[FF] Trinity VII: The Twilight (Type-Moon/Harry Potter X-over)

[hatori]

just get well soon kieran, the sooner you are better, the easier the chapters will be to write.

[Kieran]

Thank you - I appreciate it.

Still, hopefully it won't be too long . . .

[Kieran]

DISCLAIMER: Lunar Legend Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and Type-Moon, along with anyone who's happened to license them, like Geneon or Funimation. Harry Potter and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of J.K. Rowling, along with her publishers and Warner Bros., as regards the movie material.

This is a not-for-profit, just-for-fun project.



Writer's Note: Certain dialogue sequences in this story are lifted from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, but I trust in the intelligence of my readers (and the availability of the books) to recognise them.




Chapter 83 – Fire and Fury




May 2, 1998






Cold was the first sensation that he was aware of, albeit dimly; the dark void that had swallowed his consciousness was too deep, too all-encompassing, to break free of so easily. And the cold itself was not a strong feeling, more an overall numbness than any actual impression.

No, what truly awakened him was pain – the agony of his entire body being literally rent asunder. It was one of his more esoteric abilities, largely unknown even in the diversity of magizoology; it only existed because of the combination of werewolf and serpent natures he’d imbibed in the forming of his current being. When truly injured, his skin would shed itself entirely, leaving healthy, unmarked tissue behind.

It was not a panacea for all possible injury – internal organ damage could not be so countered, but for any epidermal damage, or damage to anything at least superficially connected to it, it made for a remarkable solution. Still, the ability was one that he rarely employed, mostly because of how difficult it was to damage him in the first place, and the fact that it took a great deal of his physical and magical strength to do so. That it had been initiated more or less unconsciously on his part was a sign of how gravely injured he’d truly been . . .

And as memory flooded back, Lord Voldemort realised what had brought him to this state.

They had used molten stone, and they had used Mandrakes – and were he any less puissant a wizard or being than himself, Lord Voldemort truly would have died in those moments. But more infuriatingly, they had used traps. The cult of Dumbledore, a collection of old fossils with the initiative, wits and daring of sheep – truly, a pack of pacifistic, sycophantic fools if there had ever been such among wizardkind – had resorted to those measures pioneered by that man and his kin.

They, who had heretofore followed Dumbledore’s cowardly strategies like holy writ, had seen what had worked against him previously, and taken it upon themselves to use it, as well – employing tactics and strategies that Dumbledore would never have had the spine to, in the process. And effectively, at that . . .

They were learning – and worst of all, they were learning not to FEAR HIM . . .

As that knowledge settled into his mind, and his strength restored itself with every passing heartbeat, a rage such as he had never before known was sparked alongside them.

Until this moment, he had been attempting to capture Hogwarts more or less intact – the prestige of the institution, alongside the grandeur of the structure itself, were worthwhile trophies of his victory. Likewise, he had been attempting to take the resisting populace largely alive, because many of the teachers were skilled, and the students were children – the future servants of his empire. Losses were to be expected on both fronts, but would serve as stark examples of his supremacy, and why disobedience was unwise, to say the least.

But as of this moment, Lord Voldemort no longer cared.

He would raze this castle to the ground, along with everyone in it, and let the smouldering, molten pit where once stood the finest school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world, which had endured for a millennium, stand as a monument to the fates of those who dared to even think of defying him. He would begin with those who had thwarted him most immediately to hand, before moving on to the one Fate itself had decreed could stop him – and with his death, they would know despair!

With an act of will, he threw all his power – all his hatred – against the trap and those who made it; let them know what it meant to burn in fire . . .!

And as the hellish beasts conjured forth from his wrath tore down the stone tower around him, Lord Voldemort issued his challenge – his defiance.

“EINZBERN!”





There was no warning, not really – just a flash of heat.

With that temperature spike, however, came a shudder that literally rippled through the Room of Requirement, spasms of something that culminated in a sudden, violent wrenching which resulted in the Room’s occupants being thrown to one side in a chaotic wave of bodies. Ilya had just enough time to curl herself protectively around Ai in reaction – and catch a whiff of brimstone as she did so – before she, along with everyone else, impacted hard against cold stone.

Lightning shot across the length of her spine, shockwaves rippling along her extremities; stars exploded behind her eyes . . . But she stayed conscious, and she kept hold of her baby. After that, everything else was secondary.

After taking a moment to remind herself how to breathe, and get her heart rate under some semblance of control, Ilya painstakingly (with a new appreciation for the word, and its literal meaning) unfolded her body, slowly inhaling and working to get a sense of her surroundings.

There was a definite sulphur stench, as she’d noted; it was a scent associated with Fiendfyre, and a careful turning of her head revealed a splotch of melted stone—

“Mein Gott,” she whispered, reverting to her childhood German in shock as she took in what was around her, and made the connections necessary to understand what had happened . . .

Not far away, Tonks groaned. “What happened . . .?” Then, a little clearer, “Is everybody alive?” After a beat, “And why are we in the bloody Hog’s Head?”

“Because of the safety protocols,” Ilya answered, standing and taking a headcount – thankfully, they didn’t seem to be missing anyone. “When we prepared the Room as our command post, one of our required conditions was for it to give us an emergency exit if we needed it . . . ” Quietly, she concluded, “So when it was about to be destroyed, it basically shoved us all out the door.”

It was breathtaking, in a way: a concrete demonstration of the sheer power and flexibility of the Room’s enchantments, if not a very compelling argument for the idea that Hogwarts itself had or was developing a level of sentience or outright sapience . . . And there was a very good chance that, as Fiendfyre was used, the Room itself had been permanently destroyed.

Ilya had never been a Ravenclaw, or a proper magus, but she could appreciate the magnitude of the loss that represented; that something so wondrous was gone from the world. And she was, thankfully, human enough to be both awed and grateful that the magic behind it – or mind, if that was the proper word – had chosen to save them as its final act, knowingly or not.

“So, what now?” Tonks asked. “We’re in Hogsmeade, now; it’ll be easy to send the kids back to their homes through the Floo system now, I suppose, but we’re far enough from the castle that going back to help afterwards is going to be a problem – and that’s just distance, without taking the battlefield into account. But outside of Hogwarts’ protections, forting up here, whether with everyone or not, isn’t all that sure a defence . . .”

A clearing throat had both of them whirling, wands drawn – only to relax, somewhat sheepishly, when they realised that it was Aberforth Dumbledore. That only made sense, as he did own the tavern they’d appeared in, after all.

“I can get the young ones out, if you’re that desperate to get back to being killed,” he remarked dryly. “And just to make it quicker for you, there’s a tunnel—”

“In Honeydukes,” Ilya said quickly, remembering its existence.

She also knew that there was a tunnel in the Shrieking Shack, but it was concealed by a Fidelius Charm she wasn’t the keeper of. Neither Tonks nor Aberforth, therefore, probably knew about it, and she couldn’t tell them . . . Not to mention that Tonks probably wouldn’t be able to get into it even if they went there.

“That’s the one,” the barman agreed. “If you really want to head back, that is.”

A sudden thought struck Ilya.

“First, I’d better let my family and friends know I wasn’t killed,” she said, drawing out her mirror – and finding it thankfully intact. “Before one or more of them does something stupid . . .”






It had to be said that, after significant self-reflection over the last several years, Shirou had come to the realisation that he’d never really understood hate.

Anger, yes – but most of that had been in a righteous vein, on behalf of the victimised and the unprotected. Disgust, for the circumstances he often found himself surrounded by, certainly. But even his self-hatred, as the Counter Guardian EMIYA, had been more desperation driven by disillusionment. He’d wanted a way out, any way out, from the deal that he’d been made to realise was never what he’d thought it was going to be. He’d been killing his past selves as a means to an end, not an end in itself; otherwise, he’d have killed them all, not just those who refused to give up on his path.

Shirou wasn’t like Herakles under Mad Enhancement, killing because he literally couldn’t think of anything else, or a sadist like Kotomine, who enjoyed spreading suffering. Nor was he prone to dark moods like Galen: willing to burn everything, root and branch, because there was nothing left in him to care any longer beyond making the world pay, whatever the cost – or coming up with horrific ways to inflict suffering not out of enjoyment, but because out of a need to see his own pain repaid in kind . . .

That last was the difference between a Berserker and an Avenger, Shirou supposed; and as distorted as his mental state was from a “normal” mindset, he’d never comprehended that one, either.

That might not have been his fault, though. Having seen how Ilya had manipulated Galen over the years – mentally smoothing out his rough edges, tamping down the flames of his fury and blurring some of his darker memories and tendencies – Shirou did wonder, periodically, if she’d applied the same tactics to him. It was possible, he’d decided, and maybe even likely – after all, Ilya had had little to no contact with himself as “Archer,” and fond memories of “Shirou.” If nothing else, she’d probably adjusted his personality, consciously or otherwise, to be more in line with what she believed of the latter than what she remembered of the former.

Even the mere idea should have grated more than it did . . . But again, he’d seen Ilya work on – and more importantly, with – Galen, over the years. Every step, every alteration, had been done contingent on the other’s approval, because there was no other way to do so in a reasonable timeframe, and he didn’t want to be that person any longer; so that he had a better chance of finding peace and happiness for himself. And Galen was, literally, a random guy that Ilya had picked up off the street. At best, he could be considered her pet project, if not an outright pet . . .

Shirou, on the other hand, was her “Onii-chan” and the love of her life; if anything, she would’ve taken more care with what she did.

He knew better than most the kind of devastation that good intentions could cause, but Shirou had asked himself a simple question: if he wasn’t brainwashed to be happy about things, would he still be enjoying his life as it was? Eventually, he’d concluded that as difficult as dealing with the wizarding world could often be – most often, its sheer nonsensicalness – when compared to that of the frustrated Counter Guardian, or even the wannabe Hero of Justice destined to become him, this existence was a paradise.

Maybe he’d end up called back to the Throne in the end, or maybe he was just a half-faded copy of the original EMIYA who’d managed to escape with Ilya’s help, but after all he’d been through to get to this point, this once, he would simply enjoy the reward . . .

The explosion on the seventh floor, at minimum, rattled the windows on all but the furthest side of the castle, where the bulk of its stone structure could absorb the force. Closer to its epicentre, the windows shattered, and stone walls cracked – where the impact of the still-burning fragments didn’t splinter them outright.

And because it was Fiendfyre, those burning pieces lost no time in consuming themselves and spreading outward to devour still more of the castle, even as jets spewed forth in rapid succession and random directions, forming themselves into terrifying, hungry beasts. The scent of brimstone was heavy in the searing air, the roar of the flames consuming all other sounds – save for, possibly, those victims they encountered.

Shirou had been here before, and he had not. His earliest memory – his defining memory – was to wake and walk amidst a city of dying people and falling ash, scoured clean of anything and everything that made him a person by the flames that had created it. It was his birthplace; it was his hell. And yet, this was not the same . . . These flames did not merely reduce the world around them to ash; they consumed all that was placed before them. And they left nothing behind, which was why Fiendfyre could destroy Horcruxes – how else could one define “damage that cannot be repaired by magic” if not as “utter annihilation?”

There would be no screams of helpless agony from the dying, here; no desperate, weakening cries for succor from the doomed. There would be no bodies remaining this time – there would be nothing left. Nothing left of Ilya . . . Nothing left of Ai . . .

. . . Shirou had never really understood hatred – until now.

The Elder Wand thrummed in his grip like a hunting dog eager to be set loose; finding its master’s desires in line with its own preferences, it helpfully began unfolding a list of every charm, jinx, hex and curse that it had ever known. What seemed like every way that magic could possibly be used to inflict torment on another – in body, mind or soul – flashed through his mind in the span of heartbeats, and Shirou began making plans to see just how many of them he could go through before Riddle finally died—

. . . No, Shirou decided suddenly. That was too easy, too bloodless. This demanded something more personal – more visceral . . .

Conjuration was a complex art, even given the complexity of Transfiguration in general. Aside from requiring a great deal more power – and the finesse to properly handle that power – it needed a far deeper understanding of the object being Conjured. After all, even with so radical a Transfiguration as animate to inanimate, or vice versa, there was still some form of pre-existing substance involved; with Conjuration, one literally started from nothing. As a result, very few bothered mastering the art to that degree; and few Conjured items lasted long, in any case.

Noble Phantasms, as the “Nasuverse refugees,” to borrow Galen’s phrase, understood them, were not possible in this world. The metaphysical laws that gave rise to things like Mystic Eyes, Reality Marbles, Dead Apostles and Counter Guardians simply did not exist here. Certainly, wizardry would allow them to replicate some of the effects of such things: a plethora of the right Charms could mimic Avalon, perhaps, and Bellerophon was relatively simple, in terms of its actual enchantments . . .

But still, they would be pale shadows indeed of the true treasures – the sort of cheap imitations that deserved Gilgamesh’s scorn.

Those two facts effectively made what Shirou did next impossible – but then, he’d always been good at that. Besides, in this particular case, he had two facts working for him, as well: firstly, he was the maker when it came to weapons. That was the whole nature of his Reality Marble, after all; the materialisation of his soul was both crucible and forge. And secondly, he was Master of the Elder Wand, which was as close to a genuine Noble Phantasm as this world had ever known – and its nature was to be supreme among its kind.

Essentially, he declared “This shall be so,” and the wand said, “Yes, Master,” and it was so – and the universe, with all its physics and metaphysics, just had to suck it up and take it.

The swords appeared without light, and only a whisper of sound, as air was shoved aside to make room for their sudden existence. Black and white, they were, and flawless; they gleamed even in the relatively low lighting of the castle corridor, and their edges were sharp enough to make a Muramasa blade shriek with envy. They had been his companions and weapons of choice throughout many battles; and if Ilya had injected more of Shirou into EMIYA, genuine or imagined, then he felt it only right to show Voldemort exactly what the woman he’d killed had been painting over with humanity.

They couldn’t be created in Overedge form; it was too akin in nature to a Broken Phantasm to function. And there were only two, unfortunately – he lacked the ability to Trace more, and was uncertain he could switch between wand and sword in combat with sufficient speed – but they could, and would, seek each other always. Magic here could recreate that effect; he knew it, and them, better than any other weapon he had ever seen or wielded . . .

Well, save one, perhaps; but Excalibur, while it would undeniably be effective, was far too swift a death. And even if he used it simply as a sword, for what Shirou planned to do to Riddle, he thought Saber would disapprove of employing her skills that way.

Now, if I was to use Excalibur Morgan, on the other hand—

“Ilyasviel to all points,” announced his wife’s voice over the communication mirror, not only jolting Shirou out of his thoughts but briefly causing him to question his sanity. “We’re all right – the Room ejected us to a safe point before it was destroyed. I repeat, all of us are all right.”

Relief flooded Shirou’s form so palpably and completely that his legs actually failed him, dropping him to the stone below. He was faintly aware of Takara’s voice over the mirror, and a growl he recognised as belonging to Nala; though when and why Hermione would have transformed, he couldn’t imagine . . .

“He still dies now,” Galen said flatly, indirectly answering Shirou’s question. The girls were both strong enough to be dangerous – and could easily overpower Galen together – but if Galen had felt even a fraction of what he had (and in fairness, the other wizard would), then Nala would’ve literally had to be sitting on him to stop him.

Shirou might’ve understood the Avenger class better by now, but Galen had qualified for it long ago . . .

“I’m glad you’re all right,” he said quietly.

“Us too, Ilya-chan,” Kiritsugu chimed in, “but we’ve still got to find a way to deal with all that Fiendfyre before it consumes the rest of the castle.”

Reminded of the problem at hand, even as the sulphuric stench in the air thickened, Shirou considered solutions. The problem was that Fiendfyre had damned few counters; there was a charm to part flames which could, according to the others’ movie-based memories, affect it, but the primary method he knew of was to kill the caster (preferably by having the flames themselves consume him).

Which, admittedly, they were trying to do, but now there was a continually-growing mass of semi-sentient, cursed flame between them and him. Still, he did have the Elder Wand, which ought to count for something . . .

“I’ve got an idea,” Shirou said – and then blinked, as he realised that both Galen and Takara had said the same thing at the same time.

More than one voice laughed in response to that, but it was Shiki who answered, “Of course you do . . . Well, let’s hear them.”

And as the various thoughts, theories and plans were outlined, it was almost all the voices who responded, at one time or another, with the following statement.

“Are you OUT OF YOUR MIND . . .?!”








Additional Writer's Notes: A little short, but this seemed like a good stopping point - and I wanted to get this out as quickly as possible, to make up for missing last week. Enjoy!

[Xamusel]

Well... what's Shirou's idea this time?

Actually, a better question would be, how does it rate in terms of craziness on a scale of 0-10 (0 being not at all crazy and 10 being the craziest possible without breaking the scale)?

[Kieran]

Well... what's Shirou's idea this time?

You'll see.

Actually, a better question would be, how does it rate in terms of craziness on a scale of 0-10 (0 being not at all crazy and 10 being the craziest possible without breaking the scale)?

Well, two minutes ago he was ready and eager to go after Voldemort with a pair of swords, when the most powerful wand in the world was literally in hand and all-but-begging to be used . . . So, what do you think?

[hatori]

I somehow get the feeling kanshou and bakuya were going to be used similarly to throwing one or both, and then recalling it back while his free hand/hands uses the wand.

As for his idea....

Let's see.... sword pincushion?


I'm actually more interested in Takara and Galen's Plan..

[Kieran]

I somehow get the feeling kanshou and bakuya were going to be used similarly to throwing one or both, and then recalling it back while his free hand/hands uses the wand.

Actually, it was more a case of "I know every possible wound a blade can inflict on a humanoid body. I know exactly where - and how hard - to cut you until your limbs are useless, and you're lying on the ground feeling your lungs fill up with the blood you're going to drown in . . . And that's if I get bored."

As for his idea....

Let's see.... sword pincushion?

You'll see.

I'm actually more interested in Takara and Galen's Plan.

Well, knowing the latter, it will be something that would be suicidal and stupid if he wasn't knowledgeable and/or powerful enough to make it work . . .

. . . Takara, though - hard to say. She prefers the direct approach, especially in a fight, but it's not as though she can't be sneaky.

[MWkillkenny84]

“Are you OUT OF YOUR MIND . . .?!”

Let me guess, Shirou's idea involve quoting both The Prophecy (capital T and P, the one that started Riddle's downfall) and paraphrasing Darth Vader's second most infamous meme (in this case Shirou will shout "Voldemort, I'm your son!")?

[Kieran]

Let me guess, Shirou's idea involve quoting both The Prophecy (capital T and P, the one that started Riddle's downfall) and paraphrasing Darth Vader's second most infamous meme (in this case Shirou will shout "Voldemort, I'm your son!")?

I honestly hadn't considered that - hmm . . .

[MWkillkenny84]

I honestly hadn't considered that - hmm . . .

It would be the best idea to have Voldemort flip out and throw any caution to the wind: the idea that the (step)son of the man that he hate the most, because he made him feel fear for his life, is his blood son and by virtue of their connection subject to the prophecy that caused his first true defeat years ago, will cause a true RAEG inside his head.


Depending on how Shirou (helped by a Sonorus Charm) can voice it, it could also be something that could cause a... let's call it pause on the battlefield. By sheer surprise if nothing else (and the muggleborns recognizing where Shirou is going with said proclamation).

[Kieran]

I can certainly see the dramatic appeal - though given the fickleness of the Wizarding World, perhaps broadcasting it at ear-splitting volume isn't a wise idea . . .

It'll take some careful planning to accomplish, though. And for what it's worth, I think you'll like one of my ideas, particularly the last line: "I'm merely the distraction . . ."

[hatori]

Oho.....

[MWkillkenny84]

I can certainly see the dramatic appeal - though given the fickleness of the Wizarding World, perhaps broadcasting it at ear-splitting volume isn't a wise idea . . .

It'll take some careful planning to accomplish, though. And for what it's worth, I think you'll like one of my ideas, particularly the last line: "I'm merely the distraction . . ."

If Shirou was like Harry sure, it would be a bad idea.

Shirou is not Harry Potter, a fish-out-of-water Wizard that should count as a mundane-born instead of 'halfblood' and whose circle of close supporter are another first gen. and the sixth son of a low-class Wizardling family.

The mere instant someone would try something against Shirou on the ground "But he's the blood of Voldemort", all of his supporter would start to rain hell against the idiot.

And among those supporters there are people with money, political connections, both and worse.

[Kieran]

If Shirou was like Harry sure, it would be a bad idea.

Shirou is not Harry Potter, a fish-out-of-water Wizard that should count as a mundane-born instead of 'halfblood' and whose circle of close supporter are another first gen. and the sixth son of a low-class Wizardling family.

The mere instant someone would try something against Shirou on the ground "But he's the blood of Voldemort", all of his supporter would start to rain hell against the idiot.

And among those supporters there are people with money, political connections, both and worse.

Fair point - Shirou is better connected than Harry. But then, we have to ask ourselves how many people would use him as a revenge proxy . . .

*Shrugs* I mean, I think if most people had a shot at a Hitler or Bin Laden (even if not the), they'd be at least tempted to take it. And the Wizarding World doesn't seem to do "restraint" all that well . . .

[Kieran]

. . . So, I caught Crimes of Grindelwald last night, as I hoped to. And if I saw what I think I saw (stupid lack of incantations to tie spells to), then they stole one of my three plans. However, they made it look a lot easier than I expected it to be - if I'm correct, of course.

In other words, some dramatic license on my part may be taken in the next chapter(s). Good movie, though.

[Kieran]

DISCLAIMER: Lunar Legend Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and Type-Moon, along with anyone who's happened to license them, like Geneon or Funimation. Harry Potter and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of J.K. Rowling, along with her publishers and Warner Bros., as regards the movie material.

This is a not-for-profit, just-for-fun project.



Writer's Note: Certain dialogue sequences in this story are lifted from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, but I trust in the intelligence of my readers (and the availability of the books) to recognise them.




Chapter 84 – With a Bang and a Whimper




May 2, 1998






For all the last-minute nature of it, the counterattack had been intricately planned.

“The first thing we need to do is deal with the Fiendfyre,” Galen said. “I don’t know of any specific counters beyond a General Counter-Spell with a ridiculous amount of power behind it—”

“It’s covered in Beauxbatons’ History of Magic class, actually,” Rin’s voice broke in. “There’s a ritualised version of the spell that was done during one of his attacks on Paris, during the build-up to the war . . . I can guide you in how it’s done, but we’ll need at least five people, and preferably more.”

“We can handle that,” Ginny volunteered, adding with a smirk, “We could probably manage just on Weasleys alone . . . But I doubt Riddle’s going to just stand around and let us work—”

Takara had an icy smile on her face. “Leave that to me . . .”








“Wands into the earth,” Rin instructed, as they circled the North Tower—the Aozakis, Creeveys, Delacours, Einzberns, Patils and Weasleys, along with Neville and Luna. Twenty-one of them: three at each of the seven points, which ought to, based on Arithmancy, create an even stronger variation of the effect. Hopefully, it would be enough to hold against Riddle’s enchantments – and even more hopefully, whatever Takara was doing to distract him would prevent him from interfering.

“Everybody had better concentrate, or a lot of people are going to die – starting with us,” Rin advised her partners; Fleur and her husband, as it happened. “FINITE INCANTATEM!”

Golden lines of fire sprang from her the tip of her wand, reaching out to join to those emerging from the tips of the others’, even as the pattern stretched further to encircle the perimeter of the tower’s base. The Fiendfyre raged against this sudden barrier, and the effort of standing against it caused sweat to break out against Rin’s forehead . . .

But she was a Tohsaka, at her core—and a magus who’d bent the Kaleidoscope itself to her will, which was more than any of her family had ever managed to do. She was never going to back down from any wizard, much less a wannabe Dead Apostle like Riddle . . .

Gradually, the Fiendfyre died out, and she released both her spell and breath with a sigh.

“Well, whatever Takara did, it worked,” she muttered to her sister and brother-in-law. “Now we wait for—”

The North Tower imploded.






“It was foolish of you to come here tonight, Tom.”

Even in the midst of utter shock, Lord Voldemort did not lose his hold upon the infernal flames he conjured. What would have been free to lash out at and consume a lesser wizard was swiftly, sullenly contained by his will; forced to spread itself no further and feed upon itself, until the Fiendfyre and what it had been previously burning, was utterly consumed, leaving only a rapidly-fading glow in its wake.

And yet, shocked Lord Voldemort truly was as he spun to confront the unexpected speaker, as surprised by the voice that dared to speak such words as those to him as he was by the words themselves. Nevertheless, it was plainly evident that neither his ears nor memory had betrayed him. Before Lord Voldemort stood the late (and unlamented) Albus Wulfic Percival Brian Dumbledore, who pettily denied him his rightful form of address with such gaudy and lengthy appellations for his own.

And it was plain to see that the old Headmaster remained late: his form held neither substance nor opacity, draped instead in the ethereal haze of spirit-kind. A wan, silvery light emanated from him – muted, like all light shone through fog – but it didn’t obscure his features, or the sorrowful expression upon them.

“Dumbledore,” Lord Voldemort growled, enraged at the audacity . . . Before finally dismissing the apparition altogether. “Hmph – you’re merely another trick in that man’s arsenal, no doubt.”

An idea occurred to him, and his voice grew sly.

“Or is it, I wonder,” he mused silkily, “the final proof of the depths of your hypocrisy, old man? Did you, at the end, give up your oft-spouted assurance that there was nothing to fear from death?”

“Oh, I never said that, Tom,” the old man said cheerfully. “Indeed, certain people have a great deal to fear. Because death grants insight beyond anything mortal minds can comprehend – including a complete accounting for, and understanding of, one’s mistakes.” His eyes twinkled. “And you and I have a specific mistake in a common – a rather large one, I’m afraid.”

“I AM NOTHING LIKE YOU!” Lord Voldemort snarled. “You were a weak, pathetic old man who held more power than you ever deserved, and trembled in fear at the thought of using it!”

Dumbledore’s expression was beatific. “One of the many, many mistakes I have had to face, I assure you – but I refer to a more recent error, relatively speaking. And, upon being given the opportunity, I thought I would attempt to spare you this particular accounting later.”

Disbelieving, the Dark Lord raised what passed for his eyebrows in incredulity.

“Really, Dumbledore?” he demanded, in a voice that did not so much drip sarcasm as splash buckets of it upon the stone floor around him. “Am I to be visited by three spirits, perhaps?”

“Yes, three,” Dumbledore agreed genially. “But spirits they are most certainly not.” The spectral elder’s countenance grew grave. “That was our mistake, Tom. I know what they are, now – and their power and potential is both greater and more terrible than my worst imaginings ever conceived of.”

A thin smile creased his lined face. “To my very great good fortune, it is equalled only, perhaps, by their sense of tolerance. Otherwise, I am certain I would have been introduced to my current existence far sooner than I was – along with, most probably, a good portion of the Wizarding World as a whole. But you, Tom . . . For all the aggravation I caused them, I daresay that you have worked their last nerve, as the Americans are wont to say. What capacity for mercy they have has been utterly depleted in your case, and you have come here, where they have had oh so much time to prepare for you.”

His eyes had an incongruously merry twinkle to them, in comparison to the solemnity of his words. “As I said, Tom, it was foolish of you to come here tonight.”

“Bah!” the Dark Lord snarled. “This is another trick – a childish illusion, meant to try and frighten me, while concealing the fact that they are too afraid to face me!”

“Oh, it is a trick, Tom,” Dumbledore agreed genially. “Rather a good one, too, in my opinion – but it hardly means that my words are any less true, now does it? After all, where is your army of creatures? Where is your inner circle of followers?”

The shade glanced knowingly over his spectacles. “Where are your Horcruxes?”

“AVADA KEDAVRA!” Lord Voldemort bellowed, sending the Killing Curse blazing towards Dumbledore—

Only for the pair of them to stand, stunned, as it passed through the ghost to strike – and destroy – the wall behind him.

“. . . Fascinating,” Dumbledore murmured. “For all my belief, even I would not have imagined that occurring. I suppose this is merely more proof of the difference in power between you, and that which summoned and sustains me.”

“NO ONE IS MORE POWERFUL THAN LORD VOLDEMORT!” the Dark Lord roared in defiance.

“Says the Dark Lord who has been consistently beaten by schoolchildren,” the old wizard scoffed, an amused grin spreading across his face. “In the same amount of time that it took Grindelwald to conquer most of Europe and plunge all civilised nations into war, you have managed to conquer merely half of a country, and you struggle, even now, to take hold of a school—”

“I will destroy this school!” Lord Voldemort seethed. “I will reduce it to a molten pit of ashes and rubble, and I will bury all who stand against me beneath it! And I will find a way to rid myself of YOU!”

Dumbledore laughed. “Oh, Tom. . . It seems that I truly do owe you an apology. By all appearances, I did you a grave disservice, all those decades ago; I vastly overestimated your capabilities – or at least, your intelligence.”

“WHAT?!”

The old wizard’s eyes twinkled merrily.”Well you see, I’d thought that you would have understood things almost immediately. And yet here we’ve been, talking for all this time – and even after all you’ve already seen and experienced, you still have yet to realise that I’m merely the distraction.”

It was at that very moment – upon the word itself – in which the Dark Lord’s body erupted into searing agony.






“With the Fiendfyre and its potential for collateral damage contained,” Shirou noted, “and assuming Riddle is suitably distracted, there’ll be a brief window to launch an attack. That means we need to strike fast, and hard – because if he’s got as many snake traits as it looks like, he’s going to have reflexes like Takara or Shiki.”

“And we’ll need a Plan B, in case that first shot doesn’t put him down,” Neville muttered darkly.

Nods went around the various images, and Takara traded an amused glance with Galen, raising an eyebrow as if to say, “We’ve trained them well.”

“I’ve got two options,” Galen said. “The first is less likely to work, but I ought to be able to disarm him, at least, if I can’t kill him outright. And the second will almost certainly work, but once it’s done I’m out, as far as the fight goes. No last-minute saves from my end, this time—you’ll be on your own.”

“Take the second one,” Shiki said. “This isn’t a fight to hold back in—and if it works, there won’t be any more fight to worry about. And if it doesn’t . . . Well, we’ve got other options.”

Meaning, those who knew about it understood, that he would unleash the Nanaya Death Sight—even the “instant-kill” version, despite the cost—if necessary. Voldemort was not escaping this castle, no matter what.

“All right, then,” Galen agreed, before sighing to himself, “Damn it—do I absolutely need a bloody broom . . .?”








He hated this idea. He really, really hated it, because even aside from the risks of it, it involved two of his least favourite things: heights, and broomstick-riding. Which he admittedly knew how to do, thanks to McGonagall’s insistence his first year (and damn it, now he’d have to apologise to her; he just knew she was going to milk it). Still, even aside from the side-effects of this (which, having experienced them before, he was keen to avoid), it was best to invoke the Lord of the Sky in his own element.

Here was hoping his Mycenean Greek was up to snuff . . .


“O, mighty Zeus, Lord of Olympus and ruler of the sky,” Galen intoned. “I ask for your aid to enact justice upon Tom Marvolo Riddle, he who is called ‘Lord Voldemort,’ for the crimes he has committed against blood, honour, and rightful authority.

“Kinslayer, I name him: murderer of his father and patriarchal family, with the audacity to frame the last of his elders for his crime.” That Morfin was a psychotic racist who probably deserved his ultimate fate was ultimately irrelevant; it was the crime against blood kin and the bonds of it that mattered.

“Oathbreaker, I name him: betrayer of Touko Aozaki, and any other to whom his sworn word was given.”

If the lady wasn’t present to gain vengeance herself, then he certainly wasn’t averse to asking for it on her behalf . . . And the fact that it added to the litany of crimes he could lay against Riddle was just a bonus, really—he liked Takara’s aunts.

“And usurper, I name him: traitor and threat to all rightful authority—even that of the gods themselves.”

It was this more than anything else that would attract Zeus’ ire. Even leaving aside his role as embodiment and patron of rulers, law and government (which was hardly a small element of his nature), the supremacy of the gods was paramount. This was something that was part of every Olympian’s nature; no matter how otherwise indifferent, or even benevolent, they might be to mortals. Heck, it was pretty much part-and-parcel of every deity, and considering that Zeus was pretty much the model for the patriarch of the Old Testament . . .

“For these crimes, and any others I know not of, I ask that he be condemned to the greatest of punishments your wisdom can conceive of. I invoke, O Zeus the Thunderer—YOUR JUDGEMENT!”

And the world went white . . .








As a younger wizard, in the throes of rage – and working in unconscious concert with Shirou and Takara, who felt similarly – Galen had made Gryffindor Tower itself tremble under the force of his suppressed magic.

While admittedly, the effect had a great deal to do with the additional support of his friends, and the synergy between them, it was also at a time when said tower had its protective enchantments in place, and he had not yet reached maturity – or his full strength with it. Neither of those latter two factors was true now, making the effect rather more impressive, when said magic was actually unleashed.

Weather satellites would later record it as one of the most massive and intense lightning bolts on record, various military satellites would briefly create a panic among various countries as they registered an EMP of suitable strength to be consistent with a thermonuclear detonation. This would later be written off as a glitch reading due to unexpected solar flares, as no appreciable warning of the strike had been noticed beforehand, and no evidence of its having occurred could be found in the vicinity of the presumed strike.

Within Wizarding Britain, on the other hand, the North Tower alone would take several months of work to rebuild during the repairs of Hogwarts, and Luna Lovegood would paint her memory of the lightning strike to serve as the image of the Tower Arcana for her personal deck of Tarot cards. Later, copies of the deck would sell quite well at Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes, netting Luna a tidy income to further fund her expeditions.

That, however, was in the future. The present, on the other hand . . .








The world was screaming . . .

. . . Or perhaps it was him.

The Dark Lord had cast a Flame-Freezing Charm upon himself the moment he’d seen evidence of Salvatore’s spell. He admittedly knew little of how precisely lightning worked – much less a magically-generated version – but he was aware that lightning generated a great deal of heat, and thus prepared himself for it . . . Or so he’d thought, at least.

He had been wrong – very, very wrong.

Blood thundered in his ears as Lord Voldemort tried to bring his limbs under his control. He had, reflexively, tried to escape the pain when it struck – unfortunately, either the Anti-Apparition enchantments were still functioning despite the damage he’d done to the castle’s protections, or someone had reinstated them. The overwhelming need hadn’t ended with his failure to Disapparate, however, and so he’d apparently undergone another shedding in desperation.

Weak, trembling, and half-buried under rubble (or was his vision merely blurring?), the Dark Lord had but one thought: escape. Escape from the pain, escape from the failure . . . He simply wanted to get away.

It would be easier thought of than done – and with his head in its present condition that was saying something. Still, his wand had exploded under the force of the attack; it had taken his hand with it, as well as the majority of his options. Still, he had surprise on his side, as he imagined no one would have expected him to have survived that. If his vision and hearing would just clear, he could begin burrowing his way under this rubble, and fl—








“Homenum revelio,” Shirou murmured, watching as the pulse of magic swept the pile of collapsed rubble that had once been a castle tower. It highlighted the form of the wizard beneath as it passed – the still-moving form.

“So, he’s in there,” Neville noted, “but buried under several tonnes of stone.” He squinted. “I suppose that if you really tried, you might be able to see him through the gaps – but hitting him . . .? Most of the really destructive curses would be absorbed by the rubble, and as he managed to survive that blast, I wouldn’t put Galleons on burying him managing to do the job.”

Rin snorted derisively. “Shirou?”

He looked in her direction, as did everyone else within earshot.

“Finish it,” she ordered.

Shirou nodded. “Takara? Can I borrow Mellinoë for a moment?”

She raised an eyebrow, but handed over the sword without otherwise commenting.

The katana recognised the touch of his magic, its form shifting liquidly into the shape he required. It wasn’t nearly as fearsome-looking as Caladbolg II, being a simple arrow, but Shirou considered it just as impressive; the damascened steel still held its patterned surface of runic designs, and its enchantments lost none of their potency. Meanwhile, the Elder Wand’s power, combined with his own skill at Transfiguration, allowed Shirou to Conjure the form he drew from memory, a bow of carbon fibre which had not yet – and might never – be invented.

Neville’s eyebrows shot up. “Hold on, now – you’re not seriously telling me . . . Shirou, I know you can do pretty much anything you set your mind to, but that has to be at least thirty metres away and three metres down, through a good six of rubble! The distance might be nothing, but the angle’s ridiculous, and can you seriously spot a hole big enough for an arrow in all that? That he just happens to be standing or moving in front of? I mean, that’s a target measured in centimetres – you’d have better luck trying to hit a Galleon!”

“That’s the thing, Neville,” Shirou said absently, even as he nocked the arrow and drew back the bow. “While I’ve always had more of it than I deserved . . . I’ve never relied on luck.”

Eyes that had been sharp when he’d been merely human, enhanced as a magus, inhuman as a Servant and were now merely superhuman as a wizard, focussed on the target. Reflexes long-ingrained – beyond death and rebirth – made the necessary calculations, and in the space between heartbeats, he let fly.

There was no flash of light as the arrow was loosed, no roar of thunder; the hiss of its flight through the air was, in fact, all but silent. It was swift, however, almost instantly vanishing into the pile of stone. If there was a flash of light as it struck, no one saw it beneath the rubble – and if there was a rumble as of muffled thunder afterwards, that could be dismissed as debris settling.

As it was, it was only when the debris was finally cleared away that the body of Lord Voldemort – born Tom Marvolo Riddle – was found, with a Japanese sword neatly separating his head from his spine with a clean, cauterised cut. Despite the fact that he was in two separate pieces, however, the tip of the blade was buried so deeply in the rock below that both were pinned to the ground.

And thus, alone, helpless and in disgrace, died the last of the Gaunts, the Heir of Slytherin, and the Dark Lord which had terrorised Britain, in one way or another, for nearly thirty years.

Twilight had fallen; finally, the long, dark night was over.

And now, dawn was coming.








Writer's Notes: Happy New Year.

[Xamusel]

...how many more chapters are there of this story? I mean, it'd be such a shame to leave it as is, right?

[Kieran]

Well, there is - and always was - an epilogue planned (my own version of "Nineteen Years Later"); I'm still debating whether I can (or it's worth trying to) squeeze another chapter out before that, though.

[Xamusel]

Okay... so an epilogue planned for the end. Alright, then... now I really gotta play catch-up to read the whole series properly.

[Funderfullness]

That was a badass lightning incantation, gotta say.