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‘HARRY POTTER IS DEAD.’
Silence, just for a minute. Everyone’s eyes are on the boy held in Hagrid’s arms. Emotions cannot be seen, but grief is palpable in the air. Grief—and triumph, from the enemy, who think that they have already won.
But after grief comes determination, as all of them—as one, look up with steely eyes and grim faces, and it is clear—they will win, or they will die trying.
However, all the silence serves, is for a person to materialize between where the opposing armies stand, promptly trip over their own shoelaces, and narrowly avoid death by rolling over onto their back and slumping onto the ground.
There’s a hushed whisper from behind Hermione, but it can be heard well over the silence: ‘Is he dead?’
At this, the person looks up—a boy, just a little older than them, who looks like he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in maybe forever—and says, ‘No, I’m not.’
And then he takes a moment to pick himself up gingerly, working out his muscles and breathing heavily, before he seems to see the growing tension in the air, and then he says, ‘Oh, sorry. I think I’m interrupting something?’
‘You,’ Voldemort says, and even as people who would have flinched from his voice stand steady, they do not expect the same for the boy.
But all he does is raise an unimpressed eyebrow. ‘Me,’ he says carefully.
‘Yes, you,’ Voldemort says, ‘Who are you to apparate on school grounds?’
The boy blinks. Once, twice.
‘What,’ he says, blinking around at the students like he’s going to get an answer from them, ‘what’s apparating? Also, this is a school?’
‘You’re at Hogwarts, School of Wizadry,’ someone informs him.
‘Oh,’ the boy murmurs, and there’s no mistaking the way his gaze has sharpened as he looks around, ‘So you all…wizards, then?’
‘Who are you, boy,’ Voldemort sneers, ‘A last minute call for help from these pathetic mudbloods?’
A pause. ‘I’m assuming mudblood doesn’t mean anything good?’
Voldemort looks like he’s considering this stranger. He’s powerful enough to apparate, apparently, but what does it say that he doesn’t know what a mudblood is?
‘You—mudblood. Muggleborn! Those without any wizarding blood in their veins! Tell me, boy, are you a filthy mudblood, a pureblood or a halfblood?’
‘Judging from your words, I don’t think I want to be a mudblood,’ the boy says casually, and it makes the entirety of the student body’s hackles rise up. It doesn’t go unnoticed, however, because the boy tilts his head to the side and continues, ‘I’m a halfblood, you can say.’
They don’t have to be close to him to see the sneer that curls its way up Voldemort’s face at the answer.
They see the way he opens his mouth, no doubt ready to spew some rhetoric about blood traitors.
They see the way his already gaunt face pales when the boy continues, ‘But you are too, aren’t you?’
Silence. And then the murmurs are rising up, whispers of he’s a halfblood? both among his own followers and his enemies alike—and all of them are staring at the boy who came from nowhere and boldly declared that Voldemort was not a pureblood.
‘Who are you,’ Voldemort demands again, ‘and if you don’t answer, you shall face the wrath of the Dark Lord!’
No one expects the boy to laugh.
He makes a valiant attempt at hiding it, but it grows louder when he looks at the man in front of him, and soon he’s doubled over, clutching his stomach as he near chortles himself to death.
‘The audacity,’ Voldemort says, seething, ‘you dare laugh at me, boy?’
‘I don’t—I mean—I’ve faced scarier things than a man waving a stick at me, thanks,’ the boy pauses laughing long enough to say, and then bursts into wheezing laughter again.
It’s pretty obvious that no one really knows what to do with him.
‘That’s it,’ Voldemort snaps, and raising his wand, ‘I will not accept being ridiculed by some halfblood weakling!’
And everyone watches, almost in slow motion, in horror, as Voldemort raises his wand and shouts avada kedrava, sees a bolt of green lightning jet towards the boy who’ll drop dead any second now—
And everyone watches, as the magic dissipates around him, fading away into nothing.
And everyone gapes.
‘Wh—how?’ And they flinch back from the sheer fury in Voldemort’s voice but it’s obvious he’s wary too.
The boy doesn’t reply, but that’s because he seems fascinated by the little ball of green magic he holds in his hands, cupping it as it twirls around his fingers like a playful puppy.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that this is the avada kevadra magic that Voldemort had shot at him just a few seconds ago.
‘Death magic,’ the boy murmurs, and then he looks up at Voldemort, who still has his wand raised, ‘You think you can kill me?’
He’s only met with sputtering.
‘Who are you,’ Voldemort demands again, like he thinks he’s going to get an answer, despite not having gotten one for multiple times already.
‘Well, you call yourself the Dark Lord,’ the boy says, sounding as if he’s trying his best not to laugh out loud, ‘I’ll call myself that too, thanks.’
‘You dare—’
‘Oh, I dare,’ the boy says, and there’s a wicked sharp grin on his face as he turns to the students and asks, ‘I think I’ve got a pretty good idea of what’s going on, but would you like my help with him?’
‘What kind of help?’ Hermione says, because she’s closer to him and she can’t shake off the feeling of uneasethat radiates from him.
‘As I see it, there is a war happening. I can help you have less casualties on your side.’
‘What do you get from this?’ They are suspicious. Of course they are, only fools would blindly accept unknown help at a crucial time without questioning it.
‘What I get,’ the boy says, stuffing his hands in his pockets and casting a glance outwards at the enemies again—his gaze stops on the boy in Hagrid’s arms, just for a second—‘is the satisfaction of seeing a self-pompous asshole get what he deserves.’
‘After all,’ he continues, raising his voice and clearly directing his ire at the man himself, ‘Your soul is long overdue for death, is it not, Tom Marvolo Riddle?’
Murmurs, louder than before.
‘Well,’ the boy says, holding up a wrist as if checking his watch, ‘I think I’ve dawdled on for long enough.’
And the world ends—not with a flash, not with a bang, but with the earth rumbling and a chasm opening up under their feet, with skeletal hands gasping with ankles and dragging them down, with shadows twisting and twirling, cracking apart the façade that they have tried so hard to put up.
And the world ends—with screams and yells and wails and the ghastly yowls of souls who are long undead, of those who want revenge revenge revenge—
And the world ends—with a pale, dark-haired boy standing at the front of it, hands stuffed in his pockets and looking, for the lack of a better word, bored, at the carnage and destruction he has wrought.
The world ends with people thinking good. They deserved it.
And it is over, within a few minutes, with the field empty, with the chasm neatly sealed back up, with Harry Potter sitting up and staring at the boy who’s singlehandedly defeated the whole army of death eaters all by himself.
And there stands Voldemort, alone and scared, as the boy leisurely strolls towards him, casually swinging a sword that radiates death.
‘Any last words?’ he enquires, but it looks to be more of a formality than genuine interest in what he has to say.
‘You’ll never kill me,’ Voldemort hisses, ‘For I have—’
And the boy’s sword slices neatly through the snake’s head.
‘Yes?’ he says disinterestedly, ‘what do you have?’
Voldemort doesn’t say anything.
‘I know your type,’ the boy says, ‘think you’ve got it all. Hungering for immortality, like all those fools before you. None of them have succeeded. And why would you? You’re nothing compared to them, a fool who can’t even see past his own nose. Oh, wait. You don’t have one.’
Voldemort rears back.
‘So you have nothing,’ the boy concludes, and there is gleam in his eye as he says, ‘So goodbye, Tom Riddle. I hope you learn a lesson in your personal hell.’
And he doesn’t use his sword, but the temperature drops—cold, cold, and then freezing, and then Voldemort is gone, warped into nothing but a soulless ghost, and between one blink and another he’s dissipated into nothing.
It seems rather anticlimactic. The personification of people’s worst dreams, gone.
Just like that.
All thanks to the boy who showed up tripping over his shoelaces.
‘Here,’ they hear him say, holding a hand out to the boy who’s still sitting on the floor looking dumbstruck, ‘you okay?’
‘Yeah,’ Harry Potter says, looking up into the boy’s eyes, ‘Um, thanks.’
‘No problem,’ he says, and pulls him up so they’re at the same eye level—and Harry notices with a start that the boy might be shorter than him. ‘No skin off my back, really.’
Harry raises an eyebrow. Surely defeating an entire army would be some skin off his back. And wandlessmagic?
Not even Dumbledore would have achieved such great feats of magic.
The boy notices his incredulous stare, it seems, because he’s grinning a little shortly and stuffing his hands back in his pockets. ‘Tom Riddle’s lease on life was expired. My job to hunt him down, really.’
‘What, like the Grim Reaper or something?’ a new voice says, and Harry whirls to see Ron coming up behind him, followed shortly by Hermione, and he can’t help the joy that swells in his chest when he sees his best friends and before he knows it he’s flying forward to pull them both into a tight hug and squeezing the life out of them.
‘No, the grim reaper’s my cousin,’ the boy says, snorting a little, ‘But I have more experience hunting people down.’
‘Mate, I really can’t tell if you’re joking or not,’ Ron says sheepishly, but sticks out a hand for the boy to shake anyways. ‘I’m Ron Weasley. Nice to meet you, and thank you for helping with… all this.’
The boy raises an eyebrow, but he takes the proffered hand easily. ‘I’m Nico. Um, no problem, just doing my job.’
‘This is Harry,’ Ron introduces them easily, ‘And Hermione. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of us, huh?’
To their surprise, the boy—Nico—shakes his head slowly. ‘I don’t think so? I’ll admit I haven’t heard of…any of you. I haven’t met a wizard or witch until today. Well, the ones who aren’t dead, anyways.’ He says the last part under his breath. Harry isn’t sure he’s supposed to have heard it.’
‘I’m Hermione Granger then,’ Hermione says, sticking a hand out for Nico too, ‘And this is Harry Potter.’
‘Potter,’ Nico murmurs, and Harry feels his heart sink. Was he lying when he said he hadn’t heard of them?
‘Son of James and Lily Potter?’
Harry stares. That’s not the question he was expecting.
‘Yes,’ he says slowly, ‘Why?’
Nico opens his mouth, closes it, and seems to think over something for a few seconds. And then he nods and says, ‘They’re proud of you.’
Harry nods slowly. ‘…yes,’ he finally decides on saying, ‘that’s what people tell me.’
‘No, I meant,’ the boy says, looking frustrated, and then seeming to calm himself down right after, ‘they’re proud of you. They think you’re an idiot for believing they’d want you to die, but they’re proud of you.’
Harry rears back as if struck. How can this boy who’s shown up from nowhere know about it?
‘How do you know his parents,’ Hermione cuts in, and her hand on his back is a soothing presence. ‘They died years ago, and you can’t be older than any one of us.’
‘I’m actually nearing fifty,’ Nico says with a completely straight face.
Silence.
‘What,’ Ron says, and it pretty much sums of what Harry’s feeling right now.
‘Look, I can’t explain much,’ the boy says, looking around, as if only noticing the crowd skulking around them, eager to get their hands on Harry, ‘But—oh, they have a Sirius Black with them, if that helps?’
Harry blinks.
Nico wrings his hands together, almost nervously, ‘I’m not supposed to tell you this, but they’re in a good place now. The fields of Elysium, though I guess maybe you’d call it heaven or whatnot. But they died bravely, and even though they’re sad to leave you, they want what’s best for you.’
Harry blinks, surprised by the tears pooling in his eyes. Plenty of people have offered him the same platitudes, but where they all felt empty and practiced, Nico oozes sincerity in a way not many people do.
‘And—’ he continues, furrowing his eyebrows like something’s confusing him, ‘An owl too? Gods, this is why I don’t talk to spirits for long times.’
‘Hedwig,’ Harry blurts out.
‘Okay,’ Nico nods, and closes his eyes for a second, ‘They know she’s Hedwig. They’ll take care of her.’
‘Thank you,’ Harry says, ‘thank you.’
‘As I said, no skin off my back,’ Nico says, smiling awkwardly. He looks more uncomfortable now that Harry seems to be on the verge of a breakdown. ‘Glad I could help. And if that’s all, I’ll be going.’
He takes a step back from them like he’s going to apparate away.
‘Wait,’ Harry finds himself calling out, ‘Who are you?’
The boy grins and says, ‘Nico di Angelo, Ghost King, at your service.’
And, bowing, with a whirl of shadows and ice, Nico di Angelo disappears, never to be seen again.