Chapter Text
The ground was hard and unyielding under Harry’s knees as he knelt in the middle of the battlefield, his energy almost entirely gone. Around him was chaos, craters and char marks and debris left by deflected spells for metres in every direction. Behind him, far enough away to be almost safe from the damage, stood the remains of the Order of the Phoenix and their allies.
On the other side of the battleground stood Voldemort and his various minions. They looked much less worn than Harry felt, and Voldemort himself looked almost bored by the proceedings. He spun his wand in one long fingered hand, seemingly just waiting to see if Harry would rise from the dirt and continue the fight.
As much as Harry knew that’s what the others behind him were waiting for too, he knew he didn’t have any more fight left in him. He was still alive, for now, but Voldemort had won. This last time, Voldemort had come back stronger than any of them had known he could. And for all the help Dumbledore had tried to give him to help him get through this, Harry knew he had failed.
A hush fell over the area as Voldemort stepped forward, apparently realizing Harry was no longer a threat to him. Harry felt frozen in place as he watched Voldemort stop just a half metre or so away. Voldemort was frowning at him, anger clear in the lines creasing his brow. Was he disappointed that Harry wasn’t more of a match for him after all?
Voldemort reached toward Harry, and on instinct, Harry raised his wand arm. He wasn’t sure he had the reserves for even a simple spell, but it didn’t matter, because with a wave of his hand, Voldemort had him locked in place, unable to move. He tried to open his mouth to say something, anything, but even his lips were paralyzed.
“Shh, it’s alright,” Voldemort said, quiet enough that Harry thought he was the only one who could hear. He cupped Harry’s cheek, skin cool and dry. “You’ve done beautifully and I’m so proud of you.”
If Harry could have moved, his mouth would have opened in shock. The words were something he’d longed to hear from Dumbledore or Remus or any of the other adults in his life who had put so much faith in him. But to hear it from Voldemort of all people… that was unexpected. Harry didn’t think his lifelong enemy was supposed to be the one to praise him.
Voldemort gave him what might have been a smile, like he knew exactly what Harry was thinking. Perhaps he did, he’d always had more power over Harry than anyone would have liked to admit.
“But that’s enough now,” Voldemort continued, a little more force in his voice. Like Harry could even argue. “It was cruel of them to make you fight me — you never could have won. Dumbledore knew that from the beginning and he led you like a lamb to slaughter. It’s not your fault.”
Harry felt like he’d been hit in the gut hearing those words. He wanted so much to dismiss them, but deep in his heart and mind, he knew he couldn’t.
From the beginning of his time in the wizarding world, Dumbledore had been the one Harry had respected most. Harry had sung his praises from the moment they met, after all, and in retrospect that gave Harry a somewhat skewed view of things. He thought Dumbledore was the only one he could truly rely on. But if that was true, why hadn't he tried to put Harry out of harm's way instead of thrusting him into danger at every turn? It was a lot for Harry to consider.
Voldemort smiled, just the smallest hint of an amused turn to his lipless mouth. “Yes, you see now.”
The petrification seemed to be fading bit by bit. Harry hung his head, overwhelmed and exhausted, and felt Voldemort’s hand slip from his face. It left behind a cool streak that tempered the fire of his shame. He was glad he was facing away from the others so they couldn’t see how utterly destroyed he was.
“And now to take care of the true problem,” Voldemort said.
Harry didn't even try to move, just watched out of the corner of his eye as Voldemort strode past him. To face Dumbledore, he supposed. Once he would have put odds on the elderly headmaster to win. Now… Now he just wasn’t sure.
“What do you think you’re doing here, Tom?” Dumbledore asked a few moments later. His voice was steady, but there was a note there that might have been fear. Apparently he’d realized that Harry wouldn’t be fighting anymore. “You know you can’t win.”
“Oh, can’t I?”
There was a loud crashing noise, and tired as he was, Harry forced himself to turn around. If everyone he knew and loved was about to be killed by Voldemort and he wasn’t going to do anything to stop him, he should at least watch. He deserved the guilt of their deaths for as long as Voldemort deigned to keep him alive. Which, he figured, wasn’t going to be long.
Voldemort stood about ten metres out from Dumbledore, the rest of the Order of the Phoenix staggered out a ways behind him. There was a smoking crater just in front of him, which Harry figured was the source of the noise he’d heard. As he watched, Voldemort shot a stream of purple light at Dumbledore, forcing him to jump to the side as it blasted through his magical shield. It seemed almost like Voldemort was playing with him, or perhaps just showing off how strong Voldemort was and how Dumbledore had underestimated his power.
“I am the Dark Lord, the most powerful wizard alive,” Voldemort called, loud enough that even the Death Eaters, still in place on the other side of the battlefield, could hear him. “Your delusions of grandeur let you think I could be defeated. By a child, no less! You call yourself a Light wizard, but you forced him to fight a war that wasn’t his. And now you’ve lost.”
Even from a distance, Harry could see the ashen tint of Dumbledore’s face. “I only did what I had to!”
“What you had to,” Voldemort spat in return, taking long strides forward. The Order of the Phoenix stumbled backward as a group, some of them looking like they wanted to bolt. “You had no right to put such a thing on the shoulders of a child. To send young to fight in battle in your place is the height of cowardice. This was your war!”
The words rang out in the otherwise silent battlefield, and Harry could practically feel the shock they produced. Some seemed to be looking askance at one another and at Dumbledore, confusion and even anger evident in their movements. Others looked disgusted as they considered Voldemort’s pronouncement. If his goal had been to cause strife, to break loyalty, to expose Dumbledore to their judgemental thoughts, then he’d certainly done so.
Dumbledore opened his mouth, probably to try to defend himself for all the good it would do, but Voldemort made a cutting noise with his wand, shutting him up. The others backed up, leaving space between themselves and Dumbledore as Voldemort continued forward until he was only a metre away. Harry could see Dumbledore’s arm twitching, like he was trying to fight back against whatever spell Voldemort had him under.
“But this is the end of the war, for you at least,” Voldemort told him. He made another slashing motion, and Dumbledore crumpled to the ground.
Harry’s ears were filled with a rushing noise that blocked out everything else. He could see the commotion among the Order, frantic and confused at Dumbledore’s death, but not a sound reached him. It was like he was in a bubble all his own, nothing but grief and silent rage with him.
He watched numbly as a few people rushed Voldemort, trying to fight him. He also watched as they fell one by one, so easily overpowered and defeated that it was almost pathetic. Some were left injured and unable to fight; most of the important members of the Order weren’t so lucky. McGonagall and Kingsley and Mad Eye and Hestia Jones all killed, and just like that, the Order was so thoroughly shattered, Harry knew that even if the rest survived, it would never recover.
The war was over.