Chapter Text
“Harry, oh Harry... Harry...” the oaf sobbed on. Voldemort considered silencing him, but his tears were satisfying, a reminder of his victory. At last, the boy was dead. He would hold his body as a trophy. Let the Order behold their savior that they counted on. He wanted to watch the hope diminish from their eyes and, along with it, their will to fight.
They were nothing without Harry Potter. They worshiped the boy, ignorant of the consequences that awaited them for placing their trust in the undeserving. Voldemort would correct that.
The Dark Lord led his Death Eaters through the forest, stopping outside the front doors of Hogwarts. His eyes narrowed on the entrance to the castle as it opened, revealing those that dared stand against him.
“NO!” an elderly witch shouted. Her greying hair held up in a bun. Scratches covered her body from battle. It had been years since he’d seen Minerva. He wondered if the woman even recognized him as Tom Riddle, the boy she attended school with.
Doubtful. He did his best to separate himself from ‘Tom Riddle’. Not only had his name changed, but he underwent such a profound transformation, he was unrecognizable from the man he used to be. Before he was handsome, strong jawed, straight nose, long lashes covering his mysterious eyes and dark hair. His smiled could charm any witch he wished. His words caressed the ears of those who listened to him.
He lost those features with each Horcrux created and with the execution of the ritual to reclaim his body. He now resembled something inhuman. Voldemort had snake-like slits for his nostrils, flaming red irises, and a lipless mouth. His skin appeared almost translucent and grey rather than the pale porcelain he was accustomed to.
While not handsome anymore, he didn’t mind the new image. He didn’t need to charm anyone. His appearance only further aided in his ability to instill fear in others.
Those same blood-red eyes watched as more students streamed through the doors to the courtyard. They couldn’t miss the crying half-giant and the body in his arms.
“No!” His gaze flicked to a girl. Brown curls and scrapes on her skin. She grabbed onto a red-haired boy beside her, tears filling her eyes.
Something inside him roared to life. He felt a sharp cramp shoot across his back, a sudden surge of something completely foreign invaded him. He couldn’t identify it. It zapped over his skin and encompassed his very being. His mind opened, his senses became sharper, the crisp air penetrated his nostrils mixed with the scent of war.
Mate!
The Dark Lord blinked as he watched her—acutely tuned to every sight, sound, and sensation she emitted.
“No! Harry!” She cried.
She’s upset!
Her voice—so melodic. He imagined it in so many ways. A visceral reaction ran through him. A shiver coursed through his body. His fists clenched.
Mate! Our mate is upset!
The cry grew louder. Screaming in his mind. His throat closed. His fractured soul called to her. He tried to ignore it. What did he care about this girl? He’d probably kill her—
No! Protect our mate!
He hissed a curse in Parseltongue as his hands clenched. Physical pain radiated throughout his limbs, his entire body rigid. His head pulsated as the roaring intensified. It overshadowed the tears and yelling for the ‘Boy-who-was-now-dead’. It wouldn’t stop!
“Harry!”
“Bastards!”
“No! He can’t be dead!”
She’s ours! Help her!
“No! It’s impossible!”
“Harry, no!”
Mate! Mate! Mate!
“SILENCE!” Voldemort shouted. He wasn’t sure if he was talking to the fucking screaming voice or the crowd—regardless, he sent a wave of magic over the audience, forcing everyone into submission.
He hid the way his body jolted. He had to restrain himself from going to this girl. From capturing her in his arms and running off with her.
Not yet. He had to wait to indulge in these new desires and urges. He had a war to win. “It is over! Set him down, Hagrid, at my feet, where he belongs!”
With determination, he tore his gaze from the captivating curly-haired witch and tried to refocus on the matter at hand.
The voice remained silent. Perhaps it departed—a temporary insanity. Whatever the case, he would find out what happened later and ensure it never occurred again!
“You see? Harry Potter is dead! Do you understand now, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!” He aimed to provoke a reaction, and they responded as expected.
“He beat you!” the red-headed boy the girl clutched onto yelled. It drew his attention back to her. Her large clear eyes were full of emotion. A bruise formed on her cheek. Soot covered her clothes. Was she in a fire?
Take her... protect her. Our mate is injured.
Voldemort clamped his jaw, his face contorting with anger as he forcefully dismissed these deluded ideas.
The crowd erupted in a swarm of shouting.
“He was killed trying to sneak out of the castle grounds,” he continued. His voice sounded thick as all the noise escalated, but his words carried to everyone. He would make them doubt Harry Potter—their savior and leader. It would cause discord in their community. Chaos. “Killed while trying to save himself—”
“Liar!” Someone had the gall to charge him from the crowd. He flicked the Elder Wand with a soft hiss at the boy, sending him soaring through the air and thudding to the ground in the no-man’s-land between the two forces. His mouth twitched. He felt a hum of satisfaction from the wand through his fingers. Perhaps now the thing recognized its master!
“And who is this?” he asked, summoning the challenger’s wand to his hands and tossing it aside. “Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the battle is lost?”
“It is Neville Longbottom, my Lord! The boy who has been giving the Carrows so much trouble! The son of the Aurors, remember?” Bellatrix answered him as if she expected to be praised in return.
Of course he fucking remembered! She dare imply that he wouldn’t? Did she think he was some sort of imbecile that needed reminding? As loyal as Bellatrix was, she was reckless. He may have fathered a child with her, but that was solely for preservation of his line. A duty that she greedily took.
Perhaps he would kill her. Make an example of her. Show that Lord Voldemort does not have favorites. With the child born and the battle nearing its end, the woman was dispensable.
A wave of disgust washed over him at the idea of Bellatrix having his child.
Our mate will have our children! Save her!
Fuck! Seeing the girl cry in the arms of that red-haired boy made him unreasonably angry! Perhaps if he killed her, the feeling and voice would go—
NO! NO! NO!
The protest in his head was so powerful that he nearly collapsed to his knees. He felt whatever entity this was, course through his veins and take control of him. It made him take a single step towards her before Voldemort fought it off and regained his faculties.
“Ah, yes, I remember.” He looked down at Neville Longbottom, who was now picking himself off the ground. “But you are a pureblood, aren’t you, my brave boy?” Despite the war with whatever was inside his mind, he kept his outward expression serene. Almost bored.
“So what if I am?!” he replied. He stood with his head tall, hands in fists, exposed between the two armies.
“You show spirit and bravery, and you come of noble stock. You will make a very valuable Death Eater. We need your kind, Neville Longbottom.”
“I’ll join you when hell freezes over—Dumbledore’s Army!” he shouted, and the crowd answered his call. Cheers in response throughout. The girl joined. Voldemort’s eyes flashed at the sight of her.
She cheered against him. She opposed him.
We have made her unhappy! We have made our mate unhappy!
On the contrary, it displeased him she would stand against him. He felt a strong desire to hold this girl by his side, instead she fought him.
The voice echoed in his ears, screaming at him, each word filled with accusation—demanding he console her.
Voldemort would not be consoling her. Ever.
“Very well,” he said, his tone smooth. “If that is your choice, Longbottom, we revert to the original plan. On your head, be it.” He waved his wand, and the Sorting Hat shattered through a window, flying towards them.
“There will be no more Sorting at Hogwarts School. There will be no more Houses. The emblem, shield, and colors of my noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, will suffice for everyone. Won’t they, Neville Longbottom?”
He pointed his wand at the boy, freezing him in place and forcing the tattered wizard hat on his head, sliding down to cover most of his face.
“Neville here is now going to demonstrate what happens to anyone foolish enough to continue to oppose me.” The Sorting Hat burst into flames. He screamed but couldn’t move, frozen, rooted to the spot. He was like a torch, his head serving as the flame. A glorious sight to behold. He watched the ancient relic burn upon the blood-traitor’s head.
People gasped and wept. Death Eater’s jeered. The girl’s cry stood out among the others. The voice reminded him of her displeasure. It tried again to take over, but Voldemort swatted away its useless attempts.
Chaos broke out as a giant came charging towards them. “HAGGER!” The thing cried. Voldemort allowed his own army of giants to handle the pathetic lone creature. They would easily overtake him. Their footsteps quaked the earth as they ran at each other. His Death Eaters shouted, scrambling to avoid the stampede.
Our mate! Protect her! The voice roared as she jumped out of the path of the giants. Again, his feet moved of their own accord, stepping towards her, his mind ready to take her and fly. Escape with her in his arms and to safety. His back ached and prickled as he thought of it. The distraction was enough that the blood-traitor escaped his Body Binding Curse and next thing Voldemort knew, Neville Longbottom ripped the hat off his head, pulling out a sword from its depths and swung it.
Nagini slithered along the ground in the blade's path. There was no stopping the contact. Voldemort screamed as the blade beheaded his snake. A hiss of curses flew from his mouth in Parseltongue as his Horcrux dropped dead.
Anger! Rage! Fury! He roared! Magic burst from him! “Kill them!” Voldemort snarled.
No! She can’t die! Protect her! Our mate! Mate!
He didn’t care! His Horcrux was gone! A precious piece of his soul!
NO! SAVE HER!
His body seized as he fought to control his own limbs.
Voldemort won the war within his own body, raised his wand, and started firing curses. He needed to get this voice to stop distracting him! It was going to drive him insane! He tried to put distance between him and the girl by rushing into the Great Hall to continue the battle, hoping the voice would cease its onslaught with her out of sight.
He was mistaken. A sharp, piercing pain engulfed him, causing his body to tense up. The room spun, his vision blurred. The sound of his heartbeat intensified, pounding in his ears like a relentless drum. The air felt heavy, suffocating, as anxiety consumed him like a thick fog. These sensations were unfamiliar, overwhelming. He couldn’t process the feelings through the haze of fear and panic!
Where is she?!
Voldemort cast curse after curse, shouted orders to his followers, but he looked for her—unable to help himself. He blamed it on the pain deep inside, like his soul was being torn again. His soul should be too fragmented to tear into more pieces! What was happening?!
Where is she?! Find her! Find her! Find her!
He couldn’t think. His hands cast spells while his body ached to move, to follow the bidding of the voice in his head. Separating himself from her had been a terrible idea. It made things worse!
McGonagall, Slughorn, and Kingsley all pushed their way forward as more of their allies fell by his hand. He fought them all at once. His professor, his old schoolmate, and the Auror. Even combined, they were no match for him.
Have to find her! Have to help her! Our mate is in danger!
So much noise. So much shouting.
He blasted back his three opponents, his eyes darting around to look for his witch.
Our witch! Our mate!
Damnit! Why was he calling the girl “his”?
He didn’t see her. He couldn’t find her. There were too many people fighting. She could be anywhere!
In his anger, he unleashed a curse that was blocked by a shield cast from an unknown source.
Potter, the boy-who-wouldn’t-fucking-die, appeared! They stared at each other, then started walking in a slow circle around each other.
As they did their slow circle, Voldemort’s eyes darted around, looking for the girl. Where the fuck was she?!
“I don’t want anyone else to try to help,” Harry said, ever the bleeding heart. “It’s got to be like this. It’s got to be me.”
“Potter doesn’t mean that,” he hissed. His red eyes blazed. “That isn’t how he works, is it? Who are you going to use as a shield today, Potter?”
“Nobody. There are no more Horcruxes. It’s just you and me. Neither can live while the other survives, and one of us is about to leave for good.”
He wanted to deny Potter’s statement about the Horcruxes, but he knew it was true. Somehow, he felt it. They were gone. All of them. Every single Horcrux he created—destroyed.
He tamped down his rising rage. “One of us?” Voldemort wanted to laugh. How could the boy think to stand against him?! Alone?! It was ridiculous! “You think it will be you, do you, the boy who has survived by accident, and because Dumbledore was pulling the strings?”
Where is she? Where is she? Our mate!
Shut up! Voldemort yelled into his mind. The pain inside his chest intensified. He hissed. Why couldn’t he find her?!
“Accident, was it, when my mother died to save me? Accident, when I decided to fight in that graveyard? Accident, that I didn’t defend myself tonight, and still survived, and returned to fight again?”
How did this boy cheat death, time and time again?! What had he done to accomplish what Voldemort spent a lifetime trying to achieve?!
“Accidents!” Voldemort screamed, clutching his wand tighter. Nobody in the Great Hall moved. Everyone watched as the two prophesied ones danced in a perfect circle.
She’s ours! Find her! We need her!
They continued to jeer. Taunt. Prolong the inevitable battle between them. Potter standing tall, acting confident despite his impending demise.
Find her, find her, find her!
“I know things you don’t know, Tom Riddle. I know lots of important things that you don’t. Want to hear some, before you make another big mistake?” Potter said.
Voldemort sneered at his given name falling off the boy’s tongue. He hated the name. The reminder of his origins. His father didn’t want him. His pathetic mother died. “Is it love again?”
Our mate! We have to care for her!
The pain escalated, becoming almost unbearable. It burned him from the inside out. Shredded him. Once he had the girl, this agony would vanish. He couldn’t explain how he knew this with such certainty.
Voldemort spoke through the anguish, “Dumbledore’s favorite solution, love, which he claimed conquered death, though love did not stop him falling from the tower and breaking like an old waxwork? Love, which did not prevent me stamping out your Mudblood mother like a cockroach, Potter—and nobody seems to love you enough to run forward this time and take my curse. So what will stop you dying now when I strike?”
Nothing. Voldemort planned to kill this boy, snatch the girl, and leave. Then he would figure out what was going on in his head. He just needed to find her. Where could she be? Did something happen to her? Was she dead?
NO! NO! NO!
What was meant to be a fleeting thought became a screaming symphony in his mind. Terror at her potential demise swarmed him. Cries of agony inside his head drowned out some of Potter’s voice. Incomprehensible sounds of distress echoing through his skull.
Harry went on, yelling about how he was the Elder Wand’s master because he disarmed Draco Malfoy. What Harry failed to realize was Voldemort already conquered him, Harry, in the forest. The wand behaved beautifully since they returned to the castle.
Voldemort had mastered the Elder Wand. He was sure of it.
FIND HER! SHE CAN’T BE GONE! SHE CAN’T BE!
Pain! So much fucking pain ran through every part of him. He could barely breathe.
He tried to refocus on what Potter was saying.
Mate! No! Our Mate!
They circled. The conversation ended. Now for the duel.
“Avada Kedavra!”
“Expelliarmus!”
His eyes darted towards a shuffle in the crowd.
The girl. Her curls. Her glowing caramel eyes met his. She was alive. All the tension left him. The pain eased. Everything calmed. A serene feeling.
She’s okay… She’s okay… Mate. Our beautiful mate.
She distracted him as he looked at her, reveling in her appearance. Dirty and distressed, but alive. Dried blood flecked across her skin. He wanted to comfort her and clean her wounds. He had no fucking idea where this urge came from. It infuriated him. This was unprecedented!
Noticing the blood, the voice in his mind screamed once more, urging him to go to her. The injury tormented it, no matter how inconsequential. His mind reeled. He couldn’t think.
The spell came at him. He didn’t see it. How could he when his eyes were focused on this girl?
It was his own undoing.
The distraction. His curse lost its thread and rebounded, connecting with his chest, killing him instantly.
In the end, everyone dies the same. But Voldemort could at least say this about death—he at least took the incessant screaming voice down with him.