Sacrifice

He came as quickly as he could, fighting for this, going against Dumbledore, against almost everyone. They did not understand how much he needed to find him, either to bring him back alive, or, the gods forbid, be the first to say goodbye to him. None of them understood how much he needed this, how much they needed each other. It was not fair, he had lost everything, everyone he cared about, he did not want to loose him as well.

He did not know how he eventually found the place. No one had ever been able to find it unless they were called there; that was why Dumbledore and the Aurors had never succeeded in storming the place and ending it quickly. Yet, the he had found it; it must have been some connection to him, he felt as though he was just following his heart, letting a deep connect to the man pull him to the correct location. He felt the tingle that signalled the heavy magic, mostly malevolent, surrounding this ancient home. He braced himself to come straight against extensive wards, but felt nothing more than a little spark of static electricity as he raced into the building, hoping his heart would continue to guide him.

The place was in shambles, ancient and unkept; more battle worn than he had thought it would be. But no, it was not as though a great battle had taken place, more like there had been a great magical backlash. There were no walls blasted through or scorch marks. Instead it was collapsed ceilings, furniture and portraits. Perhaps there was some slim chance, some hope after all. The gods knew that he had expected the signs of some great struggle or clash, no one dared assume that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would go down without a monumental battle, this almost seemed too easy. For a moment fear strucs hes heart, but he pushed it aside and kept searching.

There were countless room, all in various states of disrepair. Some had obviously been in use recently, given the pathetic attempts at order and tidiness. One set of rooms look particularly lived-in; he assumed these were the Lord’s chambers. He shook is head and continued frantically, each moment passing tearing at his heart and soul. It was impossible that he would be gone, the man was practically invincible; how many times had he gotten himself out of tight situations? Yet with every passing moment he felt their connection grow weaker.

The stupid, foolish man, giving himself selflessly despite having something, someone to live for, it was not right. He should have been happy, knowing that the other loved him enough to die for him, but that did not change the fact that he though the man was a fool. Normal people did not goundound sacrificing themselves to save others. He did not think he ever would have done it; it just was not something a Slytherin did.

Finally he found what he was looking for, an elaborate hall, nearly hidden from site by debris and a half fallen wall. If they were anywhere, this would be the place. The megalomaniac loved to be ostentatious, even when it came to how and where he taunted his prisoners.

Pulling out his wand, he carefully levitated the rubble from the doorway, trying not to collapse the wall further. The first thing he noticed was the blood. ‘Funny,’ he though to himself, ‘I didn’t think the Killing Curse made a person bleed.’ There on the dais sat the man formerly known as Tom Riddle, drenched in blood and given the wound across his neck and though his chest, the blood was his own. It was beginning to oxidize, drying dark brown on green fabric of his robes and the plush grey cushions of the throne on which he sat. His usually furious crimson eyes were dead to the world, a testament to the fact that Lord Voldemort would no longer plague the humanity with his diabolical schemes.

As he looked around, his breath caught in his throat, finally seeing the form prostrate on the floor. From this distance he could almost fool himself, thinking that the man simply lay exhausted, waiting until his strength was gathered to rise and return to the safety afforded by the hallowed halls of Hogwarts. As he approached, however, something inside of him died, seeing the scarlet pooling around the man and the glint of steel clutched in one pale hand.

Kneeling down, he turned the man to his back, to take a final look at the person who loved him enough to choose him over his own life. Angry red lines bisected his forearms from elbow to wrist, contrasting sharply with the unnaturally white skin. Tears falling unnoticed from his eyes, he closed the wounds, not wanting the dead man to suffer the ignominy of his choice.

“You really did love us, didn’t you?” He asked softly, trying not to urb urb the heavy silence that filled the chamber. With a trembling hand, he smoothed platinum blond hair from the face he had known his whole life, that belonged to a man he had just been beginning to know. “I am sorry I doubted you,” he whispered as he leaned over the still body. Placing a gentle kiss in the man’s forehead, he closed the blank grey eyes and said his final goodbye.

“I love you, Father.”