
Originally Posted by
hatori
wow... just wow...
Hopefully, you're impressed - and if not, hopefully this will keep you amused . . .
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 when they see them.
Or, The Alternate Death of Lord Voldemort
They were magi and supernatural assassins, a former Heroic Spirit and Holy Grail – and one really imaginative liar with more power and luck than he’d ever deserved.
They had spent seven years preparing for this fight, learning techniques and strategies more suited to black ops soldiers than witches or wizards, honing abilities and skills the likes of which this world had rarely, if ever, seen. They had artefacts of power which were literally the stuff of legend, and intimate knowledge of their enemy.
They believed that they were ready for this fight . . .
And they had been so. Very. WRONG . . .
Shirou groaned as he regained consciousness. His head was pounding, his bones ached, and—
And he was presently suspended, crucifixion-style, in mid-air.
As his vision cleared, he could see the others, in varying states of injury and consciousness, spread out beside him. At the sight, his memory started filling in the blanks of where they were and how they’d gotten there, and Shirou winced.
Considering what we knew of Grindelwald – and thanks to Durmstrang and Beauxbatons’ history classes, that was a lot – we really should have been more cautious . . .
They’d all known the title, but it had been dismissed as mere hyperbole, based on what they’d actually seen Riddle do in the films and the wizarding world’s natural tendency towards exaggeration and panic. Apparently, however, the moniker of “Greatest Dark Lord in a millennium” wasn’t handed out on a whim – or at least, this version could live up to the name.
He’d been just as powerful as any of them; where they’d had natural gifts, he’d ritually sacrificed and bargained his way to a similar level of magical strength. His skin wasn’t quite dragon-hide, but it was at least as spell-resistant as Hagrid’s, or a little better, and he exhibited a comparative level of physical strength. Worse, he was faster than even Takara, with all the flexibility of the snake he resembled – and then there was that bloody venom . . . .
Their parents were dead; Riddle had taken particular pleasure in literally tearing Kiritsugu and Irisviel apart. Shiki and Takara had found out the hard way that Riddle could spit his venom, and over an impressive distance. Between the blindness and the venom’s other effects, they’d unfortunately gotten taken out quickly. Galen and Neville had been the victims of bites that not only injected the venom, it ruptured arteries, so it was a tossup as to which would kill them faster. Veela fire had proven to be no match for Fiendfyre, and the sheer psychic shock of Ilya’s death had been a vulnerability Riddle had quickly taken advantage of.
. . . Shirou might have wondered why any of them were still alive, but having dealt with Riddle and those like him many times over the years, the answer was obvious: he needed an audience to gloat to.
“—I have no wish to spill more magical blood—” he was orating to the school at large, courtesy of a Sonorus incantation (and no help to Shirou’s headache). “Swear an Unbreakable Vow to serve me, and you shall live.”
Shirou, meanwhile, was running an inventory on his available options. His movement was non-existent, his wand was presumably part of the pile of ashes and glowing embers off to one side, the Sword of Gryffindor was somewhere out of sight, and Takara’s sword was in pieces—
Surprisingly, Galen began to laugh; surprising if only because Shirou had thought him unconscious, or dead. Faintly, at first, with a rasp to his voice that was almost painful just to hear, but gradually increasing in volume and range until he seemed to have gone into a full-blown fit of hysteria.
Riddle turned at the sound, his face warring between irritation and curiosity. His voice, upon speaking, would have been a silky hiss, if not for its current volume. Instead, it was closer to an ominous rumble.
“You find this amusing, boy? Or has the sheer hopelessness of your situation simply driven you to mad—?”
The Sword of Gryffindor chose that moment to suddenly emerge from his chest, and the rest of Riddle’s statement trailed off into screams as his body began to corrosively ignite . . .
And when the ashes blew away, the blade clattering to the ground, they revealed the source of the attack.
“Vengeance,” Kreacher pronounced grimly “in the name of House Black.”
Sirius stared, not quite believing what he was hearing.
“Kreacher beat You-Know-Who? The Darkest of Dark Lords was beaten by a House-Elf?”
Galen shrugged, wincing at the pain the movement caused. “It makes the prophecy actually mean something, eh? The ‘power that the Dark Lord knows not’ being a truly loyal servant? And Kreacher was ‘born to those who thrice defied him’—looking at it as you, Regulus, and me. And the line ‘The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches’ made a lot more sense once I found out that your brother used to send him to the Hog’s Head on booze runs . . .”