Voldemort and his remaining Death Eaters crashed into Malfoy Manor in a swirl of black robes and chaos. The air, already thick with the oppressive magic of the Dark Arts, crackled with his raw, incandescent fury.
The Dark Lord was enraged beyond reason, his serpentine face twisted into a mask of pure hate. With wild eyes and uncontainable fury, he hurled spells at walls and furniture, each one a testament to his uncontrollable rage.
Expensive tapestries, woven with centuries of magical history, were vaporized. Priceless antiques exploded into splinters. Windows shattered with uncontrolled bursts of magic, the sound like a thousand tiny explosions ringing through the massive manor.
"HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN?!" he roared, his voice carrying through the massive manor, echoing off the high ceilings as a testament to his frustration. "We had Potter. We had him!"
He was pacing furiously, his long fingers twitching as he gripped his wand, nearly cracking it. Something had gone wrong. Horribly wrong. It had all been so perfectly staged. They had Harry. Everything was supposed to be going well. They'd have the prophecy and kill Potter, and everything would go his way, or so he thought.
He had been so sure that he was victorious when they had Arthur Weasley and the children. The thrill of victory, of finally having the Boy-Who-Lived where he wanted him, was still fresh in his mind. But now, it tasted like ash.
Was it an illusion? Some high-level mind trick? And if so, when had he been caught in it? He racked his mind, desperately replaying the events at the Ministry, searching for a single flaw, a single misstep.
He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment it had all gone to hell. He was a master of the mind, a prodigy of Occlumency and Legilimency, but this… this was different. What type of magic was this? It was beyond anything he had ever encountered, a power that could twist perception on a foundational level, bending the senses without a single outward sign of a spell being cast. It infuriated him that he could be so utterly deceived.
He was so absorbed in his thoughts, so consumed by his frantic internal review, that he didn't notice the blank, unblinking expressions of his so-called followers. Their faces were like stone masks, their eyes vacant and focused on nothing, their hands limp at their sides. Then it happened.
Suddenly, without warning, a hand burst through the right side of his chest.
He stared down at the hand for a moment as blood pooled in his mouth, and then he was sent flying.
Voldemort gasped in agony, the sheer force of the impact sending him flying backward with a sickening momentum. He slammed into a marble wall, the impact cracking the stone and causing him to slide to the floor in a crumpled heap.
He coughed up blood, a thick, coppery liquid that stained his black robes, screaming in a mixture of pain and profound disbelief. He stared at the ragged, gaping hole that had just been torn through his chest. Trembling, he reached for his wand, only for another figure to materialize right before him.
It was Harry Potter, standing there nonchalant, as if he had just been waiting for this very moment. A layer of blood covered his right hand, dripping onto the pristine marble floor.
Voldemort coughed up more blood, the metallic taste filling his mouth. He lunged for his wand, but Harry seemed to appear right in front of him, it was like he wasn't there, and then he was. It was chilling.
Harry grabbed both of Voldemort's wrists in an iron grip, his fingers digging in until bones snapped with a sickening crack, and the Dark Lord dropped his wand with a guttural scream of pain. He went to speak, to curse the boy, but Harry slammed his throat with a brutal strike that shattered his windpipe, silencing him.
Voldemort crumpled in a heap, gasping and wheezing, unable to draw a single breath. Absolute terror overtook his features as he looked up into those glowing emerald eyes. He couldn't help the primal fear that ran up his spine at those chill green eyes that seemed to be staring straight into his soul, seeing everything he was and had ever been and finding it wanting.
Harry said nothing at first. He just stared, his face like stone, cold and detached. He watched as the life and fight slowly drained from the great Dark Lord's eyes. After a long, heavy silence, a moment that stretched into what felt like an eternity, he finally let out a little laugh. It was a humorless sound, devoid of mirth, but full of something else entirely, a sense of finality.
"Ah, Tom. My apologies," he said, stepping back, his voice casual, even cheerful. "I had all these plans. All these grand, clever ideas on how to end you. But when I saw you, I just couldn't help myself and just crush you like the insect you are."
Harry wasn't lying, he really had wanted to start with witty banter and taunts, a proper villain's end befitting of the 'greatest dark lord of all time'. But as he had entered the room and saw the man, the rage of what this man's existence had cost him just came flooding in all at once.
The rage of a life he never had, of a family he never knew, of a world warped by one man's pathetic, narcissistic fear of death. He looked at the Dark Lord, broken, magic spent, and on the floor, his face a mix of impotent anger and hidden fear.
This man's actions had controlled his life indirectly from the moment he was born, his mother had died because a young boy, a half-blood nobody, had decided when he was young that he didn't want to die and wanted people to worship him for something that was all a lie, a half-blood pretending to be a pureblood messiah.
He felt the white-hot rage, then pushed it down, controlling it.
"I'm sure you're wondering how I'm here," Harry said, with a dramatic tone.
Voldemort glared harder, blood leaking from his mouth as he struggled to remain upright, his body shaking with the effort.
"Well, even Crabbe and Goyle could put two and two together," Harry said, pausing for a while, a smirk on his face. "To kill you, of course."
Voldemort snarled, coughing more blood, trying to use his broken hand to cover the hole in his chest as he bled out. He turned to his followers, his eyes silently questioning, demanding to know why they were just standing there.
Harry followed his gaze but said, "Oh, those aren't your minions." He waved his hand, and they shimmered, their forms distorting like heat rising from pavement, then dissolved into a fine mist of magic, leaving only him and Voldemort in the room.
"I already killed everyone else in the Ministry, don't you remember? But I'm sure since you saw them, you just thought it was all an illusion and just didn't look further. Their bodies should still be in the Ministry, of course, those last spells of yours burned a lot of their corpses," he said, his voice in a matter-of-fact tone, as if he were discussing the weather.
"I doubt the Aurors would be able to recognize them immediately, but that's a problem for the Ministry. They would eventually find out the people who died, and I'm sure the Ministry would try to make it seem like upstanding purebloods who had tried to stop Voldemort and died valiantly, but I have a use for that, too."
They would absolutely do that, it bothered him at first, but he decided that he didn't care as long as there were dead. There wasn't any chance to out them and kill them, and he wasn't going to wait or someshit like that, he had already dragged this out long enough when he could have long had tracked down the bastards and killed them.
They were many ways he could have done that, but he waited this long because he wanted voldemort to expose himself, people had been calling him a lair and while that didnt really do anything to him, he'd be damn to kill voldy in secret and people will just keep saying that he was a lair and try to always use that to discredit him. It might not bother him now, but no doubt eventually he'd get sick of it and do something.
So that's why he had waited and planned this whole thing, and while it also gave credit to Dumbledore, he had decided to use that to his advantage after all Harry Potter was known to people as Dumbledore's golden boy, once he gets rid of the old man, well let's just say he had plans.
Harry's mind came back from his thoughts as he saw Voldemort glance at something behind him. He didn't even need his enhanced hearing to hear the slithering. It was a familiar sound, a sound of scaled skin against the fine marble of the manor.
"Ahh, just who I was waiting for."
The giant serpent, Nagini, sensing her master's distress, lunged at him, its fangs dripping with venom. With a single clean swipe of his hand, Harry swiftly turned and decapitated her, cleanly removing its head from its body in a silent, effortless motion. As the snake died, a black, shadowy wail, a sound of ultimate agony, erupted from the remains as it faded away, its soul finally destroyed.
He turned back to Voldemort, a grim smile on his face. "Thanks for bringing her. She was the last one I was looking for."
Voldemort didn't seem to understand it at first, his mind too broken, too clouded in anger to comprehend the meaning behind the boy's words.
That was until Harry summoned a box from his hammerspace, a small, elegant box that held the last of Tom Riddle's desperate pleas for immortality. He opened it up, pouring the contents onto the ground. The locket, the cup, the diadem. The hidden fear in Voldemort's eye was no longer hidden, and he seemed to understand what Harry meant as he started to struggle to get up and do something, anything, to stop the inevitable.
Harry just summoned a bright green flame with his left hand, a flame that burned with a divine fire, and blasted the Horcruxes and Nagini's remains. Screeching souls, each one a fragment of a terrified man, screamed and vanished as the cursed items disintegrated into nothingness.
He then turned to Voldemort, who was now struggling in desperation, his face a mask of complete despair.
"Sad, really," Harry said, his voice a quiet, final judgment. "You'll die here, and no one will ever know what happened to you. The great Dark Lord Voldemort, slaughtered in an empty manor by a fifteen-year-old kid, after losing to said kid years ago, before he could even talk."
And with that, the conversation was over. Harry summoned his dagger. In a swift motion, he brought the blade down, and the head of the so-called Dark Lord dropped to the ground. It was anticlimactic, a simple, brutal end to a man who had brought so much chaos and despair into the world, but it would do.
He set the entire body and head on fire with a casual flick of his wrist, a final insult to the man who had so desperately clung to life. He watched, unblinking, until everything was turned to ash, a small pile of grey dust in the middle of the opulent manor. Then he sighed, a sound of profound relief.
"Now to the truly important thing," he muttered.
He slashed the air with his Authority, opening a spatial rift, a shimmering tear in reality.
"I have a date with the lovely Greengrass in two days. No outfit, no plan."
He looked back at the ashes,
"ahhh This is your fault."
With one final look, Harry stepped into the portal, already wondering if Hermione would help him pick out something nice to wear.
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