his neck. Voldemort snarled like a wild beast and flung Harry from off his back. He raised his wand again to attack...

... and stood there, halted in mid-motion, a puzzled look growing on his face. Slowly his arms dropped to his sides - slowly he sank to his knees in the grass. His unblinking eyes sought Harry's face, searching for an explanation.

Harry deigned to grant him one. "Slytherin's basilisk. You do remember it, don't you, Riddle? You unleashed it sixty years ago. Your damned diary unleashed it again nine years ago - I got one of its fangs in my arm. I thought it only fair that you should know what it felt like." He tossed his weapon to the ground in front of Voldemort: the ivory scry-point, made from the basilisk fang he'd taken from the Chamber of Secrets.

Suddenly, Harry knew why Dark Lords loved to boast about their plans: your foe suffers more if he understands. "Nothing's more lethal than a basilisk, not even you. Its power is so great, it can even affect things that can't die, like ghosts. You say you're beyond death, Riddle? Let's test that. Even if you don't die, you'll be expending all your strength fighting the venom - you'll have none to spare for movement, let alone terrorism."

Okay, enough of that, Harry... you're enjoying it too much. You're supposed to be better than him. He took a step towards Voldemort. "It's over, Riddle. Come peacefully."

Furious red fire blazed in Voldemort's eyes. "No, boy, it's not over," he said thickly but distinctly. He raised his wand faster than Harry would have thought possible. "Avada Kedavra!"

A pulse of green light burst from the wand towards Harry. He had no chance to duck or avoid it. The light struck him squarely in the chest. He stumbled backwards, fell on the ground, and lay still.

Painfully, Lord Voldemort struggled to stand. "Now it's over," he told Harry's motionless form. He walked slowly, staggering like a drunken man, to where Harry lay. The scene was tinged with green light, giving Harry's skin a sickly look. Outside the wards, the assembled Death Eaters cheered in triumph.

"You pitiful fool," gasped Voldemort. "You underestimated my power, as so many others have before you. You have hurt me - I give you that epitaph, Potter, you've done me more damage than even Dumbledore has done - but in the end, you lie dead and I still stand."

Harry's eyes snapped open. "Easily fixed," he said, and heard Voldemort choke in surprise. He kicked upward from the ground, catching Voldemort hard in the stomach. Voldemort dropped his wand and fell heavily, his breath ragged.

Harry got to his feet. Now that he was upright, it was apparent that the Killing Curse had blasted a hole in the front of Harry's invisibility cloak. Underneath the cloak was yet another layer of clothing: a close-fitting body suit made of green leather.

Voldemort's eyes grew wide with understanding. "Basilisk hide," he croaked.

"Even better protection than dragon hide," Harry said conversationally. Again, he found it impossible to resist telling his foe how clever he'd been... insidious habit, this. "After all, if it's going to keep all that lethal magic inside the basilisk, it's got to be proof against lethal magic." He smiled his patronizing smile. "Small wonder nobody's ever tried using basilisk hide as armor. I mean, nobody's ever had a fifty-foot dead basilisk available to skin." Harry let the smile die, and grimly started walking again towards Voldemort.

A bitter grimace passed over Voldemort's face. His eyes focused on infinity for an instant. The next moment, they were focused again on Harry's face, mixing surprise with the first hint of fear.

"Awww, iddums ickle Moldiemort twying to Appawate?" Harry asked sarcastically. "I don't think so." He now permitted himself a glance at the shards of the broken bottle, noting how the fine powder - Madame Dauxerre's Similarity Spell - had spread itself across the landscape. The entire hillside now shared the same properties as the cavern beneath Hogwarts: Apparition and Disapparition had been rendered impossible.

The green light was growing brighter, and instead of dissipating was gathering like a shroud around the two combatants. Harry ignored the light, instead leaning over Voldemort's prostrate form. "You're not going anywhere, Riddle-me-ree. Not until you've answered for all you've done. I've seen to that."

"You've seen..." Voldemort's face became a mask of purest hatred. He sprang up with maniacal strength, pushing his poisoned body beyond mortal limits... his hands outstretched for Harry's throat. "I'll kill you, Potter! If not with magic, with my bare hands! Die! Die when I tell you to die!"

Harry grabbed Voldemort's hands as they came at him, and managed to hold them away. Agony stabbed his scar anew with this surge in Voldemort's hatred; and his hands, where they gripped his foe, began to burn as though they held a red-hot ingot.

"Not... just yet," he said through clenched teeth. "Give it a minute... or two... and we can... go together."

The cloud of green energy had grown even brighter, and somehow angrier. It no longer resembled light: it was like a miniature thunderstorm of green lightning. It clung to Harry and Voldemort, sparking at their bodies with increasing fury.

"Avada Kedavra. The Killing Curse," gritted Harry. "Once summoned, it has to kill. It's not just Unforgivable - it's Unforgiving." His muscles were trembling with the effort of holding Voldemort at bay - while he tried to ignore his burning hands, his flaming scar, the searing touch of each green lightning bolt. Don't let the pain stop you, Harry... keep talking, ignore the pain...it'll be over soon...

"Remember the first time you tried to kill me, Riddle? Back when I was a baby. Didn't you ever wonder why my parents' house exploded? You must've done the Killing Curse a hundred times, and that'd never happened before, right? But it's the Killing Curse, you see. If it fails to kill at first, it just keeps building up until it succeeds." He rolled his eyes, indicating the increasingly violent energies surrounding them, then stared straight at Voldemort. "In a minute, we'll go BLOOEY! And the world will finally be rid of you, once and for all."

Voldemort stared back at his archenemy in growing fear. The deadly green lightning couldn't penetrate Potter's leather armor - but where it struck exposed flesh, that flesh melted, like wax. His green eyes caught the emerald light and seemed to glow, almost as though the lightning were streaming out from within him. He could feel his foe straining as they grappled. Yet Potter's face was preternaturally calm, remote - and more frightening than raw anger would be.

He forced a sneer onto his lips, determined to have the last word against his nemesis. "Yes, fool, I remember the first time we met. Do you? Even after Avada Kedavra rebounded, even after my body was destroyed, I lived. Your parents were killed, you were saved only by a miracle - a miracle that will not repeat today, Potter!" He suddenly gave a harsh laugh. "All this effort, wasted! You'll die now as you should have died then, by my Killing Curse - and my spirit will still survive you!"

It was true, Harry realized. Around Voldemort's head was a smoky wisp of... of something, ectoplasm or ka or whatever: sketchily human in shape, it looked ready to retreat from his disintegrating physical body at the earliest moment.

"Oh right, your spirit," Harry forced out. "Trust me, Riddle, I remembered that too." He raised his voice. "Now, Myrtle!"

And through the emerald discharges flew Moaning Myrtle: Myrtle, who had waited invisible by the Dolmen for Harry's signal; Myrtle, first victim of Lord Voldemort. With a grin of pure schadenfreude, she wrapped her translucent hands around Voldemort's spirit-head and held it firmly, even as Voldemort's physical self began to scream, cry, and finally give way to total fear.

Harry allowed himself a tiny moment of triumph. He'd done it. Voldemort's body would die, thanks to the basilisk venom and his own Killing Curse. And this time his spirit wouldn't be let free, but would be taken by Myrtle to... wherever spirits were supposed to go (Myrtle hadn't been clear about the location, but she'd been sure she could do it). He prayed that Myrtle would find her own peace, once her murderer had been brought to judgment.

"Hold on, Harry..."

He looked at his own hands and saw, with a fascinated detachment, that the Killing Curse was slowly stripping away his own flesh - the outlines of his bones were starting to appear. Harry closed his eyes and gripped Voldemort all the tighter, determined not to let him escape from the miasma of deadly magic around them.

"Hold on..."

The pain had long passed mere human standards - every nerve in his body was afire. Is this what Neville's parents went through? Harry wondered. Am I going crazy? He had started to hear voices... hallucinations, surely... yet he didn't feel crazed, he heard them clearly, a chorus of voices:

"Grip fast, Myrtle... hold on, boy, not much longer... thank you, Harry... thank you... hang on, both of you, hang on... well done, godson... it's nearly over... we'll deal with him, just hold on... thank you for bringing back my body... hold on... one more moment... you've made us proud, Harry... we love you... keep holding... thank you..."

Myrtle must have brought them for support, he decided with the clarity of fever. That was good of her...

The green light was bright enough now that Harry could see it even through his closed eyelids. The host of voices were fading away. Another sound was rising in Harry's head, and now he was certain he must be hallucinating: it was phoenix song, uplifting and beautiful and triumphant. But Fawkes was nowhere near, and the two wands weren't even being used - where was the music coming from?

It didn't matter. If that was to be Harry's last sound, he couldn't have asked for better.

And Harry's last thought was a typical burst of dark humor: Well, at least I won't be The Boy Who Lived anymore...

*

I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air -
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.
It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath -
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year,
And the first meadow-flowers appear.
God knows 'twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear...
But I've a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year.
And I to my pledged word am true:
I shall not fail that rendezvous.

- Alan Seeger, who met his own rendezvous with Death on the fields of France in 1916.