King's Cross

Kings Cross

I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you. You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself. I shall wait one hour in the forbidden forest. If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up, then the battle recommences. This time, I shall enter the fray myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman and child who has tried to conceal you from me. One hour.

Voldemort sat, close to the fire though the flames did not warm him. No creature of the forest dared enter the clearing. Even the acromantulars who, it was said, would die rather than give up their home, had fled before the Dark Lord.

Yet they didn't seem to be winning. This fact alone caused Voldemort a small amount of concern. His followers were injured, so many of them lacked the ability to perform the spells of healing. And to heal them himself would be to appear weak, to show he needed them. And if they believed that- if they believed he needed them at all- then they held power. They could turn away.

"My lord," came Rowle's coarse voice. "My lord, what happened to Severus?"

Voldemort shook slightly, but refused to let them see. Whenever he closed his eyes he saw Snape's black eyes, accusing to the end. It was a hard fight to make his voice as always, cold... aloof. "He turned from the cause."

He stood up suddenly, unable to remain sitting for long. Where was the boy? Where was his stupid cause now? Where was his righteousness? Was he now willing to let others die? All of them?

"When do we eat?" asked the larger of the giants in his stupid dumb voice. Finally: a question he could answer.

"You eat when I tell you to eat," he snapped. "You kill when I tell you to kill and you die when I tell you to die. You don't ask questions and you don't talk so loudly you give away our position to the Potter boy."

"Will we really kill them?" The voice was soft, defeated, and alone. "All of them?" Narcissa. Fonder of her son than her own life; he would have to watch her.

"We may save some pure-bloods," he replied coldly. "For breeding purposes."

He turned away from them all, to face the fire and looked down at the slim black stick in his hand: the Elder wand, the Deathstick, the answer to all his dreams. He had everything, so why was he hiding in the woods while Potter still lived? Why was he still here?

The prophecy.

Of course, the prophecy, the reason for everything. The prophecy and his own stupid mistakes.

There were footsteps behind him and he turned, looking up as Dolohov and Yaxley stepped into the circle.

Forget about the circle! Just bring me Potter!

"No sign of him, my Lord," said Dolohov simply. Voldemort turned away again lifting the elder wand, eyes cold and dark... and puzzled.

"My lord-" said Bella slowly. Voldemort held up a hand to silence her, staring at the wand as though it held all the answers.

"I thought he would come," he said slowly. "I expected him to come." The flames leapt in from of him and he stared at the heart. This conflicted with everything he knew of Potter. He gave his own life once to save one man yet he would not die for hundreds?

The flames danced before him, there had to be something. What hadn't he thought of? What had he done wrong? Where was the boy?

"I was, it seems," he began. "Mistaken." It sounded wrong somehow. He couldn't be wrong... not now.

"You weren't."

Voldemort let out the breath he hadn't realised he was holding. He was right. Of course he was. He was always right. A smile touched the corners of his pale mouth then faded again and he turned around.

For a moment no one else mattered. It was just him and the dark haired boy across the clearing. It seemed so strange now he looked closer. Dark hair, like Voldemort himself, and green eyes. Slytherin eyes.

Then the giants roared and the illusion shattered; he was standing in a dark forest with useless help and his arch nemesis. The Death Eaters rose to their feet, confidence apparently returning. Some were laughing, which seemed so wrong for this moment. This was his moment.

And Potter was moving towards him; eyes fixed on Voldemort's own.

Then a voice yelled -

"HARRY! NO!"

Voldemort took a steadying breath. This was his moment; what was the gamekeeper playing at? He nodded to Rowle briefly.

"NO! NO! HARRY, WHAT'RE YEH -?"

"QUIET!" Rowle's voice echoed through the forest for a moment before everything was quiet again - as it should be. The whole clearing was still aside from Nagini, protected and invulnerable, twisting behind him; and the flames, flickering, burning.

Bella was watching him and Potter in turn and her eyes were sharp despite the dishevelled quality of the rest of her. She would stand by him, always.

And Potter was here, he'd had minutes now and he hadn't drawn his wand, hadn't threatened, hadn't tried to attack. He'd given up. He'd really, finally, given up.

Yet it wasn't defeat he saw in Potter's eyes, he tilted his head sideways slightly, considering Potter. He looked determined, resourceful, the same as ever. But there it was, in his hands, a slight shaking which gave him away. He was scared, so scared. Voldemort smiled slightly, a cold smile, and saw Potter take half a step back, barely noticeable.

"Harry Potter," he hissed softly, relishing his victory. "The Boy who Lived."

Once, but no more.

Everyone in the clearing was finally still. Even the giants seemed caught in the tension. Everyone was waiting for Potter to do something, to pull a miracle from thin air.

Only Voldemort knew it wasn't coming.

For a moment it didn't. Voldemort raised his wand slowly, almost curiously. Despite everything he'd seen that night this didn't feel like the end. But it could be; it would be. This was his triumph, his moment of glory, his moment to show the world that chance and coincidence were Harry Potter's only saviours - that the Boy Who Lived could die.

"Goodbye," he whispered almost inaudibly. "Harry...Potter."

His wand moved and the spell shot across the clearing.

Then everything was gone.

~^~

This was death.

This was impossible; it simply couldn't be.

He felt so small; it could be just because of the strangely endless white mist and vapour surrounding him but it could not. Was this death? Was this what it felt like?

He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. He tried to kick out but just found himself moving, flopping, flailing, struggling. He tried to cry, to scream but only managed a pitiful mew.

This is wrong! He wanted to scream. I still have Nagini: I'm still immortal.

Then a second, heart-stopping thought.

I'm dead. Why am I dead? I can't be dead!

He was scared and slowly the setting seemed to change. He lay beneath a strange seat somewhere he'd never been. He looked at himself and saw the naked body of a young child. Deep red marks cut into his skin and wherever he lay he felt torment, but he hadn't caused it. He knew, without being told.

Each scar was given to me. All this pain simply echoes my life.

He wanted to scream again, wanted someone, anyone, to come and help him. Save him.

Then something was coming, a person, coming towards him and kneeling beside him. He saw a hand reach out and desperately wanted it: wanted help because this was death and he couldn't escape it. He'd done everything he could: he'd beaten the prophecy, gained the Elder Wand and he'd killed the one who had thwarted him so many times before.

Yet he lay helpless.

The hand was inches away now. He was so close to receiving aid, to escaping this.

"You cannot help."

The words were strange in this silent space and they drove into his head like knives. The hand was whipped away as the figure turned.

"Harry, you wonderful boy. You brave, brave man. Let us walk."

Every word hurt so much. Every word drove into him.

Then the boy who had knelt beside him was standing up, was walking away.

No! He couldn't to anything, he couldn't speak. He could just toss and ache and know that this was death and this was forever. This pain. Help me!

He wanted to win; he was supposed to have won. This should be his victory, his triumph, a party for the end of the war that had gone on decades too long.

He lay beneath the seat in a station which was Potter's making. Even in their death he was trapped in Potter's lies. What use had he for King's Cross? He should have the world! A tear fell down his baby cheek at the injustice of it all. It was all so wrong.

He had to escape, had to get out...he couldn't.

Every moment was agony.

Every moment was fear.

Every moment was screaming...

And every moment lasted a lifetime.

Until, strangely, everything started to fade. He looked around frantically, shaking: what was happening now? Was this going on? Was he going to fade now? To not exist at all? To cease?

"No!" he screamed, his voice seeming to make noise now though only to him. "No! No! No!"

~^~

"My Lord...my Lord..." came a voice, tainted by anguish. "My lord, can you hear me?"

"No," he muttered. "No I won't go, I won't follow you, I won't cease." He could feel himself shaking.

"My Lord, it's Bella." He felt a cold hand and a drop of water fall onto his face. Slowly, ever so slowly, he forced his eyes open. He seemed to ache all over but with the pain came a sweet realisation. He was alive. He was still here.

"Thank you," he whispered, barely audible. He saw Bella watching him with pain, fear, love in her eyes. Tears were rolling down her cheeks.

"My Lord?"

Voldemort tightened his right hand, feeling the slim black wand between his fingers. Slowly he forced his focus back on the present. That had been some trick of Potter's; probably Dumbledore's work.

There are things worse than death.

"It seems you were right, old man," he muttered. "But I have won and you have lost so it doesn't matter anymore."

He pushed himself up slowly.

"That will do," he said calmly, his voice echoing around the clearing as he stood. Bella knelt beside him, head bowed, but Voldemort had eyes for only one thing. The still body across the clearing.

"My Lord, let me - "

"I do not require assistance," he snapped coldly. He couldn't show weakness. Not now. But his hands were shaking as he went on. "The boy...is he dead?"

Have I won?

There was complete silence in the clearing. That was wrong. Where was the cheering? They'd won, hadn't they?

"You," he snapped, pointing his wand at Narcissa. Sparks shot from it and she gave a cry of pain. "Examine him. Tell me whether he is dead."

His whole body shook with anticipation as Narcissa knelt beside the body. There was a long pause before she stood up, turning to the clearing.

"He is dead!"

And now they shouted, now they yelled in triumph and stamped their feet sending red and silver light into the air. Voldemort allowed himself a smile as he lent on Bella's shoulder. It was over. Finally. He closed his eyes and breathed in victory. Now he had to hold his followers.

"You see?" he crowed. "Harry Potter is dead by my hand, and no man alive can threaten me now!" He wanted to punish the boy; make him hurt, humiliate him. Potter could force Voldemort into a station for a few moments but Voldemort - he could kill.

"Watch! Crucio!" He shook slightly as he watched Potter's body flop, lifeless and limp. He barely heard the jeers and shrieks of laughter. All he could think was that he'd won.

Except...it felt strangely...unsatisfying...

He shook the feeling away.

"Now, we go to the castle and show them what has become of their hero. Who shall drag the body? No - wait." He walked to the half-giant and severed the ropes with a flash of the Elder wand. "You carry him. He will be nice and visible in your arms, will he not? Pick up your little friend, Hagrid." He looked at the body on the ground, hair dishevelled and eyes closed. Could be anyone. What if they didn't believe him? "The glasses - put on the glasses - he must be recognisable."

Yaxley pushed the glasses onto Potter's still face and Voldemort felt a fresh bout of anger just looking at it as it was lifted into the air.

"Move!" he commanded, marching forwards a short way behind. Up ahead he saw the centaurs stepping out of the way of the procession as they marched through the trees towards the castle.

Then they reached the edge of the forest.

"Stop," he commanded softly, and Hagrid lurched to a halt. Voldemort heard the Dementors rasping nearby but he had no time for them tonight. Tonight was his night and he stepped forwards into the light of the moon, his voice echoing for everyone to hear. The castle loomed towards him and it was his. Potter was dead.

It was over.