The Line of the Dead
AU where everyone dies.
~
The boy stands in front of him, all ragged hair and open wounds and blood dripping down his face. He stands like a dueller, one foot forward, wand at his side, his face utterly emotionless.
He reminds him of someone; the same haughty arrogance, the mix of rage and desperation on his face. He looks at his hand, the pale white skin; hundreds of Death Eaters, dozens of them dead and he can’t remember who the boy resembles.
The Dark Lord merely sits back on his throne, carved out of dark stone and tipped in steel. He was interested, he’ll admit, when the boy showed up at the entrance of the cave, utterly alone and unarmed besides his wand. He was interested to see how far the boy would get, how skilled he was.
He underestimated him. The boy fought like a demon, shredding through the guards on duty, turning them all into ash and mist and dust. The Dark Lord isn’t sure if he’s ever seen anyone fight like him, like he had nothing to lose in the dark and twisting caverns of stone.
The boy stares him down now. There’s nothing in his eyes - no fear or terror or even pain. Just a mindless, endless void of rage.
The Dark Lord raises his hand. Nagini lies curled around his throne and he allows her to slip through his fingers, cool scales against his skin. He’s not afraid of this boy - Dumbledore himself couldn’t mark him and he sees no reason as to why this boy could. He tilts his head, studying the boy.
“So. You’re the one who so brutally murdered my spy.”
The boy goes still.
“Yes. I saw it. You left his body in pieces on the street, ripped him apart with your bare hands. I never imagined you could be so cruel to someone you once loved.”
The boy’s breathing hitches, his face going white.
“Of course. Dumbledore watches from the safety of his high tower, watches as he sends his last against me. Knowing that I have won, that no one on this earth can stop me now. And he will not save you, boy. He will not show you mercy and neither will I.”
The boy merely raises his wand. There is still no fear there, fear of the death that was sure to come. Nothing but rage, so boiling and unending that it reminds him of his own rage.
“His name,” the boy says, “was James.”
The Dark Lord stills. “What?”
“His name was James. He was 21 years old. He had a wife, Lily Evans, who was the most beautiful girl he had ever lain eyes on. He wanted to marry her in his first year, but she said no. He was brave and loyal and reckless and you killed him when he was protecting his son, while he screamed for Lily to take him and go. He wanted to be a Quidditch Player when he grew up. He never got the chance to.”
“How - “
“Lily Evans-Potter,” the boy spat, “Muggle Born. Every year James asked her out and every year she said no until she was 17, fighting in a war that would eventually kill her. She was going to be a lawyer, someone who bridged the gap between wizards and muggles. She was fiery and headstrong, the smartest girl in Hogwarts and you murdered her as she stood over her son’s body.”
“Silence - “
“Marlene McKinnon. Blond hair and green eyes and a sense of humour so sharp you could cut yourself on it. She was the best dueller in our year and she could never back down from a challenge. You killed her, her mother, her father, her youngest sister and her girlfriend. Her name was Dorcas Meadowes, the best beater that Hogwarts has seen in years. She and Marlene got together in their 6th year, when they were 16. They had three years together before you murdered them both.”
The Dark Lord tightens his grasp on his wand. The boy shows no sign of stopping, the names pouring out from his lips, a symphony of the dead.
“Fabian and Gideon Prewett. They were twins - they never were without each other. It took 5 Death Eaters to finally take them down. Gideon died first, and for those brief seconds Fabian had to live in a world without his twin.
“Benjy Fenwick. He was American - from Ilvermorny, one of the best Quidditch Players of all time. He wasn’t even supposed to be fighting in this war - he was drafted into an English Team. When he knew he was about to die, he blocked himself in an alley. Blew up the street, as well as the 7 Death Eaters who follwed him. We never found his body.
“Caradoc Dearborn. Benjy’s boyfriend, and the best spy we ever had. When you found him, you tortured him for weeks, days on end, trying to find out where our base was, who the Order was. He never told you. When we found his body, we didn’t know who it was. He wanted to become a baker, wanted to open up his own shop in Hogsmeade.”
The Dark Lord rises to his feet in one solid motion, his hand brushing over his wand. The boy doesn’t even flinch, just continues listing the names, his voice calm and steady despite the agony in his eyes.
“Mary Macdonald. She was in the year below us. She wanted to be a healer at St Mungos, wanted to do some good in the world. You killed her 2 days before her 18th birthday. She wasn’t even in the Order yet - she was too young by our standards. You killed her before she got the chance.”
He’s growing impatient now, this list of people he doesn’t even remember. He aims a spell at the boy; he deflects it easily with a wave of his wand.
“Reg - “ The boy’s voice finally cracks. The Dark Lord savours it, the utter pain and defeat in his voice. “He was one of yours. A Death Eater. I hated him for that, hated him with every bone in my body. I protected him from our Mother, took all of her anger and tried to raise him right. When he joined the Death Eaters, I cried because I thought I would have to kill him. He died trying to take you down.”
“He failed,” the Dark Lord says. “I’ve seen his desiccated body. He died painfully, screaming for a brother he never had. I threw his body to the crows.”
“Remus Lupin,” the boy says quietly. He’s crying now, tears running down his face. “Remus John Lupin. He was 21 years old. I always thought he’d be the last one to die. He was a werewolf, a member of the Order and I loved him. I loved him and you took him from me.”
The Dark Lord tilts his head. There are too many bodies for him to remember, a mess of blood and tears and shards of bone. “What do I care for some werewolf brat?”
“He died saving me. On a battlefield. You were there and he shoved me out of the way. He died never knowing a world at piece. You took him from me. And I am going to kill you for that.”
The Dark Lord shrugs, lifting his wand in one motion. Nagini slithers around his feet in tight, lethal circles; he sends her away, suddenly wanting to kill this arrogant boy himself. “You can try. All have failed.”
The boy gives him a cold grin, and the Dark Lord can see himself in the boy’s eyes; the thrill of battle, the fire of war, all the brutal, vicious cunning that shone through. He was a warrior, this boy, forged in fire and blood and loss and the Dark Lord almost regrets having to kill him as he launches himself forward.
