listen.
Title: Listen
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters/Pairings: Harry, Voldemort, Hermione. Mentions of the Weasleys, Luna, Lupin, Sirius, Lily and James. Slight Ron/Luna. If you guess it tell me. C: Harry/Hermione
Rating: T, to be safe.
Warnings: language, maybe some implied themes.
Summary: Because here they are, after everything.
Author Notes: spontaneous HP oneshot. enjoy, feedback greatly appreciated.
He grips his wand, mouth twitching as determination overtakes his gnawing fear. Twisting his own gnarled wand, Voldemort eyes him.
"Such a young thing, aren't you?" he observes, almost casually. "You could have been a valuable member of my... party here."
"No thanks," Harry retorts. "I'd rather die for something good than live a traitor's life."
His enemy throws his head back and laughs, mouth open to the stormy heavens. "Oh, you stupid boy. We all want power; some people just decide to supress or ignore the desire for it."
"Maybe," Harry squints slightly. "But that desire can turn you mad, can't it? Just look at you."
Voldemort frowns, and glances down at his ivory, papery skin.
"You're not even human anymore," Harry continues.
"Because humans are weak!" Voldemort hisses, suddenly angry. "They are sad, and ill, and they die, boy."
"And you hate them," Harry withdraws his wand a little. "Because they left you all alone. They abandoned you. Just a scared little boy. And you wanted to hurt them all."
"Shut up!" Voldemort screeches, and Harry winces at the grating on his eardrum. "You have no idea what you're talking about."
"Well, actually I do," Harry stares into the eyes of his old, so very old enemy, and felt only pity. "My parents died, I was left alone with relatives who don't give a damn about me. I was different. I was a freak. But I found friends, and I tried."
Voldemort simmers, beaten and aware of it.
"We are quite similar, aren't we?" Harry leans forward again. "Except that I found a better way to go. And that's why I'm going to win."
The snake-like human in front of him raises an eyebrow and liftes his wand with graceful, white fingers.
"Avada Kedavra."
"Expelliarmus."
There is a sudden rush, sounds crescendoing until Harry cannot hear anything except his groans of exhaustion and shallow breathing.
But he tries, and tries. He pushes, thinking of the people he is fighting for. Redheads and brown curls and bags under wolfish eyes and a cork necklace and a barking laugh and green eyes and black hair.
Books and cleverness. Quidditch and Wizards' Chess. A map. An Invisiblity cloak. A roaring lion hat. A lullaby.
He thinks of the friends he has, the love he has gained, and as the lights and sounds ebb, he knows that everything is worth fighting for.
Voldemort's hoarse screams reach his ears, and he almost lets his guard down in shock.
He's winning. He's going to win.
The pain from his enemy makes something like remorse course through him, because murder was never going to be a preferred option in this war. He finds Voldemort's figure somewhere in the explosion of light around them, and looks straight at him.
"Sorry, Tom," he mutters, and with the last gasp of energy he has, lets all his magic flow through him and out of the tip of his wand.
Voldemort goes immediately silent as the light surrounds him, and then he is crumbling, dissolving, the light filaments breaking away with him. It is ultimately quiet, like the whoosh of an atomic bomb.
And soon, the madman that was Voldemort is gone, hopefully forever.
Harry watches the light rise away from him, panting, his wand arm dropping (closely followed by his knees to the muddy ground).
It is done. It's over, it's all over.
Harry presses his face into his hands and begins to weep.
"I'm sorry," he blurts, to nobody. "I'm sorry."
And he is, because Tom Riddle was just another scared little boy who took a wrong turn, and being a murderer to someone so similar to him makes him feel sick.
But then someone is there, fingers prying his hands from his cheeks and dotting kisses on his forehead, and murmuring his name, and it's Hermione. Hermione, who is clever and wonderful, and could she hold him properly? Oh, yes, that's better.
"I killed him." he sobs.
"Yes, you did," she says, her hands softening his hair. "And you had to, you - you brilliant man, you -"
He tugs her closer and wishes the urge to kiss her right here (right now) away. "I'm not."
"You are," she mutters fiercely in his ear. "Don't you dare."
He buries his nose in her hair, and he could do anything now, he thinks.