The Inadequate Life

It was a Sunday, and the offices for the Muggle Prime Minister were closed. They were normally staffed every day, but the Prime Minister was at that moment on board an airplane bound for Spain, and wouldn’t return for a week, so the office had been given a day off. Security still patrolled the perimeter, but there wasn’t a single soul in the building.

The Prime Minister’s office was mostly dark, but the drawn shades were starting to let in slivers of early morning light. Everything was still, right down to the portrait over the fireplace, although the man in the portrait had his eyes closed and occasionally let out a soft snore. Directly below the portrait, resting on the mantel, were a number of odd cups, plaques and trophies from all over the world, gifts over the years from foreign dignitaries to various Prime Ministers.

It wasn’t yet nine when a loud crack echoed through the office; the man in the portrait jerked, woken by the noise; a voice hissed “Stupefy,” the man in the Portrait slumped again, and Lord Voldemort lowered his wand.

Voldemort was dressed in impressive robes of midnight black; his snake-like eyes scanned the room, following the point of his wand, as he checked magically for any intruders.

Finally satisfied, Voldemort lowered his wand and turned to the mantel. His eyes fell on one particular cup amongst the others, and Voldemort did something he would never allow anyone else to see—he let out a sigh of relief.

Helga Hufflepuff’s cup, which he’d placed on that mantel himself many years ago, was covered in a thin layer of dust like the other items on the mantel, but to Voldemort it shone like a beacon, because that cup was more than an artifact belonging to one of the greatest witches in history—it held a piece of his very soul.

How Harry Potter had discovered the significance of the cup, Voldemort had no idea. Perhaps Potter hadn’t found out the true secret of the cup, that it was a Horcrux—perhaps he hadn’t even heard about the cup itself. His letter to the Order—which Voldemort’s spy had dutifully passed on to him—had only alluded to something “really important” in this very office. It was most likely that Potter had heard a rumor regarding the significance of this office to Lord Voldemort.

Voldemort certainly intended to torture the secret from the boy the very moment he got the chance—which hopefully would be very soon, assuming the mass of Death Eaters he’d sent to kill McGonagall and apprehend Potter fulfilled their task. Not wanting to risk anything, Voldemort had pulled together every Marked Death Eater that could be spared. The chance to simultaneously deliver death blows to both the Order of the Phoenix and Potter’s so-called “Army” was too significant an opportunity, and Voldemort had decided to commit fully to it. By the end of the day, all that would stand in his way was an inept Ministry and a few aimless stragglers.

But this… this was something Voldemort would not entrust to anyone. This was what kept him immortal, made him fearless—the knowledge that he could never be killed, not completely, so long as these Horcruxes remained.

Three had been lost already. But Voldemort still had four more, safely hidden away, that no one but him knew of. That is, except for this one… which was why he was there. If Potter entered that room, there was always the chance that he might discover the Horcrux. And even assuming that his Death Eaters did capture or kill Potter, the boy undoubtedly had told some of his friends. Voldemort would take no risks when it came to protecting his immortality. He would take the cup and hide it somewhere else, somewhere so secret that no one would ever find it—at the bottom of the ocean, perhaps, or possibly miles underground. Then he would retrieve the other Horcruxes and do the same with them. It was something he should have done long ago.

In order to ensure that no one would interfere, Voldemort had waited until his people had already infiltrated Diagon Alley and the battle had begun before Apparating to the Prime Minister’s office. The Anti-Apparition field over Diagon Alley had surprised him—Potter or McGonagall had thought ahead. But he hadn’t wanted to bother wasting his own energy on breaking the field, when the concentrated efforts of his Death Eaters would be more than enough.

The permanent Anti-Apparition field covering the Muggle Prime Minister’s offices had been easy to penetrate. Voldemort’s spies were everywhere in the Ministry, and the field had been constructed poorly on Voldemort’s orders. A bit of concentration, and he was there.

Gliding silently to the fireplace, Voldemort smiled unpleasantly at Hufflepuff’s cup. It was quite unremarkable compared to the rest of the trophies and plaques—no Muggle would have picked it as anything significant. Nor would most wizards, Voldemort considered, unless they happened to notice the engraved name on the base…

Voldemort transferred his wand to his right hand. He hissed in pain as he forced the muscles to obey him; he hadn’t yet managed to Heal himself from the damage that traitor Wormtail had caused with the silver hand Voldemort had made him a gift of. Once he had a grip on his wand, Voldemort reached out with his undamaged left hand for the cup.

The instant that Voldemort’s fingers encircled the cup, it grabbed him with a force too strong for even him to resist. Gasping at the hook he felt in his gut, Voldemort found the air pulled from his lungs as he was swept away in a rush. His feet had left the ground, he was no longer in the Muggle Prime Minister’s office—he was soaring through skies he’d never seen, over places he’d never been…

His feet landed, and his knees buckled at the shock of the impact, dropping him on a bed of thick, lush grass. He regained his feet in an instant, quickly returning his wand to his left hand and spinning it in every direction as he tried to come to grips with what had happened.

The cup that he’d dropped into the grass was not his Horcrux. It was a fake. And someone had made it into a Portkey, which had taken him…where?

He was in a wide grass-covered meadow set in a stunning valley. There were thin copses of trees spotting the landscape, and in the far distance a range of mountains edged the horizon. The setting was startlingly beautiful. The high sun told him that wherever he was, it was closer to midday than nine in the morning—he’d been Portkeyed to a remote place several time zones distant from London.

Around him, a field of what looked like granite tombstones littered the otherwise unmarked fields. As out of place as they were, the objects looked like natural formations—like plants made of solid rock. In fact, as far as Voldemort could see, there were no signs of human life anywhere nearby.

Except for the enormous arch. It was twice Voldemort’s height, and stood alone in the meadow; through it Voldemort only saw more grass and hills. It looked as though it were meant to be magical, but had never been activated.

There was hardly any noise, save for the occasional cry of a distant bird, or the soft whisper of the wind through the grass. So the slight movement behind him was just enough warning for Voldemort to deflect the Curse fired at him.

The caster ducked behind one of the tombstone-like things just before Voldemort’s retaliatory Curse flew past his head. “Is that you, Harry Potter?” Voldemort asked, sneering. “Very clever, aren’t you, to bring me away from London while your friends spring whatever surprises you’ve concocted on my Death Eaters.” He cast another Curse, blasting apart the rock he’d thought the boy was hiding behind, but there was no one there. “If you’d longed for a confrontation with me, Harry, you only had to ask,” he laughed, walking closer.

“I’m over here!”

Voldemort spun towards the sound of the voice, but could see no one. “You’ve never been afraid to stand and face me before, Harry,” Voldemort chided, peering carefully around. He thought he saw a movement, and with a quirk of his lips he Apparated directly behind them.

Or he tried to. He was stopped by a resistance stronger than any he’d encountered. He tried again, with no greater luck, so he bent his will against the field halting him, trying to tear it to pieces—but he couldn’t. The field held, despite all the force he could muster against it.

“More and more clever, Harry,” he called, realizing that he was no longer certain which of the stone monoliths he’d been watching—the Anti-Apparition field had distracted him. “This is all a part of your plan, then? To lure me here, to trap me? And then what? Hide behind graves as you did two and a half years ago?”

“It worked then, didn’t it?” Harry’s voice called again, this time from another direction altogether. Voldemort spun towards the sound—and immediately turned back, blasting Potter off his feet with a wordless burst of power even as he rose to cast another Curse.

“A fine effort, Harry,” Voldemort said as he glided toward the prone, stunned figure. “Not terribly well thought-out, but—”

He stopped as the boy turned his eyes up to Voldemort. The countenance was the same, and yet--there was fear there, and disgust, and most of all uncertainty, as though the two of them had never met face to face. “You are not Potter,” Voldemort hissed.

“Oh, well spotted,” the voice came again.

*****

Harry ducked down again before Voldemort turned to find his voice. He had to work hard to keep his breath even, to not whimper, or curl up in fear.

Voldemort was there. That part of the plan had worked, at least. And the others Polyjuicing into Harry had clearly thrown Voldemort for a loop. But Pansy—that’s who Voldemort had brought down—wasn’t long for the world once Voldemort recovered from his surprise.

It was time. Time for Harry to stand up, to cast the spells he’d researched and practiced and knew would work. Time to do to Voldemort what he’d done to Harry’s parents so long ago, that had cost Harry the chance to grow up with his family.

So why couldn’t he bring himself to do it?

“Hiding your friends behind Polyjuice Potion won’t keep me from killing them one by one until I get you, Harry,” Voldemort said conversationally. “And this one is as good as any.”

NO! Harry couldn’t wait any longer—he had to play their last real trick. “What’s he got around his neck, Tom?” Harry shouted.

Harry peeked around the Granite Gorse he was hiding behind—a brilliant idea of Neville’s to bring some quick-growing stone shrubs for cover—in time to see Voldemort reel back, a cry of fear and shock escaping his lips.

The original plan had been to reveal to Voldemort that his Horcruxes were destroyed at just the right moment, hopefully distracting Voldemort long enough for him to drop his guard. But Pansy had also come up with another suggestion that everyone else thought was quite brilliant: she suggested that they wear the objects that had formerly been Horcruxes. Voldemort would be stunned to see them at all, and he wouldn’t know for certain whether they were still protecting his immortality or not. It might cause him to hold off throwing about Killing Curses.

Harry had claimed Gryffindor’s gauntlet to wear during the fight. At first he’d hesitated, worried that the clunky metal would interfere with his ability to cast, but the first time he’d tried it on, he’d found that the gauntlet magically adjusted itself to his hand, and fit so well and moved so effortlessly that it felt like the gauntlet wasn’t even there.

Harry had known that the “Harry” Voldemort had brought down was Pansy because she was wearing Salazar Slytherin’s locket around her neck. Voldemort clearly recognized it, and was utterly gobsmacked. “How?” he gasped. “You—”

“It was easy,” another Harry said, standing so that Helga Hufflepuff’s cup—the real one—was obvious around his neck. That’s Ginny! Harry thought. She’s trying to buy me time! Harry tried to force his legs to stand, his wand to point—but he couldn’t. All that time spent practicing, telling himself he could do it, he was ready—and he was too afraid.

As Voldemort refocused on Ginny, another Harry—really Neville—crept over to Pansy and helped her to her feet. Voldemort wasn’t fooled, though—he spun, snarling, and shouted what Harry had prayed he’d never hear: “Avada Kedavra!”

The green light shot from Voldemort’s wand. Neville just barely had the time to shove Pansy out of the way before the Curse struck him, right in the chest where the tablet of Rowena Ravenclaw was strapped.

But this time, something different happened. Neville didn’t collapse to the ground with the light fading from his eyes—he screamed. A flash of white light and an acrid plume of smoke erupted as the ex-Horcrux took the brunt of the Curse, the metal melting and burning Neville’s chest badly enough to make him pass out from the pain.

He’s breathing, Harry thought with desperate relief, seeing Neville’s chest rising and falling, if haltingly. Thank Merlin…

“Don’t think I won’t destroy each of them to get you, Potter!” Voldemort shouted angrily. “If you’ve truly found them all, and truly know what they are, then you know that I can make more! I can make a thousand of them if need be!”

It was true—Harry knew it was. Voldemort was mad enough to do it. And now that Voldemort knew that they knew, they’d never get another chance at killing him. Harry had to—

Harry heard the Bat-Bogey Hex being cast. His eyes widened as he leapt up just in time to see Voldemort, yelling furiously at the bogeys attacking his face, point his wand just as Ginny ducked down and shout “Avada Kedavra!”

It came naturally into Harry’s mind. He’d practiced it often enough over the last several days, and he’d been trying to train himself so he would cast it at just the right moment when Voldemort was distracted. The moment had come; Voldemort was attacking Ginny, and Harry would be damned if he’d let the bastard take another family away from him— PORTUSIC DECIVARI!

There was a flash of white light from Ginny’s direction, but Harry, as much as it destroyed him inside, couldn’t let himself be distracted by it. Voldemort had spotted him, and if his non-verbal spell didn’t work, they were all dead. PORTUSIC DECIVARI! he cast again, trying to be sure.

“Finally,” Voldemort said with satisfaction. “No more hiding, Harry, and no more talk. Finally we can finish this. Avada K—”

Voldemort vanished. He reappeared an instant later, roughly ten meters to the left of where he’d been. “—edav…” he almost finished, but the Curse had been neutralized.

Blinking in confusion, Voldemort refocused on Harry, and his eyes narrowed. “Avada K—” he began again—and found himself ten meters in another direction altogether.

It worked! Harry thought in shock. Even though they’d tried it with real wands, there had been uncertainty, but it had worked. Harry had transformed Voldemort’s wand into a Portkey—one that activated automatically whenever Voldemort tried to cast a spell, and transported him ten meters in a random direction.

There wasn’t time to gape in shock, though—one more repetition might have been all it took for Voldemort to figure out what had happened. While Voldemort’s eyes still looked slightly glassy from being disoriented, Harry again pointed his wand and shouted “Accio bráthair cor!”

Voldemort wasn’t as disoriented as he’d seemed. Although he probably didn’t recognize the Charm that Harry had cast, he still raised his wand and, faster than Harry had ever seen, cast a protective spell—or at least, tried to. His wand-Portkey activated again, sending him ten meters to the right, and out of line from where Harry had his wand pointed.

But it didn’t matter. The beauty of the Summoning Charm was that it didn’t have to be aimed; the object in question would come anyway. It had taken Harry months of research to figure out the correct terminology, and they’d practiced until all of the paired wands that Krum had acquired for them had been destroyed.

The phoenix feather that was the mate to the one in Harry’s wand tore itself free from inside Voldemort’s wand. Voldemort shrieked as the wood shattered, embedding long spikes in his hand; the feather that Fawkes had given soared over to Harry, who caught it almost absently.

Voldemort wasn’t helpless without a wand—not by a long ways. Harry knew it, and knew that it would only be seconds before Voldemort recovered enough to start using wandless magic. Harry sprinted forward, a fierce determination driving him, and just as Voldemort looked up from his bloodied left hand, Harry reached out with his gauntleted left hand and grabbed Voldemort’s bare right arm.

Voldemort screamed. It was piercing and high-pitched and primal, like a thing dying. Harry was so startled that he almost let go, but tightened his grip when Voldemort scrambled with his free hand to pry Harry’s grip loose. Voldemort was babbling what sounded like begging nonsense.

It was a moment before Harry realized that it wasn’t simply the pain of the tight grip on his injured arm that was causing Voldemort’s reaction—it was the gauntlet. Harry could see thin plumes of smoke curling out from under where the fingers of the gauntlet gripped Voldemort’s skin. Somehow, what they’d done to transform the Horcruxes caused them to create the same effect in Voldemort that they used to in Harry—severe, debilitating agony.

He heard the words of Bellatrix Lestrange in his head, taunting him as if in a challenge: “You have to mean it, Potter!” she’d said. That’s not a problem, Harry thought emotionlessly. I’ve never meant anything so much in my life.

“You can’t,” Voldemort whispered, still struggling to free his arm from Harry’s grip. He seemed so weak—he’d fallen to his knees, and the bloody fingers of his left hand left off tugging at the gauntlet and gripped the front of Harry’s robe. His slitted eyes were pleading for mercy, and Harry was certain that if his eyes hadn’t been so like a snake’s, Voldemort would be crying. “I want to live…”

Harry had thought that when this moment came he might say something clever—something witty, or sarcastic, or dramatic. He considered telling Voldemort that what he called “life” wasn’t really life at all—that it was a mockery, a cruel joke. But he didn’t. Harry didn’t care any more. He didn’t care about Voldemort, or the Death Eaters or the Ministry, or all the people who’d alternately praised and vilified him since he’d entered the Wizarding world. All he wanted in that instant was for it all to be over.

Harry pointed his wand at Voldemort’s chest, and looked straight into Tom Riddle’s eyes. “So do I,” he whispered. “Avada Kedavra.”