Chapter 13 - Le Phénix et la Fleur

"Hello, Tom," Dumbledore said quietly.

The graveyard fell silent. Even the Death Eaters, masked faces turning between their master and the newcomer, seemed to hold their breath. Voldemort's lipless mouth curved into a terrible smile, his red eyes gleaming in the darkness.

"Dumbledore," he replied, voice high and cold. "Always interfering where you are not wanted. How predictable."

Dumbledore's blue eyes were hard as steel as he took a step forward, his wand held casually at his side. "I confess I find your resurrection party rather badly timed, Tom. You might have chosen a location with better accessibility."

"Always the jokes," Voldemort hissed. "Even at the end."

Harry scrambled to his feet, his legs still weak from the Cruciatus Curse. McGonagall pressed his wand into his hand as Fleur rushed to his side.

"Are you alright?" she whispered, helping steady him.

"I'm fine," Harry muttered, gripping his wand tightly. "Stay close."

Voldemort raised his wand with lightning speed. "Avada Kedavra!"

The killing curse shot toward Dumbledore, who vanished with a swirl of his cloak, reappearing three graves away. The curse struck a marble angel, shattering it into a thousand pieces.

"Disappointing, Tom," Dumbledore said calmly. "Surely you can do better."

The Dark Lord's face contorted with rage. "KILL THEM ALL!" he shrieked to his followers.

The graveyard erupted into chaos. Jets of light crisscrossed through the darkness as the wizards and witches who came with Dumbledore and the Death Eaters engaged in furious combat. The sounds of incantations, screams, and explosions filled the night air.

Sirius appeared at Harry's side, his face fierce. "Stay down!" he commanded, pushing Harry and Fleur behind a large tombstone. "We need to get you out of here!"

A silver-masked Death Eater approached, wand raised. "Black!" he spat, pulling off his mask to reveal Lucius Malfoy's aristocratic features. "I should have known you'd be here defending Potter."

"Lucius," Sirius replied with a dangerous smile. "I've been hoping to run into you."

"Crucio!" Malfoy shouted.

Sirius dodged, the smile not leaving his face. "You'll have to do better than that," he taunted, firing back a barrage of hexes that forced Malfoy to retreat behind a mausoleum.

"We can help," Harry insisted, peering around the tombstone. "Fleur and I—"

"Stay put!" Sirius growled, ducking as a curse sailed over his head. "Dumbledore's orders!"

But Harry's attention was drawn to where Snape was battling a bulky Death Eater. The Death Eater's mask had fallen away, revealing a brutish face Harry didn't recognize.

"Is that Snape on our side?" Harry asked incredulously.

"Apparently," Sirius replied grimly. "Though if he survives this, I might kill him myself."

Across the graveyard, McGonagall was dueling two Death Eaters simultaneously, her wand work so fast it was nearly invisible. Nearby, the pink-haired witch Harry hadn't recognized was fighting alongside a grizzled man.

"We can't just hide," Fleur said, her voice steadier than Harry had expected. She clutched his hand, and he felt the familiar warmth of their bond pulsing between them. "The pendant, 'Arry. Your mother's pendant."

Harry's hand moved to the silver stag hanging from his neck. It felt warm against his skin, almost vibrating with energy.

"We fight together," he decided, meeting Fleur's eyes. She nodded, determination hardening her beautiful features.

As if sensing their decision, a Death Eater appeared around the tombstone, his wand trained on Sirius's back as the latter continued dueling Malfoy.

"Protego!" Harry and Fleur shouted in unison.

The shield that erupted before them wasn't the usual translucent bubble but a solid wall of golden light. The Death Eater's curse rebounded, striking him squarely in the chest. He flew backward, crashing into a headstone with a sickening crack.

Sirius turned, his eyes widening at the display of magic. "Bloody hell!"

The Death Eater struggled to his feet, blood streaming from beneath his mask. "Filthy half-blood!" he snarled at Harry. "And your Veela whore!"

"Sectumsempra!" they shouted together, the spell one Harry had seen in the margins of Snape's old potions textbook.

Two jets of light—one red, one blue—spiraled together before striking the Death Eater. The combined spell hit with such force that the man was lifted off his feet. Deep gashes appeared across his body, blood spraying in an arc as he collapsed to the ground, twitching.

Harry swallowed hard, shocked by the brutality of what they'd done, but there was no time for regret. Another Death Eater was approaching, and beyond him, Harry could see Dumbledore and Voldemort locked in an incredible duel.

"Enough of this," Voldemort snarled after a particularly powerful shield from Dumbledore dissipated his attack. "Nagini, to me!"

The massive snake slithered rapidly through the battlefield toward her master. Seeing his intention, Dumbledore flicked his wand, and a ring of fire erupted around Voldemort, cutting off the snake's path.

"You will not escape tonight, Tom," Dumbledore said, his voice carrying across the graveyard despite its quietness. "It ends here."

Voldemort's face contorted with fury. "Nothing ends tonight but your interference, old man!" He slashed his wand through the air, dispelling the flames. "Avada Kedavra!"

Dumbledore conjured a tombstone to intercept the killing curse, which exploded in a shower of marble fragments. Through the debris, both wizards continued their deadly exchange.

"We need to help Dumbledore," Harry said, watching as Voldemort summoned a whirlwind of broken glass and stone to hurl at the Headmaster.

"No," Sirius grabbed his arm. "You don't understand what you're seeing, Harry. This is magic beyond any of us. Even you two with your bond."

As if to punctuate Sirius's warning, Voldemort and Dumbledore's spells collided in mid-air with a thunderous explosion that sent everyone staggering. The shockwave rippled outward, knocking over tombstones and throwing combatants to the ground.

When the dust cleared, Harry saw that Voldemort had used the distraction to retrieve Nagini. The snake wrapped around his shoulders as he backed away, clearly preparing to disapparate.

"Not tonight, Tom," Dumbledore said calmly, making a complex gesture with his wand.

The air around Voldemort shimmered, and his attempt to disapparate ended with a howl of rage. "What have you done?" he demanded.

"A simple anti-disapparition jinx," Dumbledore replied, advancing steadily. "Though I confess, the variant I used is my own invention."

Voldemort's eyes darted around the graveyard, calculating. Most of his Death Eaters were already defeated or locked in losing battles. Snape had subdued his opponent and was now helping McGonagall corner another. Sirius had Lucius on the defensive, blood streaming from a cut on the blond man's aristocratic face.

"You've lost, Tom," Dumbledore said softly. "Surrender now."

Voldemort's terrible face twisted into a smile that sent chills down Harry's spine. "I think not, Dumbledore. If I cannot leave..." His red eyes fixed on Harry. "Then neither shall the boy."

Voldemort slashed his wand through the air. "Avada Kedavra!"

The jet of green light shot not at Dumbledore, but at Harry.

Harry tried to move away, to jump away from the curse, but he could not move, his legs were stuck.

The curse struck him square in the chest.

The world around him began to fade, darkness creeping in from the edges of his vision. As his body crumpled to the ground, Harry's last thought was of Fleur—her smile, her laugh, the feeling of her hand in his. Then everything went black, and Harry Potter knew no more.

In the distance, beyond the veil of consciousness, he heard Voldemort's triumphant laughter and Fleur's voice, raw with anguish, screaming his name.

"HARRY!"

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Harry became aware slowly, as if waking from a deep sleep. There was no pain, no memory of the green light that had struck him. Only a gentle sensation of floating, followed by the solid feeling of something beneath him. He opened his eyes.

White mist swirled around him, gradually taking shape as he blinked. He was lying on what appeared to be a gleaming white floor, and as he sat up, he realized he recognized his surroundings, though they were transformed. King's Cross Station, but clean and empty, everything was made of white.

Harry looked down at himself. He was wearing clean, white robes with no trace of the blood and dirt from the graveyard. The absence of pain was startling after everything he'd just experienced. He touched his chest where the killing curse had struck him, but felt nothing unusual.

"'Arry?"

He turned sharply at the familiar voice, his heart leaping. Fleur stood a few meters away, also dressed in white, her silver-blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. Her blue eyes were wide with confusion and wonder.

"Fleur!" Harry crossed the distance between them in an instant, pulling her into his arms. She felt solid, real, warm—not like a ghost or a dream. "How are you here? You weren't... you didn't..."

"Die?" She shook her head, her hands coming up to cradle his face. "Non, I don't think so. I was in the graveyard, watching you fall, and then... a pulling sensation, like our bond was drawing me somewhere. Then I was here."

Harry pressed his forehead against hers. "The bond," he whispered. "It must have brought you with me, wherever 'here' is."

They looked around at the misty station. It was peaceful, silent except for the soft sounds of their breathing. No trains, no people, no signs of life beyond themselves.

"Are we dead?" Fleur asked quietly.

Before Harry could answer, a new voice spoke from behind them.

"Not exactly."

Harry froze. The voice was unfamiliar, and yet he knew it instantly, as if he'd heard it all his life. Slowly, he turned.

A man stood a few meters away, tall with untidy black hair that stuck up at the back, just like Harry's own. Behind round glasses, hazel eyes—so different from Harry's green ones, yet so similar in shape. Beside him stood a woman with dark red hair and almond-shaped green eyes—Harry's eyes—her lovely face showing a mixture of joy and sorrow.

"Mum?" Harry's voice cracked. "Dad?"

Lily Potter smiled, tears shimmering in her eyes. "Hello, my brave, beautiful boy."

Harry felt his legs give way beneath him. If not for Fleur's steadying arm around his waist, he might have collapsed. His parents looked young.

"How is this possible?" he managed to ask.

James Potter stepped forward. "You're at a crossroads, Harry. Not quite living, not quite dead. And we're here because... well, because we've never really left you."

"The bond also helps," Lily added, her gaze moving to Fleur. "L'Union du Soleil. It's incredibly rare, incredibly powerful. It's made this meeting possible in a way it might not otherwise have been."

Harry felt Fleur's surprise through their connection. "You know about our bond?" she asked.

Lily nodded, her smile gentle. "We see more than you might think, from where we are."

Harry couldn't contain himself any longer. He moved forward, and his parents stepped closer, and then they were embracing him—solid, warm, real. He breathed, his eyes burned like fire. Harry felt tears streaming down his face.

When they finally separated, Harry wiped his eyes. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, so many things he needed to say, but one pressed most urgently.

"Voldemort," he said. "The killing curse. Why am I here? Why am I not... gone?"

James and Lily exchanged a look before Lily answered.

"When Voldemort tried to kill you as a baby, something unprecedented happened. The curse rebounded because of my sacrifice, but something else occurred too. A fragment of Voldemort's soul, already unstable from his previous murders and attempts at immortality, broke off and attached itself to the only living thing in the room." Lily then went on and explained what a Horcrux was, and how it worked, and how Voldemort made him one by accident the night the curse bounced back, and hit him.

"Me," Harry whispered. "I was his Horcrux."

James nodded grimly. "An unintentional one, but yes. That's what gave you the connection to him— why your scar hurt in his presence, why you sometimes saw through his eyes." He explained, and Harry remembered the nightmare he had of the old man being killed by Voldemort.

"But now," Lily continued, "Voldemort himself has destroyed that fragment. The killing curse struck the piece of his soul within you, not your own soul. That's why you're here, in this in-between place, instead of... moving on."

Harry tried to process this. "So the Horcrux is gone? The connection is broken?"

"Yes," his father confirmed. "You're free of him, Harry. Truly and completely, for the first time in your life."

Lily stepped closer to Fleur, her expression soft. "I've been watching over Harry all these years, unable to protect him as I wanted to. But then you found him, singing by the lake."

Harry felt heat rise in his face. "You saw that?"

James chuckled, the sound so like Harry's own laugh. "We've seen quite a bit, son. Your singing voice is impressive, by the way. Certainly didn't get that from either of us. Your mother sounded like a dying cat whenever she tried to carry a tune."

"James!" Lily swatted his arm, but she was laughing. "He's not wrong, though. Neither of us could sing to save our lives. It must have skipped a generation."

The casual teasing, made Harry's throat tight with emotion. This was what he'd missed his entire life—these simple moments of family.

Lily turned back to Fleur, her expression becoming serious again. "You filled his life with love when we couldn't. For that, I will be eternally grateful."

Fleur's eyes glistened with tears. "He saved me too," she said softly. "My whole life, people have only seen my beauty, my Veela heritage. 'Arry saw past that to who I really am."

"That's my boy," James said proudly, ruffling Harry's hair in a gesture so achingly familiar though Harry had never actually experienced it before. "Always seeing the heart of things, just like his mother."

Harry looked between his parents, suddenly realizing the transience of this moment. "How long can we stay here? Can we... can I..."

"Stay?" Lily's eyes filled with understanding. "You could. That's one choice available to you."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, though part of him already knew.

James gestured around them. "This is a crossroads, Harry. You could choose to board a train, so to speak—move on with us to what comes next. Or you could choose to go back, to finish what you started."

"Go back to fight Voldemort," Harry said slowly. "But if I go back, I leave you again."

"We've never left you, Harry," his mother said softly, reaching out to touch the silver stag pendant that still hung around his neck, even in this place. "My protection lives on in this, and in your blood. It always will."

"The pendant," Harry said, looking down at it. "Sirius said you made it."

Lily nodded. "It's more than just a charm. It's a physical anchor for the protection my sacrifice created. As long as you wear it, it strengthens the shield my love placed around you."

"It responds to your need," James explained. "And now, with the Horcrux gone and your bond with Fleur fully unconstrained, that protection will be even stronger."

Harry turned to Fleur, searching her face. "If we go back... we could die for real. Voldemort is still there, still powerful."

Fleur's blue eyes met his with unwavering certainty. "We face him together, or not at all. Whatever you choose, I am with you."

The simplicity of her commitment made his heart swell. He looked back at his parents, memorizing their faces, knowing that whatever he decided, this moment was finite.

"If we go back and defeat him," Harry said, "what happens to the other Horcruxes? There are more, right?"

"There are," James confirmed. "But with one of you already 'killed' by Voldemort himself, his connection to those vessels is weakened. They'll be easier to find, easier to destroy."

"And if you return with your bond intact," Lily added, "you and Fleur will have power Voldemort knows not—the very thing the prophecy spoke of."

"Love," Harry said softly.

His mother smiled. "Love, yes. But also understanding. Sacrifice. Courage. All the things we hoped to teach you, that you've learned anyway, despite everything."

Harry felt torn between two impossible choices. To stay with his parents, to finally know them... or to return to the pain and chaos of battle, to the responsibility that had been thrust upon him since infancy, but he knew deep down there was only one real choice, he still wanted a future with Fleur, to be with her, and to love her.

"I have to go back," he said, the words painful. "I need to finish this. For everyone still fighting, for everyone who died trying to stop him. For you."

His parents nodded, pride shining in their eyes.

"Before we say goodbye," Harry said quickly, "I need to know—will it hurt? Going back?"

James smiled, the expression so like Harry's own that it was like looking in a mirror. "Dying? Not at all. Quicker and easier than falling asleep."

"And living?" Harry asked.

His father's smile turned rueful. "That's the part that hurts, son. But it's worth it. Every moment is worth it."

Lily kissed Harry's forehead, right over his scar. "We'll be waiting for you, when it's truly time. But not yet. Not for many, many years, if we have any say in it."

She turned to Fleur, embracing her as well. "Take care of each other," she said fiercely. "And live. Really live."

The mist was beginning to thicken around them, the station starting to fade.

"I love you," Harry said, his voice breaking. "I've always loved you both."

"We know," his father said, his form becoming indistinct. "We've always known."

His mother's voice came one last time through the swirling whiteness. "Be brave, my darling. We're with you, always."

And then they were gone, and Harry felt himself falling, Fleur's hand clasped tightly in his as they plummeted back toward life and pain and battle—and hope.

Pain returned first. Harry gasped as air filled his lungs, his body jerking with the sudden shock of life. His eyes snapped open to the night sky above the graveyard, stars partially obscured by smoke from magical fires still burning around them. Every muscle ached, his chest throbbing where the killing curse had struck, but he was undeniably alive.

Next to him, he heard Fleur draw a ragged breath, her hand still clasped in his from their journey back. He turned his head to see her blue eyes fluttering open, confusion giving way to recognition as she looked at him.

"We made it," she whispered, her voice hoarse.

The sounds of battle still raged around them, spells crashing against shields, shouts and cries echoing through the graveyard. Harry pushed himself up on his elbows, taking stock of the situation.

Voldemort stood several yards away, his back to them as he dueled fiercely with Dumbledore. The Dark Lord's movements were frenetic, almost desperate. Neither had noticed yet that Harry and Fleur had returned.

Harry's fingers closed around his wand, still clutched in his hand even after death.

"It's time to end this," he said quietly.

As if sensing his intentions, Voldemort suddenly stiffened, his serpentine head turning slowly. Red eyes widened in shock and fear—an expression Harry had never thought to see on that inhuman face.

"Impossible," Voldemort hissed, momentarily forgetting Dumbledore. "You were dead. I killed you!"

Harry rose to his feet, helping Fleur up beside him. "I think you missed," he replied. He could feel their bond humming between them, clearer and more powerful than before, free from the shadow of Voldemort's soul fragment.

Dumbledore's blue eyes met Harry's across the battlefield, a question in them. Harry gave an almost imperceptible nod. The Headmaster's face showed a brief flash of profound relief before resuming its mask of determined focus.

"What dark magic is this?" Voldemort demanded, raising his wand again. "No matter. I shall simply kill you again, and your Veela whore with you!"

"You can try," Harry said, raising his own wand alongside Fleur's. "But you won't succeed. Not anymore."

Voldemort's face contorted with rage. "Avada Kedavra!"

The killing curse shot toward them. Harry and Fleur moved their wands, creating a golden shield unlike any Harry had ever seen. The curse struck the shield and rebounded, forcing Voldemort to dive aside, his robes smoking where the spell had grazed him.

The Dark Lord stared at them in disbelief. "How...?"

"Love," Harry said simply. "The power you know not."

Fury replaced shock on Voldemort's face. He flicked his wand, and the ground beneath them erupted, forcing Harry and Fleur to leap apart. Nagini, who had been coiled at the edge of the battle, slithered forward at her master's silent command, jaws opening to reveal deadly fangs.

"Stupefy!" Harry shouted, aiming his wand at the massive snake. The red jet of light struck Nagini directly, but instead of stunning her, the spell simply dissipated across her scales like water on oil.

"Reducto!" Fleur cast from several yards away. Her spell hit the snake's middle section, but Nagini merely shuddered, the curse seemingly absorbed by her enchanted hide.

The snake turned her attention to Fleur, moving quite fast. Harry's heart leapt into his throat.

"Incendio!" he bellowed, directing a stream of fire at Nagini. The flames engulfed the snake momentarily, but when they cleared, she continued her advance, completely unharmed.

Fleur backed away, her wand moving in complex patterns. "Sectumsempra!" she called, using the spell they had cast together earlier. The cutting curse struck Nagini's head, but instead of slicing through, it glanced off, leaving not even a mark on the serpent's scales.

"Why isn't anything working?" Harry shouted, racing to position himself between the snake and Fleur.

"She must be protected!" Fleur replied, casting a Blasting Curse that should have blown the snake to pieces. Instead, Nagini merely coiled tighter, preparing to strike.

Harry and Fleur moved together, combining their magic through their bond. "Confringo Maxima!" they shouted in unison.

Their combined spell—far more powerful than either could produce alone—struck Nagini with such force that she was thrown backward several yards. For a moment, Harry thought they'd succeeded, but the snake righted herself almost immediately, slithering toward them with more anger.

"Our spells aren't affecting her," Harry realized, a cold understanding washing over him. "She's a Horcrux—she can't be destroyed by normal magic!"

Nagini lunged, jaws open wide, fangs dripping with venom. Harry and Fleur dove in opposite directions, narrowly avoiding the strike. The snake recovered instantly, turning to follow Fleur.

"Fawkes!" Dumbledore called suddenly.

A flash of crimson streaked across the night sky, and Fawkes the phoenix appeared, circling overhead with something clutched in his talons. The phoenix dropped the object at Harry's feet—the Sorting Hat, looking worn and patched as always.

Harry understood immediately. He snatched up the hat, plunging his hand inside as Nagini lunged toward Fleur. His fingers closed around cold metal, and he pulled the Sword of Gryffindor from the depths of the hat.

"Fleur, down!" he shouted.

She dropped instantly, and Harry swung the sword in a wide arc. The blade, imbued with basilisk venom, sliced cleanly through Nagini's body just behind her head. The snake's severed form thrashed once before falling still, black smoke rising from the wound with an unearthly scream.

Voldemort's howl of rage was terrible to hear. He staggered as if physically struck, one hand clutching at his chest.

"That's another piece of your soul gone, Tom," Dumbledore said calmly, moving to stand beside Harry and Fleur. "How many remains? Two? Three?"

"It doesn't matter," Voldemort snarled, recovering quickly. "I have power you cannot imagine, Dumbledore. Potter's luck will not save him again!"

The battle around them had shifted. Most of the Death Eaters were down—either unconscious, bound, or dead. The wizards and witches were converging, forming a loose circle around the confrontation at the center of the graveyard. Harry spotted Sirius, blood-spattered but standing, his face grim as he trained his wand on Lucius Malfoy's motionless form. McGonagall and Flitwick stood shoulder to shoulder, their expressions fierce. Snape was on one knee nearby, clutching his side, but his wand remained steady in his hand.

Voldemort seemed to realize his predicament. His eyes darted around, calculating. With a sudden movement, he swept his wand in a wide arc, conjuring a ring of Fiendfyre that roared outward, forcing everyone back.

"Look out!" Harry shouted as a tendril of magical flame snaked toward an injured witch. Fleur reacted instantly, casting a powerful shield charm that deflected the fire.

Through the flames, Harry could see Voldemort preparing to Apparate, the anti-disapparition jinx having fallen when Dumbledore was distracted.

"No!" Harry thrust his hand forward instinctively, the Sword of Gryffindor still clutched in his grip. To his astonishment, a pulse of magic shot from his fingertips—not his usual magic.

The magic struck Voldemort, forcing him back to solid form mid-disapparition. He stumbled, momentarily disoriented, and Harry knew this was their chance.

"Fleur," he called, holding out his free hand. "Together."

She moved to his side, her fingers intertwining with his. The warmth of their bond surged between them, and Harry felt something new—a resonance with the sword in his other hand, as if the ancient magic of the weapon recognized and responded to their union.

"L'Union du Soleil," Fleur whispered, raising her wand alongside Harry's.

Voldemort had recovered, his terrible face twisted with hatred as he raised his wand. "Avada Kedavra!" he screamed, desperation making his voice crack.

Harry and Fleur cast together, not with a shield charm, but with the simplest spell Harry knew. "Expelliarmus!"

The disarming charm that left their wands was unlike anything Harry had ever seen—not red, but a brilliant golden light that met the green killing curse in midair. Where the spells collided, a shockwave of pure magic erupted, momentarily blinding everyone.

When Harry could see again, he witnessed something extraordinary. The golden light of their combined spell had not just blocked Voldemort's curse—it had reversed it. The green jet of the killing curse was flowing backward, connected to their golden spell like opposing rivers meeting, slowly pushing back toward Voldemort himself.

The Dark Lord's face showed fear now, genuine terror as he poured more power into his spell, trying to force it forward again. But the golden light continued its inexorable advance, drawing strength from Harry and Fleur's bond.

"It's impossible," Voldemort gasped, his wand arm trembling with effort. "I cannot be defeated by—by love."

"That's why you'll lose," Harry said, his voice carrying across the now-silent graveyard. "You never understood it. Not when my mother died for me, not now with Fleur and me."

The golden light touched the tip of Voldemort's wand. Then, with a sound like a thunderclap, the yew wand exploded into splinters. The backlash of magical energy struck Voldemort, lifting him off his feet and slamming him back against a marble tomb. He crumpled to the ground, wandless and stunned.

Dumbledore moved instantly, conjuring silver chains that wrapped around Voldemort's prone form, binding him securely. Additional spells followed—containment charms, anti-magic wards, layers of protection to ensure the Dark Lord could not escape.

Silence fell over the graveyard. The only sounds were the crackling of dying magical fires and the labored breathing of the combatants. Harry stood motionless, the Sword of Gryffindor hanging loosely in his grasp, scarcely able to believe what had just happened.

Then Sirius was there, pulling Harry into a fierce embrace. "You did it," he whispered hoarsely. "Merlin, Harry, you bloody did it."

"We did it," Harry corrected, reaching for Fleur's hand again. She moved into their embrace, and Harry felt her trembling against him.

Dumbledore approached, his face showing signs of fatigue but his blue eyes twinkling once more. "Well done," he said simply. "Both of you."

Harry looked around the graveyard, taking stock of the aftermath. The others were securing the remaining Death Eaters, most of whom were unconscious or bound. Snape sat against a headstone, allowing Madam Pomfrey, who must have arrived with reinforcements, to tend to a deep gash in his side. Despite his obvious pain, the Potions Master's gaze was fixed on Voldemort's bound form.

"Casualties?" Harry asked quietly.

Dumbledore's expression sobered. "Three of our side wounded seriously, but they will recover. No deaths, thankfully. Of the Death Eaters, four did not survive the battle."

Harry's eyes found Sirius again, who stood over Lucius Malfoy's motionless body. Reading his expression, Sirius shook his head. "Not dead," he said grimly. "Though not for lack of trying. He'll face justice this time—no bribes, no Imperius defense."

"Only two escaped," McGonagall added, approaching with Flitwick at her side. "Crabbe and Goyle Senior managed to slip away in the confusion, but without their master, they pose little immediate threat."

Harry nodded, feeling a complex mixture of relief, exhaustion, and lingering tension. It seemed impossible that it could be over so quickly, after years of fear and preparation.

"What happens now?" he asked, looking at Voldemort, who had regained consciousness and was glaring at them with pure hatred in his red eyes.

"Now," Dumbledore said gravely, "we ensure he can never return again. The remaining Horcruxes must be found and destroyed. But that is a task for tomorrow." He placed a gentle hand on Harry's shoulder. "Tonight, you have done enough. More than enough."

Fleur leaned against Harry, her strength finally flagging. "Je suis si fatiguée," she murmured.

Harry pulled her closer, supporting her weight. "Let's go home," he said softly.

Dumbledore nodded. "Hogwarts awaits. I daresay you've earned a rest before the celebrations begin."

"I don't want celebrations," Harry said honestly. "I just want..." He trailed off, not sure how to articulate what he wanted—peace, normalcy, a chance to simply be a teenager in love.

"I know," Dumbledore said, understanding in his eyes. "And you shall have it, Harry. You shall have it."

The Headmaster turned to Voldemort, conjuring a special portkey designed to transport even a bound prisoner. "The Ministry's secure holding cells await you, Tom. I believe you'll find them quite resistant to your particular talents."

Snape struggled to his feet, waving away Madam Pomfrey's protests. His face was ashen from blood loss, but determination kept him upright. "I will accompany you, Headmaster," he said, his voice ragged. "There are... precautions that should be taken."

Harry remembered something then. "Professor," he called to Dumbledore. "His wand."

He stooped to collect the splintered remains of Voldemort's yew wand, scattered across the ground.

Dumbledore accepted them gravely. "These will be destroyed properly. The brother wand to your own, Harry—a connection now severed, like so many others tonight."

Harry looked down at his own wand, then at the Sword of Gryffindor still clutched in his hand. He offered the sword back to Dumbledore, who shook his head.

"Keep it for now," the Headmaster said. "I suspect we may need it again before this is truly finished."

The wizards and witches began to disapparate with their prisoners. Sirius approached, putting an arm around Harry's shoulders. "Ready to go, prongslet?"

The childhood nickname made Harry's throat tight with emotion. "Yeah," he managed. "Let's go."

Fleur slipped her arm around his waist, her blue eyes meeting his with exhaustion but also deep love. "Together," she whispered.

"Always together."

As they prepared to leave the graveyard behind, Harry glanced up at the night sky. Somewhere beyond those stars, he knew his parents were watching. For the first time in his life, he felt they might actually be proud of the person he had become.

"Thank you," he whispered to the heavens.

Then, with Fleur at his side and Sirius supporting them both, Harry left the graveyard behind.

After they returned to Hogwarts, they explained a few things in a quiet voice to Minister Fudge. It was left for Dumbledore to deal with fake Moody.

From above came the unmistakable sound of drawers being yanked open, items clattering to the floor, and the muffled curses of a man in a hurry.

"Let me go first," Sirius whispered, his wand already raised.

"No," Dumbledore said quietly. "Barty Crouch Jr. is powerful. I will deal with him."

The Headmaster waved his wand in a complex pattern, and Harry felt a subtle magical barrier form around them—a silent shield. Then, with a nod to the others, Dumbledore began to climb the stairs, his movements surprisingly silent for a man his age.

They found Crouch—still disguised as Moody—frantically rummaging through a large trunk in his office. Various dark artifacts were strewn across the floor, and a small fire burned in the grate, evidence that he'd already begun destroying documents.

"Good evening, Alastor," Dumbledore said pleasantly. "Or should I say, Barty?"

The impostor froze, his magical eye swiveling wildly to take in the group assembled in the doorway. For a moment, no one moved. Then, with the reflexes of a cornered animal, Crouch spun around, wand raised.

"Avada—"

"Expelliarmus!" Harry and Fleur shouted in unison, their combined spell hitting Crouch with such force that not only did his wand fly across the room, but he himself was thrown backward into the wall, cracking the stone where he impacted.

Dumbledore moved forward, binding Crouch with silver ropes before he could recover. "It's over, Barty," he said calmly. "Your master has been captured. His reign of terror is finished before it truly began."

Crouch's borrowed face contorted with rage and disbelief. "Impossible," he spat. "The Dark Lord cannot be defeated! He is immortal, he is—"

"A prisoner." Harry interrupted with a cold voice.

Something in Crouch seemed to crumple then, the fanatical light in his eyes dimming as reality sank in. A bizarre transformation began as the Polyjuice Potion started to wear off—his magical eye popped out, rolling across the floor, and his wooden leg clunked to the side as his body warped and changed.

The straw-colored hair appeared first, then the pale, freckled skin. Within minutes, Barty Crouch Jr. sat before them in his true form, looking younger and somehow more unhinged than Harry had expected. His tongue flicked out periodically in a strange, toad-like motion.

"Where is he?" Dumbledore asked, glancing around the cluttered office. "The real Moody?"

Crouch laughed, a high, unsettling sound. "If he's not dead yet, he will be soon. Time isn't kind to those in confined spaces."

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed, and he moved to the large trunk that Crouch had been searching through. With a complex wave of his wand, he unlocked multiple magical seals, revealing not a trunk but a pit—a magically expanded space extending several feet below the floor. At the bottom, barely visible in the dim light, lay the crumpled form of the real Alastor Moody.

"Alastor!" Dumbledore called, already casting spells to lift the unconscious wizard from his prison.

Moody's appearance was shocking—emaciated, missing chunks of his grizzled hair where Crouch had harvested it for Polyjuice, and dangerously pale. But as they laid him gently on the office floor, his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths.

"He's alive," Sirius confirmed, checking the old Auror's pulse. "Barely."

"Pomfrey," Dumbledore said tersely. McGonagall, who had joined them minutes earlier, hurried to fetch the matron.

Harry watched as Snape administered three drops of Veritaserum to Crouch, whose eyes immediately glazed over as the truth potion took effect. The Potions Master began a brisk interrogation, extracting details about Voldemort's plans, the real Moody's condition, and any other Death Eaters who might still pose a threat.

Fleur leaned against Harry, her exhaustion evident. Through their bond, he could feel her relief mingling with the bone-deep weariness they both shared.

"It's really over," she murmured.

Harry nodded, watching as Kingsley Shacklebolt and another Auror arrived to take custody of Crouch. "Not just Voldemort, but all of it. The plot, the puppet master, the tool." He looked at the pathetic figure of Barty Crouch Jr., now mumbling about the Dark Lord's inevitable return even as the Aurors bound him in magic-suppressing shackles.

"What will happen to him?" Fleur asked.

"Azkaban," Sirius said grimly, coming to stand beside them. "Though given his history of escaping, I wouldn't be surprised if they add a Dementor's Kiss to his sentence this time."

The real Moody was carefully levitated onto a stretcher, Madam Pomfrey already administering potions as she supervised his transport to the hospital wing.

As the Aurors led Crouch away, still babbling about his master's power, Harry felt a strange sense of closure. The man who had set the entire year's events in motion—who had put Harry's name in the Goblet of Fire, who had turned the Triwizard Cup into a portkey, who had orchestrated everything under their noses—was finally facing justice.

"I think," Dumbledore said quietly, coming to stand beside Harry and Fleur, "that Hogwarts has had quite enough excitement for one night. Let us find you both somewhere to rest."

Harry nodded gratefully, feeling the last of his adrenaline draining away. With Fleur's hand warm in his and Sirius's steadying presence at his side, he allowed himself to be led toward the hospital wing, where Madam Pomfrey would undoubtedly insist on keeping them overnight.

"Not exactly how I imagined ending the Triwizard Tournament," Harry remarked to Fleur as they walked.

She gave him a tired smile. "Non, but then again, nothing about us has ever been ordinary, 'Arry Potter."

The Locket

"Remind me again why we're trudging through this charming little death trap?" Harry asked, carefully sidestepping a particularly nasty-looking patch of glowing fungi. The cave's darkness seemed to swallow their wandlight, pressing in from all sides.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled despite the grim surroundings. "Because, Harry, Lord Voldemort believed no one would be clever enough to discover this place, let alone brave enough to enter it."

"So basically, we're here because he's an arrogant git," Harry muttered, causing Fleur to stifle a laugh behind him.

The underground lake stretched before them, black and still as glass. Something about its perfect smoothness made the hair on Harry's neck stand up. He'd faced a dragon and Voldemort himself, but there was something uniquely unsettling about this place—as if the water itself were watching them.

"Do you feel that?" Fleur whispered, her fingers tightening around Harry's.

He nodded. "Like something's waiting."

Dumbledore approached the lake's edge, his wand illuminating a small boat partially hidden among the rocks. "Indeed. Inferi, I believe. Rather a lot of them."

Harry blinked. "You say that like you're commenting on an unusual number of garden gnomes."

"One must maintain perspective, Harry," Dumbledore replied mildly as he coaxed the boat from its hiding place. "Now, we shall need to cross to the island in the center. The boat will likely only carry one or two of us at a time."

After testing the boat's enchantments, they determined it would carry Harry and Dumbledore's combined magical signature as one adult wizard—a calculation Voldemort had never anticipated. Fleur would need to wait behind.

"I don't like this," she said, her accent thickening with worry. "If something happens—"

"Nothing will happen, Miss Delacour, Harry is with me, there's nothing to worry about." Dumbledore reassured her.

The island at the center held a basin filled with glowing green potion, beneath which Harry could just make out the golden gleam of Slytherin's locket. The potion, Dumbledore explained, had to be drunk.

"Sir, no—"

"I'm afraid there is no other way, Harry."

What followed was among the worst experiences of Harry's life—watching Dumbledore drink the potion, forcing cup after cup between the old wizard's lips as he begged for it to stop, pleaded for death. When the basin was finally empty, Dumbledore collapsed, crying for water.

Harry snatched the locket and rushed to the lake edge, conjuring a cup to scoop water—only to have pale, slimy hands reach up and grab his wrist. Inferi erupted from the water, dozens of them climbing onto the island. Dumbledore was down, Harry was surrounded, and the boat seemed miles away across the black water.

Then a massive fireball exploded overhead, illuminating the cave in brilliant light. The Inferi shrieked and retreated from the flames. Harry looked up to see Fleur hovering above the lake on his Firebolt, her wand directing a continuous stream of fire that formed a protective ring around the island.

"I thought you said you hated flying?" Harry called as she descended, one hand extending toward him.

"I hate the idea of you dying more," she replied, pulling him onto the broom behind her.

They retrieved Dumbledore and escaped the cave, the locket secured. It was only later, safely back at Hogwarts, that Harry discovered the horrible truth—the locket was a fake. Someone else had been there before them, someone identified only as "R.A.B."

The Real Locket

"Kreacher, please," Harry said, trying to keep his voice even despite the growing frustration. "We need to know about the locket."

The ancient house-elf glared at him with bloodshot eyes, muttering obscenities under his breath. Then his gaze shifted to Fleur, and his wrinkled face softened marginally.

"The French miss is being polite to Kreacher, not like the other mud—"

"Kreacher," Sirius warned from the doorway of Grimmauld Place's kitchen. After they recovered the fake locket and read the message inside, with Sirius's help, they found out that the one who wrote the note inside was Kretcher's younger brother, Regulus Black. Sirius knew that Kretcher was always loyal to his little brother, so now they were here, trying to get answers from the stubborn elf.

Harry sighed, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair.

Fleur knelt down, putting herself at eye level with Kreacher. "This locket," she said gently, holding up the heavy gold pendant with its serpentine 'S'. "It feels... wrong. Dark. Did it belong to someone in the Black family?"

Something changed in Kreacher's expression—a flicker of recognition so intense that Harry almost took a step back.

"Miss must not touch!" the elf cried, suddenly agitated. "Master Regulus's locket! Not to be touched!"

Sirius straightened at the mention of his brother. "What did my brother do?"

"Master Regulus ordered Kreacher never to tell the family what happened," the elf moaned, pulling at his ears in distress. "Kreacher promised."

"Kreacher," Fleur said softly, "whatever promise you made to Regulus, I think he would want us to know now. We believe this locket contains dark magic—the darkest kind. We want to destroy it."

The elf's bulging eyes widened further. "Destroy it?" he whispered. "Kreacher tried. Kreacher tried everything."

The story spilled out then—the cave, the poison, Regulus ordering Kreacher to leave him to the Inferi and destroy the locket. The elf had been unable to fulfill the last command, the locket resisting all his attempts to damage it.

Sirius had sunk into a chair halfway through the tale, his face ashen. "He turned against Voldemort," he murmured. "All these years, I thought...."

"He died a hero," Harry said quietly.

Sirius ran a hand over his face. "And I never knew."

Kreacher was weeping openly now, great heaving sobs that shook his tiny frame. "Master Regulus was brave, so brave. But Kreacher failed him. Failed his last order."

"You didn't fail," Fleur said, placing a gentle hand on the elf's bony shoulder. "You kept the locket safe until people who could destroy it found it. Now we can finish what Regulus started."

Kreacher looked up at her with an expression of such hope that Harry felt his throat tighten.

"You can truly destroy it?" the elf asked.

Harry nodded, gesturing to the Sword of Gryffindor that Dumbledore had provided. "We can. And we will."

Destroying the locket proved more challenging than expected. It had to be opened before it could be destroyed, and Harry's Parseltongue was the key. But when it opened, the locket fought back—showing Harry and Fleur their deepest fears. A spectral version of Harry abandoned Fleur, calling their bond a mistake. A phantom Fleur told Harry she had only used him for fame.

"Don't listen," Harry shouted over the locket's whispers. "It's lying!"

With the sword of Gryffindor, Harry destroyed the stupid locket. The locket emitted a terrible scream as another piece of Voldemort's soul was destroyed.

When it was done, Kreacher wept again, but with relief. Sirius, still processing the truth about his brother, placed the destroyed locket in the elf's gnarled hands.

"He'd be proud," Sirius said gruffly. "Tell you what, Kreacher—why don't you keep this? As a reminder of what Regulus did."

The change in the elf was immediate and startling. He clutched the destroyed locket to his chest like a treasure, bowing so low his nose touched the floor.

"Master is too kind to Kreacher," he croaked.

Harry exchanged a surprised glance with Fleur. Perhaps there was hope for the bitter old elf after all.

"Four down," Harry said later, as they gathered with Dumbledore to plan their next move. "Three to go."

The Cup

Hufflepuff's Cup turned out to be exactly where Dumbledore had suspected—in the Lestrange vault at Gringotts. With Bellatrix in Azkaban and unable to access her vault, they needed another approach. Sirius was a Black, but this vault belonged to Bellatrix personally; it wasn't a Family Vault, so Sirius would not be able to just enter the vault without having Bellatrix with him, and her giving him special permission to enter, so that way was out of the question.

"I have always found," Dumbledore said during one strategy session, "that the direct approach can sometimes be the most unexpected."

Which was how Harry found himself in formal robes, accompanying Fleur and her father to Gringotts for what the French Minister of Magic termed "an official international inspection of banking security protocols." Sebastian Delacour's diplomatic credentials and considerable charm got them past the initial guards, while Fleur's fluent Gobbledegook impressed the bank managers enough to earn them a tour of the high-security vaults.

"You never mentioned you spoke Gobbledegook," Harry whispered as they descended in a cart, Bill Weasley accompanying them as a curse-breaker "consultant."

"You never asked," Fleur replied with a mischievous smile. "Besides, every witch should have some mysteries, non?"

The plan hinged on Bill's ability to temporarily modify the security enchantments just enough for Harry to summon the cup once they were close to the Lestrange vault. It worked, though not without triggering every alarm in Gringotts. Their hasty exit involved Sebastian Delacour formally apologizing for his "security expert's overzealous testing methods" while slipping the bank manager an obscene amount of gold as compensation.

"I think I'm banned from Gringotts for life," Harry remarked as they apparated back to Hogwarts, the cup secured in an enchanted box.

"A small price to pay," Dumbledore observed, examining their prize with careful spellwork. "Though perhaps use the Hogsmeade branch in the future."

They destroyed the cup in the Chamber of Secrets, the only place in Hogwarts secure enough to contain the magical backlash. As Harry and Fleur pierced it with the basilisk fang they'd retrieved from the Chamber's depths, the cup trembled violently before a spectral image of Voldemort erupted from it, lunging at them before dissolving into nothingness.

"Five down," Fleur said afterward.

Harry squeezed her hand. "Two left."

The Diadem

"So we're looking for a tiara that's been lost for centuries, hidden somewhere in a room full of a thousand years' worth of junk," Harry summarized, surveying the cavernous Room of Requirement with its towering piles of discarded objects. "Should be a breeze."

"Not just any tiara," Hermione corrected, consulting the ancient text she'd been translating. "Ravenclaw's diadem, one of the most powerful magical artifacts ever created."

Finding the diadem took three days of systematic searching, during which Harry was reminded why Hermione's organizational skills were possibly the wizarding world's greatest untapped resource. With the room divided into sections and the Order members helping, they finally located it atop a tarnished bust wearing a wig.

"It's rather beautiful," Luna observed dreamily as they carefully levitated it into a containment box. "Shame it has a bit of Voldemort stuck to it."

Only Harry, Fleur, Dumbledore, and Snape were present for its destruction. Using the sword of Gryffindor to destroy it.

The scream that emanated from the diadem as it melted was higher-pitched than the others, almost musical in its agony.

"Six down," Harry noted, watching the last embers die away. "Only one left."

The Ring

The final Horcrux hunt led them to the ruins of the Gaunt shack, where Dumbledore had originally tracked the ring before Harry's fourth year. He had wisely refrained from touching it then, suspecting its dark nature.

"I confess," Dumbledore said as they approached the dilapidated building, "I might not have shown such restraint had I not known what it truly was."

The ring was exactly where Dumbledore had located it, hidden beneath the floorboards, protected by curses that Snape and Bill Weasley spent hours dismantling. When finally revealed, it sat innocuously on a velvet cushion—a cracked black stone set in gold.

"The stone bears a symbol," Dumbledore noted, his voice uncharacteristically tight. "The sign of the Deathly Hallows."

Harry glanced at him sharply. "Sir?"

"A tale for another time," the Headmaster replied, carefully levitating the ring into a lead box without touching it. "For now, we have more pressing matters."

They destroyed the ring on the grounds of Hogwarts at dawn, the sky turning from purple to fiery orange as the Sword of Gryffindor descended upon it. The resulting explosion knocked them all off their feet, a wave of dark magic dissipating into the morning air.

Harry stood slowly, helping Fleur up beside him. Dumbledore was already on his feet, examining the destroyed ring with an inscrutable expression. The stone, cracked but intact, lay separate from the mangled gold band.

"It's done," Harry said, a weight lifting from his shoulders he hadn't realized he'd been carrying. "All of them. Voldemort is mortal again."

Dumbledore picked up the cracked stone, turning it over in his palm. "Yes," he agreed, his blue eyes filled with a mixture of triumph and what looked oddly like regret. "Tom Riddle is, at last, merely a man."

Harry felt Fleur's arm slip around his waist, her presence grounding him as it always did. Through their bond, he sensed her relief, her pride, her love.

"What happens now?" she asked.

Harry looked toward the castle, where students would soon be waking, blissfully unaware of what had transpired. "Now," he said, "we finish it. Once and for all."

While Harry, Dumbledore, and Fleur took care of the Horcruxes, Amelia Bones was able to find out that during the years, Minister Fudge had taken brides from many wizards, including Lucius Malfoy himself, who said it out loud for everyone to hear during his trial. Fudge of course had tried to save his own skin, and had tried every trick in the book to stop anyone from investigating him, but eventually, the truth was revealed, and Fudge was kicked out of the Ministry and send to Azkaban, in that day, many other wizards and witches were also judged, and kicked out of the Ministry.

According to the Pink Auror, whose name was apparently Nymphadora Tonks, Sirius's cousin, the Ministry finally got rid of the pink toad that day. Harry had no idea about who she was talking about, but figured she must have been terrible for Tonks to celebrate like that.

First September, 1995

The Ministry atrium had never been so crowded. Witches and wizards pressed together in tense silence, their collective breath held as they watched the proceedings on massive magical projections hovering in the air. Harry stood at the edge of Courtroom Ten, Fleur's hand clasped firmly in his, as they waited for the trial to begin.

"Strange, isn't it?" he murmured. "All those years of fear, reduced to this."

The courtroom itself was imposing—ancient stone walls lined with torches that cast long shadows across the floor. The full Wizengamot sat in tiered seats, their plum-colored robes creating a somber backdrop.

And in the center, magically bound to a chair with chains that glowed with containment spells, sat the diminished figure of Tom Marvolo Riddle.

He looked almost pitiful now—skeletal thin, his snake-like features waxy and gray without magic to sustain them. The special restraints developed by Unspeakables blocked his wandless abilities, reducing the most feared Dark wizard in a century to a prisoner in his own decaying body.

"The Wizengamot calls to order the trial of Tom Marvolo Riddle," Scrimgeour announced, his voice magically amplified to reach every corner of the courtroom.

Harry noticed how the prisoner flinched at the use of his birth name. Even now, he clung to his constructed identity.

"The charges are as follows: multiple counts of murder, use of Unforgivable Curses, creation of Horcruxes, acts of terrorism against magical and Muggle communities, attempted genocide, and crimes against wizardkind."

The list continued for nearly five minutes. When Scrimgeour finally finished, the courtroom remained deathly silent.

"How does the accused plead?"

Riddle raised his head; those red eyes still frightened many, but not Harry. "I recognize no authority here," he said, his high, cold voice carrying easily despite his refusal of magical amplification. "I am Lord Voldemort, heir of Salazar Slytherin, and I cannot be judged by lesser beings."

A murmur rippled through the courtroom. Scrimgeour remained impassive. "The plea is noted as 'not guilty.' The prosecution may present its case."

Harry's testimony came early. He walked to the witness chair, feeling the weight of hundreds of eyes upon him. The Veela bond hummed with reassurance as Fleur watched from her seat in the front row, her calm presence anchoring him.

"Mr. Potter," began Madame Bones, who was leading the prosecution, "please detail for the court your encounters with the accused."

Harry took a deep breath and began. He spoke of his parents' murder, of the graveyard in his fourth year, of the final battle at the graveyard. He kept his voice steady, factual, refusing to give Riddle the satisfaction of seeing emotion overwhelm him.

When he described the Horcruxes—carefully omitting certain details at Dumbledore's request—gasps echoed throughout the courtroom. Even some Wizengamot members looked physically ill.

"And you personally witnessed the creation of a Horcrux requires murder?" Madame Bones clarified.

"Yes," Harry confirmed. "According to Professor Dumbledore's research, it requires splitting the soul through the ultimate act of evil."

Throughout his testimony, Harry deliberately used the name "Tom Riddle," watching as the prisoner's face contorted with increasing rage. By the time Harry stepped down, Riddle was straining against his magical bonds, his composure cracking.

"Thank you, Mr. Potter," Madame Bones said. "The court calls Andromeda Tonks."

What followed was a parade of witnesses that formed a devastating picture. Families of victims recounted loved ones lost. Survivors described torture. Andromeda Tonks spoke of a family torn apart by pureblood ideology. Muggle relatives of wizards, granted special permission to attend, shared stories of lives destroyed by a war they hadn't even known existed.

A frail elderly woman hobbled to the witness chair, assisted by her grandson—Neville, standing tall and proud beside his grandmother.

"Augusta Longbottom," she announced herself, her voice quavering but determined. "Mother-in-law to Frank Longbottom and mother-in-law to Alice Longbottom, both former Aurors tortured into insanity by the accused's followers."

She described visiting St. Mungo's for years, watching her son and daughter-in-law stare blankly at walls, unable to recognize their own child. Throughout her testimony, Neville stood beside her, his face as blank as a piece of wood.

"My grandson has grown up without parents," Augusta concluded. "Not because they died honorably, but because this... creature... followers destroyed their minds." She fixed Riddle with a stare so filled with contempt, but Tom Riddle merely smiled as if he remembered something pleasant. "You failed, Tom Riddle. You tried to break our family, but my grandson stands here today. The Longbottom line endures. You will not."

Midway through the testimony of a Muggle father whose wizard son had been killed for marrying a Muggle-born, Riddle finally snapped.

"You dare parade these insects before me?" he hissed, eyes blazing. "I, who have gone further than anyone along the path to immortality? I, Lord Voldemort, will rise again. My followers remain. My powers cannot be contained forever."

His magic flared against the bonds, a visible darkness pulsing around him. Several Wizengamot members drew their wands, but the containment held.

"Your followers are imprisoned or dead," Scrimgeour replied evenly. "Your Horcruxes are destroyed. You have no path to return, Tom."

The use of his birth name seemed to inflict more pain than any curse could have. Riddle lunged forward, only to be yanked back by the magical chains.

"I am extraordinary!" he shrieked, his composure completely abandoned. "I cannot be executed like a common criminal!"

"On the contrary," came Dumbledore's calm voice from the Wizengamot seats, "you are, in the end, quite ordinary, Tom. A half-blood wizard who chose hate over love, fear over friendship. There is nothing special about that tale. It is, rather, tragically common."

The trial lasted three days, though the outcome was never in doubt. When the Wizengamot returned to deliver their verdict, the tension in the courtroom was palpable.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle," Scrimgeour announced, "you have been found guilty of all charges brought against you."

No one seemed to breathe as he continued.

"The traditional sentence for such crimes would be life imprisonment in Azkaban. However, given the magical nature of your crimes, particularly the creation of Horcruxes, and the continuing threat you represent even while imprisoned, this court has determined a more permanent solution is required."

Riddle's eyes widened slightly—the first sign of genuine fear Harry had ever seen in them.

"The sentence is death, to be carried out immediately by the Veil of Death in the Department of Mysteries. May whatever comes after show you more mercy than you have shown others."

The courtroom erupted in a mixture of gasps, cries, and solemn nods. Harry felt a complex wave of emotions—relief, vindication, but also a strange emptiness. The man who had defined his life for so long would soon be gone.

"It's finally ending," Fleur whispered, squeezing his hand.

Harry nodded. "Not with a bang, but with bureaucracy."

The execution was conducted with clinical efficiency. Only select witnesses were permitted to attend—Harry among them, standing between Fleur and Sirius as Riddle was led to the Death Chamber. The Veil rippled eerily on its stone dais, whispers emanating from its depths.

Riddle's composure crumbled as the moment of execution approached. His skeletal body trembled visibly, sweat beading on his waxy skin despite the chamber's coolness. The man who had styled himself as immortal now faced his greatest fear: his own mortality. His red eyes darted frantically around the chamber, searching for any escape, before finally landing on Harry with a mixture of hatred and—most surprisingly—desperation. At that moment, he wasn't Lord Voldemort, the dark wizard of legend; he was simply Tom Riddle, a frightened man about to die. When their eyes met, Harry saw not the fearsome enemy who had haunted his nightmares, but something almost pitiful—a broken soul who had wasted his considerable gifts pursuing the very thing he now faced: the end.

"Any final words?" asked the Unspeakable in charge of the procedure.

"Lord Voldemort cannot die," Riddle replied coldly.

Dumbledore stepped forward from the shadows. "But Tom Riddle can," he said softly. "And will."

A flick of wands from the Aurors guarding him, and Riddle was propelled gently but firmly through the Veil. No scream, no flash of light—simply there one moment, and gone the next. The whispering from the Veil seemed to intensify briefly before returning to its usual cadence.

"Is that it?" Sirius murmured, sounding almost disappointed.

"That's it," Harry confirmed, feeling the finality of the moment settle into his bones.

Afterward, a debate erupted about the proper disposal of Riddle's wand and personal effects. Some argued everything should be destroyed to prevent dark wizards from claiming relics. Others suggested preservation for historical study. The Daily Prophet, in typical fashion, sensationalized every aspect of the execution, running a front-page photograph of Riddle's final moment before the Veil under the headline: "THE END OF YOU-KNOW-WHO: DARK LORD MEETS JUSTICE."

Harry refused to buy a copy.

As they walked away hand in hand, Harry felt the last shadow lift from his heart. For the first time in his life, he was free to write his own story.

One Week Later

The Great Hall had been transformed for the occasion, which was saying something considering its ceiling already mimicked the perfect blue sky outside. Golden banners replaced the usual house colors, and the long tables had been rearranged to form a U-shape around a central podium. Faces from every corner of the wizarding world filled the seats—Ministry officials in formal robes, and, most importantly to Harry, the members of the Order of the Phoenix who had fought in the graveyard.

"If they make me give another speech, I'm faking a fainting spell," Harry muttered to Fleur as they stood near the entrance, momentarily hidden from view.

Fleur smiled, adjusting his tie with practiced fingers. "You faced ze Dark Lord without flinching, but a room of admirers terrifies you?"

"Voldemort just wanted to kill me. These people want me to be their hero, which is much worse." Harry peered around the corner at the assembled crowd. "Remind me again why we can't just hide out in the Black Lake with the giant squid?"

"Because your godfather would drag you back by the ear," she replied, her blue eyes dancing with amusement. "And because you earned this, 'Arry."

Harry knew she was right. The ceremony today wasn't just for him—it was for Sirius, finally exonerated after the Ministry was forced to acknowledge Pettigrew's survival. It was for Snape, whose role as a double agent had been revealed (much to the student body's shock). It was for the Order members who had risked everything based on Dumbledore's trust in a teenage boy and his Veela girlfriend.

"Besides," Fleur added with a teasing smile, "you look very handsome in formal robes."

Before Harry could respond, McGonagall appeared beside them, her usually severe expression softened slightly.

"There you are, Potter. We're about to begin." She eyed his perpetually messy hair with resignation. "I suppose there's no hope for that mop of yours, even today."

"It's a Potter family trait, Professor," Harry replied with a grin. "Dad's hair was the same."

"Yes," she said softly. "It certainly was."

The ceremony itself was predictably grandiose. Dumbledore spoke first, his words carefully balancing triumph with remembrance of darker days. Minister Scrimgeour presented Orders of Merlin—First Class to Harry, Fleur, Dumbledore, and Snape; Second Class to the Order members who had fought in the graveyard; and posthumously to James and Lily Potter. When Harry's name was called, the applause was deafening, and he walked to the podium feeling as if his formal shoes were suddenly two sizes too large.

"Thank you," he said simply when the noise died down. "But I'm not the hero you think I am. I didn't defeat Voldemort alone." He glanced at Fleur, at Sirius beaming proudly from the front row, at Hermione sitting with the other students. "None of us is as strong as all of us together. That's what Voldemort never understood, and why he was always destined to fail."

It wasn't the grand speech they'd expected, but somehow it was enough. As Harry made his way back to his seat, he caught Sirius's eye and received a thumbs-up that meant more than any formal acknowledgment.

After the ceremony, the hall transformed again—tables laden with food appeared, music began to play from an invisible orchestra, and the atmosphere shifted from solemn to celebratory. Harry found himself surrounded by well-wishers, including a certain red-headed family.

"Harry!" Mrs. Weasley engulfed him in one of her bone-crushing hugs. "We're so proud of you, dear. Though I could throttle Albus for putting you in such danger."

"Give the boy room to breathe, Molly," Mr. Weasley said gently, extending his hand to Harry. "Congratulations, son. You've done something extraordinary."

Ron approached awkwardly, his lanky frame seeming even taller than when Harry had last seen him at the train station. "So," he said, scuffing his shoe on the floor. "Defeated the darkest wizard of all time. Typical Potter, always showing off."

Harry couldn't help but laugh. "You know me, Ron. Anything for attention."

Something in the familiarity of their banter broke the remaining tension between them. Ron grinned, and Harry found himself grinning back, months of strain evaporating like morning dew.

"It's going to be weird, isn't it?" Ron said as they grabbed butterbeers from a passing tray. "Having normal school years? No one trying to kill you, no tournaments, no mysterious chambers opening up."

"I could get used to it," Harry replied, though the thought was strangely unsettling. Who was Harry Potter without a mortal enemy? Just a fifth-year student with O.W.L.s to worry about, apparently.

Across the room, Sebastian Delacour was deep in conversation with Dumbledore, while Apolline and Gabrielle chatted with Fleur. Catching Harry's eye, Sebastian beckoned him over.

"Harry!" the French Minister greeted him, clasping his shoulder. "I was just telling Albus that you must visit us in France the next summer. The cottage by the sea is always open to you."

"We insist," Apolline added. "You are family now."

Gabrielle, who had attached herself to Harry's side almost immediately, nodded emphatically. "Please come! I can show you all my favorite places, and we can go swimming in the ocean, and—"

"Gabrielle," Fleur interrupted indulgently, "let 'Arry breathe."

Harry felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the bond and everything to do with the word 'family.' "I'd love that," he said simply.

Later, as the celebration continued around them, Harry and Fleur slipped out into the courtyard for a moment of peace. The evening air was cool, the sky painted in strokes of orange and pink as the sun began its descent.

"What do you think happens now?" Harry asked, leaning against a stone pillar. "For us, I mean."

Fleur considered the question. "Now we live," she said finally. "We finish school, we decide what we want to be besides 'the ones who defeated Voldemort.'"

"And after school?"

Her smile held a hint of mischief. "Perhaps I will be a curse-breaker like Bill Weasley, or work for Gringotts. You could be an Auror, though I think you've had enough dark wizard hunting for one lifetime."

Harry laughed. "Maybe I'll just be a professional Quidditch player. Or breed hippogriffs with Hagrid."

"Whatever you choose," Fleur said, taking his hand, "we will figure it out together. L'Union du Soleil is not just for fighting dark wizards, you know."

The bond hummed between them, warm and reassuring. Harry leaned forward, placing a gentle kiss on her lips. "Together sounds perfect."

They returned to the celebration, but Harry soon noticed Sirius standing alone by a window, gazing out at the twilight-shrouded grounds. Excusing himself from Fleur, who had been pulled into a conversation with Hermione, Harry made his way to his godfather's side.

"Escaping the adoring masses?" Sirius asked with a knowing smile.

"Something like that," Harry admitted. "You okay?"

Sirius nodded, his dark eyes unusually reflective. "Just thinking about how much has changed. Last year I was a fugitive sleeping in caves. Now I'm a free man with a full pardon and enough government compensation to live comfortably for several lifetimes."

"You deserve it," Harry said firmly. "All of it."

"So do you," Sirius replied, studying Harry's face. "You know, you look more like James every day, but there's so much of Lily in you too. Not just her eyes, but her heart."

Harry hesitated, then decided this quiet moment was the right time. "I saw them," he said softly. "Mum and Dad. After Voldemort's killing curse hit me in the graveyard, before I came back. They were there, in some kind of in-between place. Fleur saw them too."

Sirius stilled completely, his expression hard to read. "What... what were they like?" he asked finally, his voice rough.

"Happy," Harry said simply. "At peace. Dad looks exactly like the photos, and he called me 'son.' And Mum..." His throat tightened unexpectedly. "She was beautiful. They both said they're proud of me, and that they've been watching over me."

Sirius blinked rapidly, turning back to the window. "That sounds like them," he managed after a moment. "Watching over you even from beyond."

"Dad said to tell you that he's glad you're free. That you deserved a second chance."

A single tear tracked down Sirius's cheek, quickly wiped away. "Damn right I did," he said with a watery laugh. "And I plan to make the most of it." He turned to Harry, his expression suddenly serious. "Starting with being the godfather you deserve. No more recklessness, no more getting myself thrown back in Azkaban."

"Well, maybe a little recklessness," Harry suggested with a grin. "You are a Marauder, after all."

Sirius barked a laugh, pulling Harry into a one-armed hug. "That I am. Speaking of which, now that I'm a free man, I have years of missed birthdays and Christmases to make up for. How do you feel about a racing broom that makes your Firebolt look like a toy?"

"Sirius..."

"And of course you'll come live with me during holidays. I've bought a place in Hogsmeade—close enough to visit on weekends if you want."

The casual way Sirius offered a home—something Harry had longed for his entire life—made his chest tight with emotion. "I'd like that," he said simply.

For the first time in his life, Harry looked toward the future without a shadow hanging over it. No prophecy, no destiny, no dark wizard hunting him—just possibility, stretching endlessly before him like an unwritten page.

It was, he decided, a rather nice change.

⚯ ͛

⚯ ͛

Morning sunlight filtered through the curtains of the master bedroom, painting golden stripes across the rumpled bedsheets. Harry trailed lazy kisses along Fleur's neck, relishing the soft sigh that escaped her lips as she arched against him. Twelve years of marriage, and still the sight of her first thing in the morning—silver-blonde hair tousled from sleep, blue eyes heavy-lidded and warm—made his heart race like they were teenagers again.

"We should get up," Fleur murmured unconvincingly, her fingers threading through his perpetually messy hair. "The twins need to be at King's Cross by eleven."

"We have time," Harry countered, his lips finding that sensitive spot just below her ear that always made her—

"Mmm," she moaned softly, tilting her head to give him better access. "If you continue like that, 'Arry Potter, expect a sixth child in nine months."

Harry grinned against her skin. "Doesn't sound so bad to me. We're pretty good at making beautiful children, if I do say so myself."

Fleur laughed, the sound still musical after all these years. "Says the man who doesn't have to carry them for—"

The bedroom door burst open with a bang loud enough to make both of them jump. A small whirlwind with silver-blonde curls and Harry's green eyes bounded onto the bed, narrowly missing their legs as she launched herself between them.

"Maman! Papa! Wake UP! James and Lu are going to Hogwarts today! You PROMISED I could go to the station!" Five-year-old Elise Potter, their youngest and by far their most energetic child, bounced on the mattress with each emphasized word.

"Good morning to you too, hurricane," Harry said dryly, catching his daughter mid-bounce and tickling her sides until she collapsed in a fit of giggles. "Did you even knock?"

"Nope!" Elise replied cheerfully, completely unrepentant. "Uncle Sirius says knocking is for people with boring things to say, and I'm NEVER boring."

"Of course he does," Fleur muttered, smoothing down her nightgown as she sat up. "Your godfather has much to answer for, ma petite."

"Are Gabe and Lily up yet?" Harry asked, referring to their ten and eight-year-old.

Elise nodded vigorously. "Gabriel's helping James check his trunk AGAIN, and Lily's trying to sneak Minette into Lu's bag." She lowered her voice to what she clearly thought was a whisper but was still perfectly audible. "She thinks Lu will be less homesick if she has her kneazle kitten at school."

Harry exchanged an amused glance with Fleur. "Well, we'd better get up then. Sounds like smuggling operations are already underway."

The Potter household on the morning of September 1st resembled a particularly chaotic but well-practiced dance company. Harry supervised last-minute packing while Fleur prepared breakfast, both of them fielding a constant barrage of questions, complaints, and discoveries from their five children.

"Dad, is it true you fought a basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets?" James asked for approximately the hundredth time as Harry helped him secure his trunk.

"Yes, but I don't recommend it as an extracurricular activity," Harry replied, ruffling his son's unruly black hair—a true Potter inheritance. "Focus on Quidditch instead. Much less chance of petrification."

"But if we do find the Chamber, can we go in? Just to look?" James pressed, his hazel eyes—so like his grandfather's—gleaming with mischief.

"Absolutely not," Harry said firmly, then ruined it by adding, "At least not without telling me first."

In the kitchen, Luandra was helping Fleur with breakfast, her silver-blonde hair tied back in a practical ponytail. While James had inherited Harry's impulsive nature and love of adventure, Lu had her mother's grace and thoughtfulness—though her skill with a wand already suggested she'd inherited the full power of their combined magical abilities.

"Will I be in Gryffindor like Papa?" she asked Fleur, carefully flipping pancakes with a precise flick of her wrist.

"Perhaps," Fleur replied, summoning plates from the cabinet with a casual wave of her wand. "Or perhaps Ravenclaw. The Sorting Hat will know where you belong."

"I just don't want to be separated from James," Lu admitted quietly.

Fleur smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her daughter's ear. "Wherever you go, you will still be twins. Still connected. Just as your father and I are always connected, even when I'm away on Ministry business."

The bond that had formed between Harry and Fleur all those years ago during the Triwizard Tournament had only deepened with time. L'Union du Soleil, once rare enough to be nearly mythical, had become a fundamental part of their lives—like breathing, or the beating of their hearts. Their children had grown up with the sight of their parents' matching sun symbols pulsing with golden light whenever they performed magic together.

The relative order of breakfast was interrupted by a thunderous knock at the front door, followed immediately by it swinging open.

"Where are my favorite godchildren?" boomed a familiar voice.

"SIRIUS!" Elise shrieked, launching herself from her chair and racing toward the entryway.

Moments later, Sirius Black appeared in the kitchen doorway with Elise clinging to him like a monkey, his handsome face only minimally lined despite the years. Behind him stood his wife of seven years, Amelia Bones, who had retired as Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to serve as the first female Minister of Magic.

"Couldn't miss seeing James and Lu off on their first day," Sirius announced, depositing Elise on Harry's shoulders before pulling Luandra into a hug. "Though I'm still devastated neither of them is named after me."

"We considered it," Harry deadpanned, "but 'Enormous Ego Potter' just didn't have the right ring to it."

Amelia snorted with laughter while Sirius clutched his chest in mock offense. "The betrayal! After I taught you everything you know about proper mischief-making."

"Which is precisely why we didn't name any of our children after you," Fleur said dryly, though she kissed Sirius's cheek affectionately. "We'd like at least one of them to make it through Hogwarts without setting a detention record."

"Speaking of which," Amelia said, producing two small packages from her robes, "a little something for the twins. Not to be opened until you reach Hogwarts," she added with a stern look that was belied by the twinkle in her eyes.

"Whatever they are, I didn't authorize them," Harry told Fleur, who merely raised an elegant eyebrow.

"As if you didn't slip them both modified Marauder's Maps last night," she replied. "I do still share your mind occasionally, Professor Potter."

Harry had the grace to look sheepish, while the twins exchanged delighted grins.

The journey to King's Cross was its own adventure, involving two magical cars (a necessity with five children and all their belongings), several last-minute crises ("My wand! I can't find my wand!" "It's in your pocket, James."), and Elise's persistent attempts to stow away in James's trunk.

Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was as crowded and chaotic as Harry remembered from his own school days. Steam billowed from the scarlet Hogwarts Express, and families clustered in groups, saying their goodbyes amid the hooting of owls and the meowing of cats.

"Harry! Fleur!"

They turned to see Hermione waving at them. Beside her stood Neville, who had grown from the round-faced, nervous boy Harry had known into a confident man—now Hogwarts' esteemed Herbology professor and Head of Gryffindor House.

"Sorry we're late," Hermione said as they approached. "Frank couldn't find his toad, and then Alice realized she'd left her Astronomy charts at home."

Their three children—Frank, Alice, and little Rose—stood nearby, the older two already dressed in their Hogwarts robes. Frank, starting his third year, had his father's kind face and his mother's insatiable curiosity. Alice, entering her second year, had already established herself as the top student in her class—a fact that surprised absolutely no one who knew her parents.

"How are you feeling about the new term, Professor Longbottom?" Harry asked Neville with a grin.

"Prepared for anything after last year's Venomous Tentacula incident," Neville replied cheerfully. "Though having your twins and Ron's boy all starting this year might test that theory."

As if summoned by his name, Ron appeared through the barrier, pushing a trolley laden with trunks. Lavender followed with their son Hugo, whose fiery red hair and freckles marked him unmistakably as a Weasley. Their younger daughter, Violet, skipped alongside them, chattering excitedly.

"Bloody hell, we made it," Ron panted, coming to a stop beside them. "Don't ever let anyone tell you having only two kids is easier than seven. At least my parents could assign buddies."

"Language, Ronald," Lavender chided, though she was smiling as she greeted everyone with hugs. Her work as the Divination professor at Hogwarts—a position she'd taken after the reluctant retirement of Trelawney—had given her a serenity that balanced Ron's more excitable nature perfectly.

As the adults caught up, the children formed their own excited cluster, older students sharing advice and warnings with the first-years. Harry watched his twins—James with his arm slung around Hugo's shoulders, Luandra listening intently to something Alice was explaining—and felt a familiar ache of pride and nostalgia.

"They'll be fine," Fleur said softly, slipping her hand into his. Through their bond, he felt her own mixture of emotions—pride, worry, love.

"I know," Harry replied. "And we'll be right there if they need us."

His position as Defense Against the Dark Arts professor—a role he'd been hesitant to accept nine years ago when McGonagall had offered it—meant he'd be able to keep an eye on them, though he'd promised himself not to hover. Fleur's work in International Magical Cooperation kept her traveling occasionally, but she'd arranged to be in Britain most of the year while the twins adjusted to school.

A whistle blew, signaling five minutes until departure. The platform became a flurry of final hugs, last-minute reminders, and promises to write.

"Remember," Harry said, kneeling to look his twins in the eye, "whatever house you're in—"

"—we'll be proud of you," Fleur finished, brushing James's hair back one last time.

"Even Slytherin?" James asked with a mischievous grin.

"Even Slytherin," Harry confirmed. "Though your Uncle Ron might need a moment to recover."

Luandra hugged him tightly. "I'll miss you, Papa."

"We'll see you at the feast tonight," Harry reminded her. "I just won't be sitting with you."

"Unless we misbehave," James pointed out.

"Which will not happen on your first day," Fleur said firmly.

Final goodbyes were said, trunks were loaded, and then the twins were boarding the train, finding a compartment with Hugo and waving frantically from the window as the train began to move. Harry and Fleur stood arm in arm, waving until the Hogwarts Express rounded the bend and disappeared from sight.

Elise tugged at Harry's sleeve. "When do I get to go to Hogwarts?"

"Not for six more years, hurricane," Harry replied, scooping her up. "Plenty of time for you to learn to knock before entering rooms."

Gabriel and Lily were already discussing their plans for a quiet house with fewer siblings, while Sirius regaled Amelia with tales of his own first journey on the Hogwarts Express.

"Ready to head home?" Harry asked Fleur as the platform began to clear.

She smiled, reaching up to touch his cheek. "We can go to Hogsmeade tonight, before the feast. Have dinner, just the two of us."

"Like a date?" Harry teased. "Mrs. Potter, are you trying to seduce me?"

"Always," she replied with a smile that still made his heart skip.

As they gathered their younger children and prepared to leave, Harry felt a fleeting sensation—not pain, but a kind of phantom awareness—where his scar had once burned so frequently. He touched it reflexively, a habit he'd never quite lost.

"Everything alright?" Fleur asked immediately, sensing his shift in mood through their bond.

Harry nodded, dropping his hand. "Just thinking about how long it's been. Fifteen years since it hurt. Since any of this," he gestured to the ordinary bustle of the platform, "felt like something we might lose."

Fleur understood, as she always did. "And now our biggest worry is whether James remembered to pack enough socks."

"And whether Luandra smuggled her Spellbooks for Intermediate Charms. Did you see how heavy her bag was?"

"Like mother, like daughter," Fleur laughed.

Harry looked around at their children, at their friends with their own families, at the peaceful, mundane scene of parents seeing their children off to school without fear. His scar, once a constant reminder of darkness and prophecy, was now just a fading mark on his forehead—a remnant of a history that his children would only ever know from stories and history books.

"Come on," he said, taking his wife's hand. "Let's go home."

Together, they stepped through the barrier, leaving Platform Nine and Three-Quarters behind—but not the magic that had brought them together, the magic that continued in their children, the magic of a world at peace.

--The End--