Chapter Twenty-Eight
He was lying face down on the forest again.
The smell of the forest filled his nostrils. He could feel the cold hard ground beneath his cheek, and the hinge of his glasses, which had been knocked sideways by the fall, cutting into his temple. Every inch of him ached, and the place where the Killing Curse had hit him felt like the bruise of an iron-clad punch. He did not stir, but remained exactly where he had fallen, with his left arm bent out at an awkward angle and his mouth gaping.
He had expected to hear cheers of triumph and jubilation at his death, but instead hurried footsteps, whispers, and solicitous murmurs filled the air.
“My Lord…my Lord…”
It was Bellatrix’s voice, and she spoke as if to a lover.
Harry did not dare open his eyes, but allowed his other senses to explore his predicament. He knew that his wand (Draco’s wand) was still stowed beneath his robes because he could feel it pressed between his chest and the ground. A slight cushioning effect in the area of his stomach told him that the Invisibility Cloak was also there, stuffed out of sight.
“My Lord…”
“That will do,” Voldemort said.
More footsteps: several people backing away from the same spot. Desperate to see what was happening and why, Harry opened his eyes by a millimeter.
Voldemort seemed to be getting to his feet. Various Death Eaters were hurrying away from him, returning to the crowd lining the clearing. Bellatrix alone remained behind, kneeling beside Voldemort.
Harry closed his eyes again and considered what he had seen. The Death Eaters had been huddled around Voldemort, who seemed to have fallen to the ground. Something had happened when he had hit Harry with the Killing Curse. Had Voldemort too collapsed? It seemed like it. And both of them had fallen briefly unconscious and both had now returned…
“My Lord, let me—”
“I do not require assistance,” Voldemort said coldly, and though he could not see it, Harry pictured Bellatrix withdrawing a helpful hand, “The boy…is he dead?”
There was complete silence in the clearing. No one approached Harry, but he could feel their concentrated gaze; it seemed to press him harder into the ground, and he was terrified a finger or an eyelid might twitch.
“You,” Voldemort said and there was a bang and a small shriek of pain, “Examine him. Tell me whether he is dead.”
Harry did not know who had been sent to verify. He could only lie there, with his heart thumping traitorously, and wait to be examined, but at the same time noting, small comfort though it was, that Voldemort was wary of approaching him, that Voldemort suspected that all had not gone to plan…
Hands, softer than he had been expecting, touched Harry’s face, pulled back an eyelid, crept beneath his shirt, down to his chest, and felt his heart. He could hear the woman’s fast breathing; her long hair tickled his face. He knew that she could feel the steady pounding of life against his ribs.
“Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?”
The whisper was barely audible; her lips were an inch from his ear, her head bent so low that her long hair shielding his face from the onlookers.
“Yes,” he breathed back.
He felt the hand on his chest contract and her nails pierced him. Then it was withdrawn. She had sat up.
“He is dead!” Narcissa Malfoy called to the watchers.
And now they shouted, now they yelled in triumph, and stamped their feet, and through his eyelids, Harry saw bursts of red and silver light shoot into the air in celebration.
Still feigning death on the ground, Harry understood. Narcissa knew that the only way she would be permitted to enter Hogwarts and find her son was as part of the conquering army. She no longer cared whether Voldemort won.
“You see?” Voldemort screeched over the tumult, “Harry Potter is dead by my hand, and no man alive can threaten me now! Watch! Crucio!”
Harry had been expecting it, knew his body would not be allowed to remain unsullied upon the forest floor; it must be subjected to humiliation to prove Voldemort’s victory. He was lifted into the air, and it took all of his determination to remain limp, yet the pain he had expected did not come. He was thrown once, twice, three times into the air—his glasses flew off and he felt his wand slide a little beneath his robes, but he kept himself floppy and lifeless, and when he fell to the ground for the last time, the clearing echoed with jeers and shrieks of laughter.
“Now,” Voldemort said, “we go to the castle and show them what has become of their hero. Who shall drag the body? No—wait—”
There was a fresh outbreak of laughter, and after a few moments Harry felt the ground trembling beneath him.
“You carry him,” Voldemort said, “He will be nice and visible in your arms, will he not? Pick up your little friend, Hagrid. And the glasses—put on the glasses—he must be recognizable—”
Someone slammed Harry’s glasses back onto his face with deliberate force, but the enormous hands that lifted him into the air were exceedingly gentle.
Harry could feel Hagrid’s arms trembling with the force of his heaving sobs; great tears splashed down upon him as Hagrid cradled Harry in his arms, and Harry did not dare, by movement or word, to intimate to Hagrid that all was not, yet, lost.
“Move,” Voldemort said, and Hagrid stumbled forward, forcing his way through the close-growing trees, back through the forest. Branches caught at Harry’s hair and robes but he lay quiescent, his mouth lolling open, his eyes shut, and in the darkness, while the Death Eaters crowded all around them, and while Hagrid sobbed blindly, no one looked to see whether a pulse beat in the exposed neck of Harry Potter…
The two giants crashed along behind the Death Eaters; Harry could hear trees creaking and falling as they passed. The victorious procession marched on toward the open ground, and after a while Harry could tell, by the lightening of the darkness through his closed eyelids, that the trees were beginning to thin.
“Stop.”
Harry thought that Hagrid must have been forced to obey Voldemort’s command, because he lurched a little. A chill settled over them where they stood, and Harry heard the rasping breath of the Dementors as they patrolled the outer trees. They would not affect him now. The fact of his own survival burned inside him, it was like a talisman against the Dementors, as though James’ stag kept guardian of his heart.
Someone passed close by Harry, and he knew it was Voldemort himself because he spoke a moment later, his voice magically amplified so that it swelled through the grounds, crashing upon Harry’s eardrums.
“Harry Potter is dead. He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him. We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone. The battle is won. You have lost half of your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you, and the Boy Who Lived is finished. There must be no more war. Anyone who continues to resist—man, woman, or child—will be slaughtered, as will every member of their family. Come of out of the castle now, kneel before me, and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven, and you shall join me in the new world we will build together.”
There was silence in the grounds and from the castle. Voldemort was so close to him that Harry did not dare open his eyes again.
“Come,” Voldemort said and Harry heard him move forward, and Hagrid was forced to follow.
Now Harry opened his eyes a fraction, and saw Voldemort striding in front of them, wearing the great snake Nagini around his shoulders, free of her enchanted cage. But Harry had no possibility of extracting the wand from his robes without being noticed by the Death Eaters, who marched on either side of them through the slowly lightneing darkness…
“Harry,” Hagrid sobbed, “Oh, Harry…Harry…”
Harry shut his eyes tight again. He knew that they were approaching the castle and strained his ears to distinguish, above the gleeful voices of the Death Eaters and their tramping footsteps, signs of life from within.
“Stop.”
The Death Eaters came to a halt and Harry heard them spreading out in a line facing the open front doors of the school. He could see, even through his closed eyelids, the reddish glow that meant light streamed upon from the entrance hall. He waited. Any moment, the people for whom he had tried to die would see him, lying apparently dead, in Hagrid’s arms.
“NO!” The scream was more terrible because Harry had never expected nor dreamed that Professor McGonagall could make such a sound. He heard another woman laughing nearby, and knew that Bellatrix gloried in McGonagall’s despair.
Harry opened his eyes and squinted for a second—he saw the open doorway filling with people, and Voldemort standing a little in front of him, stroking Nagini’s head with a single white finger. Harry closed his eyes again.
“No!” Ron screamed.
“No!” Hermione wailed.
“Harry! HARRY!” Ginny’s voice was demanding over the others.
And then—
“Let me through! Let me through! LET ME GO, REMUS!”
The voice was strained, gruff, grating, and frantic. There was the sound of shoes scuffing on the flagstones and Sirius struggling.
“Harry?!” Sirius called and oh—Harry wanted to answer.
“Harry?!” Sirius shouted again, and then the frantic edge vanished from his voice as he suddenly erupted “NO! NO! NO! NO!”
The shouts ran together, a visceral, serrated sound that burned away everything else.
“THAT’S HARRY!” And then, in a tearing scream, “REMUS, IT’S HARRY! IT’S HARRY!”
Underneath his eyelashes, Harry opened his eyes and watched his godfather seeming to strangle over his own screams, watched him whirl around to the man standing behind him, watched him grab the old brown jumper—
Remus was not screaming; he was not tearing at his hair. His features were warped in anguish, staring between Sirius and Harry in Hagrid’s arms, but his brown eyes were sharp. Aware. Remus reached up and caught Sirius, pulling him against him as he wrapped one arm around Sirius’ shoulders and the other around his waist, keeping Sirius from collapsing onto his knees or else from running out to attack Voldemort’s army.
Harry closed his eyes again.
Remus’ heart thudded unevenly as he held Sirius against his chest—muffling his screams—and stared and stared at Harry’s body in Hagrid’s arms; but he did not despair.
Remus could hear Harry’s heart—low and nervous, but thrumming all the same, steady and sure. He could smell Harry’s blood roaring within his veins. He could even see the slight splash of color on Harry’s cheeks.
Remus pulled Sirius tighter against him and gritted his teeth. Sirius was moaning, still struggling, but Remus held him steady and focused all he could on his old form of Legilimency. He treaded carefully into Sirius’ mind—it wasn’t something he had ever done before. Sirius was traumatized from Walburga’s use of Legilimency all his childhood, and so Remus had never dared—but now he must.
Sirius—Harry’s alive! He is alive! He is with us still!
Sirius went rigid. His mind was a raging sea, just wave after wave of denial and untampered grief, wild and raw and frenzied.
But one thought came through back to Remus: Are you certain?
As certain as I am that I love you. Harry is alive.
Sirius stilled and beside them, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny noticed. Ginny looked up at Remus, and as their eyes met, he realized he did not need to tell her through Legilimency the truth. She knew at once. Her eyes blazed and her hand tightened on her wand.
“Set him down, Hagrid, at my feet, where he belongs.”
Harry felt himself being lowered onto the grass.
“You see?” Voldemort said, and Harry felt him striding backward and forward right beside the place where Harry lay, “Harry Potter is dead! Do you understand now, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!”
“He beat you!” Ron yelled and the defenders of Hogwarts began to shout and scream until a powerful bang extinguished their voices.
“He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds,” Voldemort said and there was relish in his voice for the lie, “killed while trying to save himself—”
But Voldemort broke off.
Harry dared to peak.
Sirius had moved forward but was held back by Remus—his eyes so sharp now that they looked like they could cut glass—and then Sirius started shouting again, “MY GODSON—!”
At the same time, Neville had broken free of the crowd and charged at Voldemort. There was a bang and a grunt of pain and Neville hit the ground. Voldemort threw Neville’s wand aside and laughed.
“And who is this?” Voldemort said in his snake’s hiss, “Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the battle is lost?”
Bellatrix gave a delighted laugh, “It is Neville Longbottom, my Lord! The boy who has been giving the Carrows so much trouble. The son of the Aurors, remember?”
“Ah yes, I remember,” Voldemort said, looking down at Neville, who was struggling to his feet, unarmed and unprotected in the no-man’s-land between the survivors and the Death Eaters.
Harry noticed that Remus was now partly standing in front of Sirius, and had one arm extended out toward Neville, his eyes flashing yellow…
“But you’re a pureblood, aren’t you?” Voldemort asked Neville, who had made it to his feet and now stood staring at Voldemort, his empty hands curled into fists.
“So what if I am?” Neville said loudly.
“You show spirit and bravery, and you come of noble stock. You will make a very valuable Death Eater. We need your kind, Neville Longbottom.”
“I’ll join you when hell freezes over,” Neville said and then he shouted, “Dumbledore’s Army!” There was an answering cheer from the crowd, whom Voldemort’s Silencing Charm seemed unable to hold.
“Very well,” Voldemort said, and Harry heard more danger in the silkiness of his voice than in the most powerful curse, “If that is your choice, Longbottom, we revert to the original plan. On your head,” he said quietly, “be it.”
Still watching through his lashes, Harry saw Voldemort wave his wand. Seconds later, out of one of the castle’s shattered windows, something that looked like a misshapen bird flew through the half-light and landed in Voldemort’s hand. He shook the mildewed object by its pointed end and it dangled empty and ragged: the Sorting Hat.
“There will be no more Sorting at Hogwarts School,” Voldemort said, “There will be no more Houses. The emblem, shield, and colors of my noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, will suffice for everyone. Won’t they, Neville Longbottom?”
Voldemort pointed his wand at Neville, who grew rigid and still, then he forced the hat on Neville’s head, so that it slipped down below his eyes. There were movements from the watching crowd in front of the castle—Sirius lunged forward and Remus let him go, his own half-brightly yellow eyes raking over Neville, while his jaw flexed quite visibly in his tortured-looking face. But as one, the Death Eaters raised their wands, holding the fighters of Hogwarts at bay. Sirius faltered mid-step.
“Neville here is now going to demonstrate what happens to anyone foolish enough to oppose me,” Voldemort said and with a flick of his wand, the Sorting Hat burst into flames.
Screams split the dawn, and Neville was aflame, rooted to the spot, unable to move, and Harry could not bear it: he must act—
And then many things happened at the same moment.
They heard uproar from the distant boundary of the school as what sounded like hundreds of people came swarming over the out-of-sight walls and pelted toward the castle, uttering loud war cries. At the same time, Grawp came lumbering around the side of the castle and yelled, “HAGGER!” His cry was answered by the roars from Voldemort’s giants: they ran at Grawp like bull elephants, making the ground quake. Then came hooves and the twangs of bows, and arrows were suddenly falling amongst the Death Eaters, who broke ranks, shouting their surprise. Harry pulled the Invisibility Cloak from inside his robes, swung it over himself, and sprang to his feet, just as Neville, Sirius, and Remus moved too.
In one swift, fluid motion, Neville broke free of the Body-Bind Curse upon him; the flaming hant fell off him and he drew from its depths something silver, with a glittering, rubied handle—
The slash of the silver blade could not be heard over the roar of the oncoming crowd or the sounds of the clashing giants or the stampeding centaurs, and yet it seemed to draw every eye. With a single stroke Neville sliced off the great snake’s head, which spun high into the air, gleaming in the light flooding from the entrance hall, and Voldemort’s mouth was open in a scream of fury and the snake’s body thudded to the ground at his feet—
And then Remus was there, standing between Neville and Voldemort. And encircling Neville was a shield of golden-grey magic.
Hagrid’s yell was loudest of all, “HARRY! WHERE’S HARRY?”
Sirius whirled and stared down at the spot where a moment before, Harry had been laying. A coy smile quirked the corners of Sirius’ lips.
Chaos reigned. The charging centaurs were scattering the Death Eaters, everyone was fleeing the giants’ stamping feet, and nearer and nearer the reinforcements that had come from who knew where; Harry saw giant winged creatures soaring around the heads of Voldemort’s giants, thestrals and hippogriffs scratching at their eyes while Grawp punched and pummeled them; and now the defenders of Hogwarts and Death Eaters alike were being forced back into the castle.
Harry was shooting jinxes and curses at any Death Eater he could see, and they crumpled, not knowing what or who had hit them, and their bodies were trampled by the retreating crowd. Remus was dueling beside Neville, who had regained his wand but was still encircled with the glittering golden-grey mist of Remus’ magic which was now swelling and rising to protect as many students and defenders as possible; Sirius was roaring, “HARRY!” and firing curses in every direction, light on his feet as he fought with the savagery of a lion and the grace of a dancer.
Still hidden beneath the Invisibility Cloak, Harry was buffeted into the entrance hall: He was searching for Voldemort and saw him across the room, firing spells as he backed into the Great Hall, still screaming instructions to his followers as he sent curses flying left and right; Harry cast Shield Charms and Voldemort’s would-be victims—Seamus Finnigan and Hannah Abbott—darted past Harry into the Great Hall, where they joined the fight already flourishing inside it.
And now there were more, more people, storming up the front steps, and Harry saw Charlie Weasley overtake Horace Slughorn. They seemed to have returned at the head of what looked like the families and friends of every Hogwarts student who had remained to fight, along with the shopkeepers and homeowners of Hogsmeade. The centaurs Bane and Ronan burst into the Great Hall in a clatter of hooves. Harry sped between duelers, past struggling prisoners, and into the Great Hall.
Voldemort was in the center of the battle, and he was striking and smiting all within reach. Harry could not get a clear shot, but fought his way nearer, still invisible, and the Great Hall became more and more crowded as everyone who could walk forced their way inside.
Harry saw Yaxley slammed into the floor by Lee and George, saw Dolohov fall with a strangled scream after Remus sharply flicked his wrist and the golden-grey magic tightened itself into a noose around the Death Eater’s neck; saw the silver-handed Walden MacNair thrown across the room by Hagrid, hit the stone wall opposite, and slide unconscious to the ground; saw Ron and Neville bringing down Travers; saw Ayala and Diana Stun Rockwood; Arthur and Percy flooring Thicknesse; saw Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy running through the crowd, not even attempting to fight, screaming their son’s name.
Voldemort was now dueling Sirius, McGonagall, and Kingsley all at once, and there was cold hatred in his face as they wove and ducked around him, unable to finish him—
Bellatrix was fighting too, fifty yards away from Voldemort, and like her master she dueled three at once: Hermione, Ginny, and Luna, all battling their hardest, but Bellatrix was equal to them, and Harry’s attention was diverted as a Killing Curse shot so close to Ginny that she missed Death by an inch—
Harry changed course, running at Bellatrix rather than Voldemort, but before he had gone a few steps he was knocked sideways.
“NOT MY DAUGHTER, YOU BITCH!”
Molly Weasley threw off her cloak as she ran, freeing her arms. Bellatrix spun on the spot, roaring with laughter at the sight of her new challenger.
“OUT OF MY WAY!” Molly shouted to the three girls, and with a swipe of her wand she began to duel. Harry watched with terror and elation as Molly Weasley’s wand slashed and twirled, and Bellatrix Lestrange’s smile faltered and became a snarl. Jets of light flew from both wands, the floor around the Witches’ feet became hot and cracked; both women were fighting to kill.
“No!” Molly shouted as Remus and Arthur ran forward, trying to come to her aid, “Get back! Get back! She is mine!”
Hundreds of people now lined the walls, watching the two fights—Voldemort and his three opponents, Bellatrix and Molly—and Harry stood, invisible, torn between them both in much the same way he could tell Remus was. They both wanted to attack, and yet to protect, and also give their loved ones their chance. Remus’ eyes darted between the two fights, but it was clear enough on his face his longing to dive into the fray with Voldemort and fight side-by-side with Sirius against the greatest evil.
“What will you happen to your children when I’ve killed you?” Bellatrix taunted, as mad as her master, capering as Molly’s curses danced around her, “When Mummy’s gone the same way as Freddie?”
“You—will—never—touch—our—children—again!” Molly screamed.
Bellatrix laughed, and it was the same exhilarated laugh that both Harry and Remus recognized had been the sound Sirius had given before he had almost been struck by his cousin and gone on beyond the veil…and suddenly Harry knew what was going to happen before it did.
Molly’s curse soared beneath Bellatrix’s outstretched arm and hit her squarely in the chest, directly over her heart.
Bellatrix’s gloating smile froze, her eyes seemed to bulge: for the tiniest space of time, she knew what had happened, and then she toppled, and the watching crowd roared and Voldemort screamed.
Harry felt as though he turned in slow motion.
Harry saw Remus had turned too, and began to run. He sprinted across the Great Hall and with a raise of his arm, the tempest of golden-grey magic slammed down upon Voldemort, who in his rage did not deflect it, and Sirius gave a great war cry of triumph—
Just as soon as Sirius’ cheer had left his throat, Voldemort retaliated. Harry saw McGonagall, Kingsley, Sirius, and Remus blasted backward, flailing and withering through the air, as Voldemort’s fury at the fall of his last, best lieutenant exploded with the force of a bomb. Voldemort raised his wand before the others had even hit the floor and directed it right at Molly Weasley.
“Protego!” Harry roared and the Shield Charm expanded in the middle of the Hall, and Voldemort stared around for the source as Harry pulled off the Invisibility Cloak at last.
The yells of shock, the cheers, the screams on every side of “Harry! He’s alive!” were stifled at once. The crowd was afraid, and silence fell abruptly and completely as Voldemort and Harry looked at each other, and began at the same moment, to circle each other.
Sirius, Remus, Kingsley, and McGonagall were pushing themselves up to their feet. Remus stood slowly, offering a hand to Sirius, who hastily wiped a trail of blood off his lip as he took Remus’ hand and clambered to his feet. Remus helped McGonagall stand while Kingsley pulled himself to his feet.
Sirius was a live wire, poised and aching. Remus was too—his magic was bright around him, imbuing all of the four senior members of the Order of the Phoenix in a golden glow as they turned stonily to watch the final duel.
“I don’t want anyone else to try to help,” Harry said loudly, directing these words at his guardians specifically, who both showed their understanding with expressions of fierce pride and grit. In the total silence, Harry’s voice carried like a trumpet call, “It’s got to be like this. It’s got to be me.”
Voldemort hissed.
Sirius let out a soft wounded sound, then gritted his teeth and lifted his chin. His dark eyes glinted with inextinguishable light, burning brilliantly deep within. Beside him, Remus’ magic blazed still stronger, as calling as the moon. They held the line and did not step forward, but they were there and Harry could see them and feel them.
And he could feel his parents too. Still there, always there. Until the very end.
But Harry had had enough of endings. It was time for a new beginning, wasn’t it?
“Potter doesn’t mean that,” Voldemort said, his red eyes wide, “That isn’t how he works is it, Who are you going to use a shield today, Potter?”
“No one,” Harry said simply, “There are no more Horcruxes. It’s just you and me. Neither can live while the other survives, and one of us is about to leave for good…”
“One of us?” Voldemort jeered, and his whole body was taut and his red eyes stared, a snake that was about to strike, “You think it will be you, do you, the boy who has survived by accident, and because Dumbledore was pulling the strings?”
“Accident, was it, when my mother died to save me?” Harry asked. They were still moving sideways, both of them, in that perfect circle, maintaining the same distance from each other. “Accident, when I decided to fight in the graveyard? Accident, that I didn’t defend myself tonight, and still survived, and returned to fight again?”
“Accidents!” Voldemort screamed but still he did not strike, and the watching crowd was frozen as if Petrified, and of the hundreds in the Hall, no one seemed able to breathe but they two. “Accident and chance and the fact that you crouched and sniveled behind the skirts of greater men and women, and permitted me to kill them for you!”
“You won’t be killing anyone else tonight,” Harry said as they circled, and stared into each other’s eyes, green into red, “You won’t be able to kill any of them ever again. Don’t you get it? I was ready to die to stop you from hurting more people—”
“But you did not!”
“—I meant to, and I spoke to Death, and that’s what did it. I’ve done what my mother and my Uncle Moony did. They’re protected from you. Haven’t you noticed how none of the spells you put them on are binding? You can’t torture them. You can’t touch them. I love them, I proved it, and they are protected. You don’t learn from your mistakes, do you Riddle?”
“You dare—”
“Yes, I dare,” Harry said, “I know things you don’t know, Tom Riddle. I know lots of important things you don’t. Want to hear some, before you make another big mistake?”
Voldemort did not speak, but prowled in a circle, and Harry knew that he kept him temporarily mesmerized and at bay, held back by the faintest possibility that Harry might indeed know a final secret…
“It is love again?” Voldemort said, his snake’s face jeering, “Dumbledore’s favorite solution. Love. Which he claimed conquered Death, though love did not stop him from falling from the tower and breaking like an old waxwork? Love, which did not prevent me stamping out your Mudblood mother like a cockroach, Potter—and no one seems to love you enough to run forward this time and take my curse. So what will stop you dying when I strike?”
Harry felt it in the air around them then, although he was certain Voldemort did not. He felt it coming from Remus and Sirius and McGonagall and Molly and Ginny—it was the purest and most powerful form of magic. He felt it like a flood of energy in his veins and felt more awake than he had ever felt in his life.
“Just one thing,” Harry said and still they circled each other, wrapped in each other, held apart by nothing but the last secret.
“If it is not love that will save you this time,” Voldemort said, “you must believe that you have magic that I do not, or else a weapon more powerful than mine?”
“I believe both,” Harry said and he saw shock flit across the snakelike face, though it was instantly dispelled; Voldemort began to laugh, and the sound was more frightening than his screams; humorless and insane, it echoed around the silent Hall.
“You think you know more magic than I do?” Voldemort said, “Than I, than Lord Voldemort, who has performed magic that Dumbledore himself never dreamed?”
“Oh, he dreamed of it,” Harry said, “but he knew more than you do, knew enough not to do what you’ve done.”
“You mean he was weak!” Voldemort screamed, “Too weak to dare, too weak to take what might have been his, what will be mine!”
“No, he was cleverer than you,” Harry said, “a better Wizard, a better man.”
“I brought about the death of Albus Dumbledore!”
“You thought you did,” Harry said, “but you were wrong.”
For the first time, the watching crowd stirred as the hundreds of people around the walls drew breath as one.
“Dumbledore is dead!” Voldemort hurled the words at Harry as though they would cause him unendurable pain, “His body decays in the marble tomb on the grounds of this castle. I have seen it, Potter, and he will not return!”
“Yes, Dumbledore’s dead,” Harry said calmly, “but you didn’t have him killed. He chose his own manner of dying, chose it months before he died, arranged the whole thing with the man you thought was your servant.”
“What childish dream is this?” Voldemort said, but still he did not strike, and his red eyes did not waver from Harry’s.
“Severus Snape wasn’t yours,” Harry said, “Snape was Dumbledore’s, Dumbledore’s from the moment you started hunting down my mother. And you never realized it because of the thing you can’t understand. You never saw Snape’s Patronus did you, Riddle?”
Voldemort did not answer. They continued to circle each other.
“Snape’s Patronus was a doe,” Harry said, “the same as my mother’s, because he loved her for nearly all of his life, from the time when they were children. You should have realized,” he said as he saw Voldemort’s nostrils flare, “he asked you to spare her life, didn’t he?”
“He desired her, that was all,” Voldemort sneered, “but when she had gone, he agreed that there were other women, of purer blood, worthier of him—”
“Of course, he told you that,” Harry said, “but he was Dumbledore’s spy from the moment you threatened her, and he’s been working against you ever since! Dumbledore was already dying when Snape finished him!”
“It matters not!” Voldemort shrieked, who had followed every word with rapt attention, but now let out a cackle of mad laughter, “It matters not whether Snape was mine or Dumbledore’s, or what petty obstacles they tried to put in my path! I crushed them as I crushed your mother, Snape’s supposed great love! Oh, but it all makes sense, Potter, in ways that you do not understand! Dumbledore was trying to keep the Elder Wand away from me! He intended that Snape should be the true master of the wand! But I got there ahead of you, little boy—I reached the wand before you could get your hands on it, I understood the truth before you caught up. I killed Severus Snape three hours ago, and the Elder Wand is truly mine! Dumbledore’s last plan went wrong, Harry Potter!”
“Yeah, it did,” Harry said, “You’re right. But before you try to kill me, I’d advise you to think about what you’ve done…think….and try for some remorse, Riddle…”
“What is this?”
Of all the things that Harry had said to him, beyond any revelation or taunt, nothing had shocked Voldemort like this. Harry saw his pupils contract into thin slits, saw the skin around the eyes whiten.
“It’s your one last chance,” Harry said, “it’s all you’ve got left…I’ve seen what you’ll be otherwise…be a better person…try…try for some remorse…”
“You dare—?” Voldemort said again.
“Yes, I dare,” Harry said, “because Dumbledore’s last plan hasn’t backfired on me at all. It’s backfired on you, Riddle.”
Voldemort’s hand was trembling on the Elder Wand, and Harry gripped Draco’s very tightly. The moment, he knew, was seconds away.
“That wand still isn’t working properly for you because you murdered the wrong person. Severus Snape was never the true master of the Elder Wand. He never defeated Dumbledore.”
“He killed—”
“Aren’t you listening? Snape never beat Dumbledore! Dumbledore’s death was planned between them! Dumbledore intended to die undefeated, the wand’s last master! If all had gone as planned, the wand’s power would have died with him, because it had never been won from him!”
“But then, Potter, Dumbledore as good as gave me the wand!” Voldemort’s voice shook with malicious pleasure, “I stole the wand from its last master’s tomb! I removed it against its last master’s wishes! Its power is mine!”
“You still don’t get it, Riddle, do you? Possessing the wand isn’t enough! Holding it, using it, doesn’t really make it yours. Didn’t you listen to Ollivander? The wand choses the Wizard…the Elder Wand recognized a new master before Dumbledore died, someone who never even laid a hand on it. The new master removed the wand from Dumbledore against his will, never realizing exactly what he had done, or that the world’s most dangerous wand had given him its allegiance…”
Voldemort’s chest rose and fell rapidly, and Harry could feel the curse coming, feel it building inside the wand pointed at his face.
“The true master of the Elder Wand is Draco Malfoy.”
Blank shock showed in Voldemort’s face for a moment, but then it was gone.
“But what does it matter?” He said softly, “Even if you are right, Potter, it makes no difference to you and me. You no longer have the phoenix wand, we duel on skill alone…and after I have killed you, I can attend to Draco Malfoy…”
“But you’re too late,” Harry said, “You’ve missed your chance. I got there first. I overpowered Draco weeks ago. I Disarmed this wand from him.”
Harry twitched the hawthorn wand, and he felt the eyes of everyone upon it.
“So it all comes down to this, doesn’t it?” Harry whispered, “Does the wand in your hand know its last master was Disarmed? Because if it does…I am the true master of the Elder Wand.”
A red-gold glow burst suddenly across the enchanted sky above them as an edge of dazzling sun above them appeared over the sill of the nearest window. Its rays shone into Remus’ magic, and the Great Hall was filled with light.
The light hit both their faces at the same time, so that Voldemort’s was suddenly a flaming blur. Harry heard the high voice shriek as he too yelled his best hope to the heavens, pointing Draco’s wand:
“Avada Kedavra!”
“Expelliarmus!”
The bang was like a cannon blast, and the golden flames that erupted between them, at the dead center of the circle they had been treading, marked the point where the spells had collided.
Harry saw Voldemort’s green jet meet his own spell, saw the Elder Wand fly high, dark against the sunrise, spinning across the enchanted ceiling like the head of Nagini, spinning through the air toward the master it would not kill, who had come to take full possession of it at last.
And Harry, with the unerring skill of the Seeker, caught the wand in his free hand as Voldemort fell backward, arms splayed, the slit pupils of the scarlet eyes rolling upward.
Tom Riddle hit the floor with a mundane finality. His body feeble and shrunken, the white hands empty, the snakelike face gaunt and unknowing. Voldemort was dead, killed by his own rebounding curse, and Harry stood with two wands in his hand, staring down at his enemy’s shell.
One shivering second of silence. The shock of the moment suspended—
—and then the tumult.
Screams and cheers and roars rent the air. The fierce dawn sun dazzled the windows as they thundered toward him and the first to reach him were Ron and Hermione. And it was their arms which were wrapped around him, their incomprehensible shouts that deafened him.
Then Ginny, Neville, and Luna were there. And then the Weasleys and Ayala and Diana, Hagrid and Kingsley, McGonagall and Hooch and Flitwick and Sprout, and Harry could not hear a word anyone was shouting, nor whose hands were seizing him, pulling him, trying to hug some part of him, hundreds of them pressing in—
And then Sirius was there.
His arms wrapped around Harry’s shoulders and for a moment, Sirius just held him. And Harry allowed himself to gasp, and then inhale, exhale on his godfather’s shoulder.
“The Boy Who Lived,” Sirius breathed by Harry’s ear, “James and Lily’s boy. Moony and I’s boy. You. The Boy Who Lived…”
Sirius kissed Harry’s cheek and then stepped back and ruffled Harry’s hair, smiling wider than Harry had ever seen. And Harry just stared up at the older man, feeling as if he had never been more grateful to be alive.
Remus stepped up beside Sirius. There were long tear tracks down his scarred and lined face, but his smile was so warm…Harry could not help but smile warmly back. Remus reached a hand to sweep the greying hair out of his eyes and then let out a sound half-way between a laugh and a sob and then dove forward. Remus nearly lifted Harry off of his feet as he hugged him.
The sun rose steadily over Hogwarts, and the Great Hall blazed with light and life. Harry was an indispensable part of the mingled outpourings of jubilation and mourning, of grief and celebration.
They wanted him there with them, their leader and symbol, their savior and their guide, and that he had not slept, that he craved the company of only a few of them, seemed to occur to no one. He must speak to the bereaved, clasp their hands, witness their tears, receive their thanks, hear the news creeping in from every quarter as the morning drew on; that the Imperiused up and down the country had come back to themselves, that Death Eaters were fleeing or else captured, that Kingsley had been made temporary Minister of Magic…
They moved Voldemort’s body and laid it in a chamber off the Hall, away from the bodies of Fred, Tonks, Ted, Lavender Brown, Colin Creevey, and fifty others who had died fighting him.
McGonagall had replaced the House tables, but no one was sitting according to House anymore. Everyone was jumbled together, teachers and pupils, ghosts and parents, centaurs and house-elves. Firenze lay recovering in a corner, and Grawp peered in through a smashed window. After a while, exhausted and drained, Harry found himself sitting on a table beside Luna.
“I’d want some peace and quiet, if it were me,” She said.
“I’d love some,” Harry replied.
“I’ll distract them all,” she said, “Use your Cloak.”
And before he could say a word, she cried, “Oooh, look, a Blibbering Humdinger!” and pointed out of the window. Everyone who heard looked around, and Harry slid the Cloak up over himself, and got to his feet.
Now he could move through the Hall without interference. He spotted Ginny two tables away; she was sitting with her head on her mother’s shoulder. There would be time to talk later, hours and days and years in which to talk.
Andromeda had arrived; she was now being held by Sirius as she sobbed. A few seats distant Remus sat with Teddy in his lap, their heads bowed, talking softly to one another. Harry saw Neville, the sword of Gryffindor lying beside his plate at he ate, surrounded by a knot of fervent admirers. Diana and Ayala were aiding Madam Pomfrey, and McGonagall and Hooch were speaking to the Gryffindor Quidditch team.
Along the aisle between the tables Harry walked, and he spotted the Malfoys, huddled together as though unsure whether or not they were supposed to be there, but no one was paying them any attention. Everywhere Harry looked, he saw families reunited, and finally, he saw them.
“It’s me,” he muttered, crouching between them, “Will you come with me?”
They stood up at once, and together, he, Ron, and Hermione left the Great Hall. Great chunks were missing from the ceiling of the entrance hall and the marble staircase, and rubble and bloodstains occurred every few steps as they climbed.
Somewhere in the distance they could hear Peeves zooming through the corridors singing a victory song of his own composition:
We did it, we bashed them, wee Potter’s the one,
And Voldy’s gone moldy, so now let’s have fun!
“Really gives a feeling for the scope and tragedy of the whole thing, doesn’t it?” Ron said, pushing open a door to let Harry and Hermione through.
Happiness would come, Harry thought, but at the moment it was muffled by exhaustion, and the pain of losing Fred, Tonks, and Ted pierced him like a physical wound every few steps. Most of all he felt the most stupendous relief, and a longing to sleep. But first he owed an explanation to Ron and Hermione, who had stuck by him for so long, and who deserved the truth.
Painstakingly, he counted what he had seen in the Pensieve, and what had happened in the forest, and they had not even begun to express their shock and amazement when at last they arrived at the place to which they had been walking, though none of them had mentioned their destination.
Since he had last seen it, the gargoyle guarding the entrance to the headmaster’s study had been knocked aside; it stood lopsided, looking a little punch-drunk, and Harry wondered whether it would be able to distinguish passwords anymore.
“Can we go up?” He asked the gargoyle.
“Feel free,” the statue groaned.
They clambered over him and onto the stone spiral staircase that moved slowly upward like an escalator. Harry pushed open the door at the top. He had one brief glimpse of the stone Pensieve on the desk where he had left it, and then an earsplitting noise made him cry out, thinking of curses and returning Death Eaters and the rebirth of Voldemort—
But it was applause. All around the walls, the headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts were giving him a standing ovation; they waved their hats and in some cases their wigs, they danced up and down on the chairs on which they had been painted.
But Harry had eyes only for the one man who stood in the largest portrait directly behind the headmaster’s chair. Tears were sliding down from behind the half-moon spectacles into the log silver beard, and the pride and the gratitude emanating from him filled Harry with the same balm as phoenix song.
At last, Harry held up his hands and the portraits fell respectably silent, beaming and mopping their eyes and waiting eagerly for him to speak. Harry directed his words at Dumbledore, however, and chose each word with care. Exhausted and bleary-eyed though he was, he must make one last effort, seeking one last piece of advice.
“The thing that was hidden in the Snitch,” he began, “I dropped it in the forest. I don’t know exactly where, but I’m not going to go looking for it again. Do you agree?”
“My dear boy,” Dumbledore said, “A wise and courageous decision, but no less than I would have expected of you. Does anyone else know where it fell?”
“No one,” Harry said and Dumbledore nodded in satisfaction.
“I’m going to keep Ignotus’ present though,” Harry said and Dumbledore beamed.
“But of course, Harry, it is yours forever, until you pass it on!”
“And then there’s this.”
Harry held up the Elder Wand, and Ron and Hermione looked at with a reverence that, even in his befuddled and sleep-deprived state, Harry did not like to see.
“I don’t want it,” Harry said.
“What?” Ron said loudly, “Are you mental?”
“I know it’s powerful,” Harry said wearily, “But I was happier with mine. So…” He looked up at Hermione and inclined his head. She reached into her beaded bag and withdrew the two halves of holly still connected by the finest thread of phoenix feather. Hermione had said it could not be repaired, that the damage was too severe. All he knew was that if this did not work, nothing would.
He laid the broken wand upon the headmaster’s desk, touched it with the very tip of the Elder Wand, and said, “Reparo.”
As his wand resealed, red sparks flew out of its end. Harry knew that he had succeeded. He picked up the holly and phoenix wand and felt a sudden warmth in his fingers.
“I’m putting the Elder Wand,” he told Dumbledore, who was watching him with enormous affection and admiration, “back where it came from. It can stay there. If I die a natural death like Ignotus, its power will be broken, won’t it? The previous master will never have been defeated. That’ll be the end of it.”
Dumbledore nodded. They smiled at each other.
“Are you sure” Ron said. There was the faintest trace of longing in his voice as he looked at the Elder Wand.
“I think Harry’s right,” Hermione said quietly.
“That wand’s more trouble than it’s worth,” Harry said, “and quite honestly…” he turned away from the painted portraits, thinking now only of the four-poster bed lying waiting for him in Gryffindor Tower, and wondering whether Sirius and Remus might bring him a sandwich up there, “I’ve had enough trouble for a lifetime.”