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0789 The Confrontation
🕑 Added 2025-07-27 12:17:18 +0000 UTCThe graveyard in front of them was like a battlefield ravaged by the gods themselves, the earth torn and churned as if massive iron plows had been dragged through it by invisible titans.
Where once the withered shrubs and ancient spruces had briefly bloomed under the supernatural emerald radiance, now only charred skeletal remain stood. The thunderous assault of dark magic and roiling mist had left them scorched beyond recognition.
Though the oppressive fog had finally lifted, revealing the pale moon hanging above the scene of devastation, the malicious magic that had been unleashed still lingered in the air like a living thing. It coiled and writhed invisibly through the night, seething with rage, ready to lash out at the slightest provocation.
The Death Eaters now felt as though invisible thorns had pierced deep into their backs, sending sharp spikes of terror racing up their spines. Their hands trembled beneath their dark robes, fingers clutching their wands with desperation.
Each one of them had witnessed the Dark Lord's fury before had seen what happened to those who disappointed him. To hope for any trace of "old sentiment" or mercy from their master at a time like this was not merely foolish—it was suicidal fantasy.
Not a single Death Eater dared to break the suffocating silence that had fallen over the graveyard. The question of what had transpired at that cursed altar burned in their minds, but they knew better than to voice their curiosity.
Only the Dark Lord himself truly understood, and his face twisted into fury whenever his gaze fell upon the shattered remains of the stone platform.
"Before Lord Voldemort's power," the Dark Lord finally spoke, "any schemes and conspiracies are utterly useless."
The words were meant to project confidence, to reassure his followers that whatever had occurred was merely a temporary inconvenience.
The Dark Lord had no intention of explaining the failure. Instead, he chose to redirect attention to the prize that had brought them all to this accursed place. Slowly, he turned his gaze toward Harry Potter.
The final moment had arrived. Harry knew this in his heart and felt relieved. Under Voldemort's watchful eyes, even Winky wouldn't have the slightest chance to take him away to safety. And perhaps, Harry thought with acceptance, that was for the best.
Harry slowly bent down and picked up his wand, which had fallen to the ground earlier. His green eyes, filled with hatred, met Voldemort's gaze.
"It seems you've come prepared, haven't you, Potter?" Voldemort observed as he approached slowly. He chuckled softly as he addressed his Death Eaters:
"I believe you have already witnessed tonight how utterly foolish it is to think this mere boy could possibly be stronger than I am. Now, I shall thoroughly dispel any such delusions from your minds once and for all.
Harry Potter's previous escapes from my grasp were nothing more than pure luck. But there are no such conveniences here tonight. This is the final act of Voldemort's resurrection ceremony. I will kill him to prove my supremacy, here and now, before your very eyes."
He gestured grandly toward Harry with his bone-white wand. "There is no Dumbledore here tonight to shield him with his tired old tricks, no Watson to throw in himself between us with his clever strategies, no mother to sacrifice herself and invoke the ancient protections.
Come then, Potter. I see you have managed to retrieve your wand. Come, step forward and face your destiny. Let my Death Eaters witness your corpse cooling in the dirt, so they will never again have doubts about who is truly the more powerful."
In the circle of masked figures, Lucius Malfoy felt a cold bead of sweat trickle down his temple despite the chill night air. His heart clenched with an anxiety that had nothing to do with concern for the Potter boy and everything to do with cold, calculating fear for his own future.
If Harry Potter died here tonight—did Watson truly had the confidence and ability to face the Dark Lord with only himself and the aged, increasingly frail Dumbledore as allies?
Watching the pale-faced boy emerge from behind the ruins, wand held steady despite the tremor in his young hands, Lucius had to admit that Harry Potter's courage was genuinely admirable. For an underage wizard to face certain death with such composure was both tragic and undeniably heroic.
Through his son Draco's constant reports and complaints about life at Hogwarts, Lucius knew Harry Potter better than most of the other Death Eaters present. He was well aware that beneath the famous scar and the legend, this was merely a reckless boy without much common sense—a Gryffindor through and through.
But now, as he watched Harry prepare to face impossible odds with quiet determination, Lucius was genuinely hoping that the boy might somehow demonstrate some miraculous ability, some hidden power that could tip the scales of this unequal contest.
A heavy, funeral atmosphere settled over everyone's hearts. Harry's steps were somewhat unsteady as he made his way across the uneven ground. He approached the spot where Barty Crouch Jr. had arranged the bodies of his fallen friends beside Tom Riddle's tombstone.
Harry stood silently beside Ron and Hermione, who lay side by side on the ground. After taking one last, lingering look at his two dearest friends—Harry drew a deep, shuddering breath. Then, with resolute determination, he fixed his gaze upon Voldemort.
The Death Eaters arranged themselves in a large circle around the two. They stood in absolute silence, awaiting the outcome of what promised to be both an absurd mismatch and a solemn duel between the most famous wizard of their generation and the most feared Dark Lord in Modern Magical history.
"You have learned to duel properly, haven't you, Harry Potter?" Voldemort's red eyes gleamed like rubies in the darkness.
At this question, Harry's mind immediately turned to Professor Watson. He had studied proper dueling under this remarkable wizard for over a year and knew how much he had improved. He dared say that his current self could defeat ten versions of his former self from before taking those lessons. But it was useless.
Professor Watson himself had been able to withstand one of Professor Dumbledore's spells during his fifth year at Hogwarts. Yet even he couldn't hope to face Voldemort in a duel at his current age and level of power. What chance did Harry have?
"We bow to each other, Harry," Voldemort said with mock courtesy, inclining his serpentine head slightly while never allowing his gaze to waver from his young opponent. "Come now, the proper etiquette must be observed, mustn't it? Dumbledore and Watson would surely want you to demonstrate good manners, even in your final moments. Bow to death, Harry."
Harry didn't move. Flames burned fiercely in his green eyes. He could accept dying—had been prepared for that possibility since the moment he'd come to this cursed place. But he would never, ever accept mockery or humiliation. His parents had died with dignity, and he would do the same.
"I said, bow," Voldemort calmly raised his wand. Harry felt his spine bend as the same gravitational torrent that had pressed down on Ron and Hermione before their deaths appeared once more. He had no power to resist and couldn't even see where the attack originated.
'At least cast one spell,' Harry resolved desperately in the depths of his mind —for his parents who had sacrificed themselves to save his life, for Ron and Hermione who had accompanied him throughout this journey, for Professor Watson who had always taught him with such care, for Sirius's twelve years of imprisonment, for Remus's years of wandering, for Hagrid, for Dumbledore.
"Very good," Voldemort said with soft satisfaction, lowering his wand with the pleased air of a teacher whose student has finally mastered a difficult lesson. Immediately, the crushing pressure on Harry's back disappeared, allowing him to straighten with a gasp of relief. "And now—let us duel properly."
Harry could see that even setting aside that ocean-deep magical power, Voldemort himself was a master of dueling arts.
The instant Voldemort's words hit the ground, Harry caught the afterimage of Voldemort's wand moving.
'He won't kill me so easily. He'll torture me first, watch me suffer, prove how weak I am before him—I need to predict the opponent's attack intention!'
Harry jerked up his wand. His magical barrier had barely formed when it shattered in the thunderous blast. The shockwave swept everything before it, carrying irresistible force that hurled Harry through the air. His back slammed heavily against a tree stump.
Strangely, the impact felt like being struck by a speeding car and thrown against a wall. Normally, losing consciousness would be getting off lightly—serious injury and blood loss would be expected. Yet such a heavy blow brought him no real pain, only—
A trace of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth. This wasn't blood rising from damaged organs in his throat or chest, but merely from biting his tongue.
"Oh my, it seems you have indeed learned some real skills, haven't you?" Voldemort's voice had a tone of genuine surprise and pleasure as the dust cloud settled and he observed Harry coughing and climbing unsteadily to his feet.
The boy was covered from head to toe in grave dirt and stone fragments, spitting bloody foam from his bitten tongue, but he was unmistakably alive and conscious.
The Dark Lord's red eyes, which had been shadowed with disappointment at the thought of an anticlimactically brief execution, now flashed with satisfaction. "This should add quite a bit of entertainment to our little dance. Do you need a moment's rest to gather yourself, Harry? Or would you prefer to try again immediately?"
Harry didn't answer, couldn't answer.
His head felt as though it were spinning on its axis—not from the physical impact of striking the tree stump, but because Voldemort had violently shattered his magical defenses, causing the magic within his body to surge and churn in turbulent waves.
"I asked if you want to try again," Voldemort repeated gently. "Answer me, Harry. Imperio!"
Harry instinctively tried to dodge, but his blurred vision caused him to misjudge. His body froze in place. He had experienced this sensation many times in class—it was the Imperius Curse, and he had been caught!
Fear and anger seemed to retreat as a blissful feeling clouded Harry's thought, as if he were in a dream. He knew it was a dream, yet such a wonderful dream made one reluctant to leave.
Say "no," a dreamlike voice whispered in his consciousness, trying to persuade him.
'I won't say it,' a more powerful voice in the deepest part of his mind declared with determination.
Say "no
No, I won't answer
Say "no."
"I won't say it!"
These words burst from Harry's mouth, echoing across the graveyard. The dreamlike state suddenly vanished, as if he had been doused with cold water.
"You won't say it?" Voldemort repeated with soft, dangerous interest, his head tilting slightly to one side like a predator studying particularly fascinating prey. "You refuse to say 'no'? How very interesting, Harry. It seems I must teach you rather more about the virtue of obedience than I had initially planned. Perhaps we need to introduce a little more pain into our lesson?"
His consciousness now clear and his magical energy beginning to restabilize, Harry threw himself behind a massive marble tombstone just as Voldemort's wand swung in a vicious arc.
The curse that followed turned the place where Harry had been standing into a churning explosion of destructive force, sending chips of stone and lumps of earth flying in all directions.
"Come now, Harry, we're not playing a children's game of hide and seek," Voldemort called out with cold amusement. "You know that you cannot escape me, not here, not anywhere. Does this mean you've already grown tired of our duel? How disappointing. If that's truly the case, then I suppose I can end this charade now. After all, if it's death you're seeking, then let it be exactly as you wish."
Crouched behind the stone monument, Harry's mind raced as he tried to formulate some kind of strategy. He knew that Voldemort had the power to immobilize him at any moment. If he truly chose to do so, Harry wouldn't be able to cast a single counter-curse in response.
But that knowledge only strengthened his resolve. He absolutely refused to die without releasing at least one attack, without making some resistance that would honor the memory of everyone who had sacrificed themselves for him.
"Avada Kedavra!"
The instant Harry emerged from behind the tombstone, Voldemort brought his wand down from above. Green light formed a dazzling barrier that spread toward Harry with lightning speed. Before that death-filled magic could strike him, Harry steadied his footing, his green eyes flashing with bright, fearless light as he stared death itself in the face and refused to flinch.
'Let it all end then,' Harry thought as he raised his wand. 'But let it end with honor.'
"Expelliarmus!" He shouted with every ounce of strength.
Red lightning surged from his wand, racing toward the advancing wall of green death.
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