Chapter 36 The Battle of Malfoy Manor The Weasley twin crooked
his stiff neck. Sinister, isn't it?
Look who's the holy one now. He jeered at his brother,
gesturing to the gaping wound in his torso where rotting skin
exposed the blotchy, half decomposed mess beneath.
Alistair Moody chuckled, a gargled, grotesque sound that
sent a ripple of gasps through the guests.
Narcissus's gaze snapped to Draco beneath his dragon mask.
He was visibly shaking, rage and bloodlust simmering just beneath
the surface. A1's breath from rewriting
history. His white knuckled grip on his
wand. Magic began to pulse at the tip,
thrumming with his intent. Voldemort's wicked smile
deepened, his red eyes gleaming with cruel anticipation.
A sharp movement caught Narcissa's attention.
Hermione had sensed it too. Draco was about to snap, his
fingers tightening around his wand poised to strike their
homemade curse. Hermione surged forward.
Silencio, she began. Voldemort's wand twitched.
Nasisa did not think. She moved with the instinct of a
Panther. Fast, fierce, protective
Protego. She cried, a silvery barrier
erupting between Hermione and the unknown curse curling from
the Dark Lord's wand. Draco spun to trek on Hermione,
his breath leaving him as he found her safe behind the
shimmering Dome. Around them, guests at the head
of the hall scrambled back, chairs screeching against the
floor while the Wolfpack prowled forward, low growls vibrating in
their throats. The Death Eaters followed suit,
ones unsheathed in a ripple of motion.
Voldemort's gaze snapped to Narcissa, his splitted pupils
narrowing sharp as a blade. He slashed his wand through the
air. She had only a second.
The cursed Draco and Hermione had drilled into her mind, had
made her practice for this very moment, leapt from her lips.
A Varda bomb. Her curse barely left her lips
before his spell struck. A sickly pink light collided
with hers in mid air and overpowered her pain.
Agonising, searing pain. She collapsed to her knees, a
raw cry wrenching from her throat as her hands withered
before her eyes. Her skin puckered, fissured into
jagged, bleeding crevices, veins of molten agony snaking through
her flesh. No, Theodore was at her side in
an instant, his voice hoarse, frantic.
He caught her strong arms cradling her trembling frame as
her skin crackled, slivers of herself flaking away like
shattered China. Brachiomendum.
Episki Ferula. Theo spun his healing spells
like woven silver. Nothing worked.
Protect them, she rasped, her throat burning and constricting.
Please, please don't leave me. His fingers clutched her
desperately, still casting, still trying, still losing.
Voldemort tutted. Such a pity.
Narcissa's heart shuddered, struggling to push clotting
blood through failing veins. Her body, once so poised, now
crumbled apart at the seams. She did not tremble.
She exhaled, letting the darkness take her.
I knew it would be safe to break apart in your arms, she
whispered to the young man with dark chocolate eyes.
And then, silence. The ballroom erupted.
Narcissa's murder had torn through reality itself, a
seismic shock so violent it felt as though they had been wrenched
through all nine layers of hell. Hermione's horror and fury was
demonic. She reached Draco just as the
windows on either side of the room shattered.
His mask had fallen away, his empty, Occluding gaze locked
onto his mother's body. He did not move, did not blink.
The military stormed in, soldiers AB sailing through the
windows on thick black rope while pods of auras landed in a
series of cracks. Kingsley hit the ground to their
right, his wand slashing through the air.
Spells and gunfire ricocheted in rapid succession, raining down
on Voldemort and the Death Eaters table.
Panic detonated through the crowd.
Civilians scrambled, screaming, clawing for the exits.
But amidst the chaos, more masks dropped.
Moulsiba's table broke, their disguises revealing Professor
Sprout, Flitwick, and Mcgonigal, their ones raised.
Hermione followed suit, transfiguring her dress back
into the practical black turtleneck she knew she could
fight in. The Order closed in.
A tight circle formed around Hermione, Voldemort, Draco, and
Theo, Nasus's lifeless form still cradled in his arms.
Soldiers faced outward, their magic resistant weapons trained
on the Death Eaters poised to defend their master, while the
Order unleashed a relentless barrage of spells at Voldemort.
At the centre, Voldemort spun, a cyclone of dark power churning
around him, deflecting each strike with prey to natural
precision. But as the noose tightened, his
Crimson gaze flicked to Draco, a sneer cutting like a blade.
We shall take our duel outside air.
Come. Find me an avenge your dear
sweet mother. With that final taunt, he
launched himself through the air, twisting into a vortex of
shadow. A torrent of dark mist spiralled
through the chaos, tearing past the panicked guests and out into
the gardens. Draco's gaze lingered on the
swirling darkness only for a moment before looking down to
his mother. Then Hermione saw it, The split
second where he forced himself to sweep away the sight of his
mother's shattered body in Theo's arms, burying it deep out
of reach. His eyes darkened.
A sharp crack split the air. Draco was gone.
Theo was running on nothing but tears, his only fuel seeping
into his skin like lifeblood. Shouts pounded against his
eardrums, but they were nothing compared to the deafening
cadence of his own heart hammering as if it could beat
fast enough for the both of them.
Bodies fled the room, obscenities and curses clashing
with the deluge of spellfire. Rubble rained down.
A marble pillar took the brunt of an errant blast, shattering
into fine crystals that dusted Narcissa's lifeless face.
Even broken, she shone like a diamond.
What became of heroes when they lost to their Talisman, their
source of magic, their light? They perished.
A hand grabbed his shoulder, small, firm, steady.
A shock of red hair crouched beside him.
She's gone. Not.
Come on, you need to keep fighting.
Stay here and you'll die in the crossfire.
Sound crept in, distant screams entwined with the echoing shots
of gunfire. Theo blinked hard, forcing back
the wetness blurring his vision. When he looked up, he didn't
find the pity he expected. Ginny Weasley met his gaze with
something fiercer. Determination, defiance, a
rallying call to arms, and something deep inside him
ignited. The warrior stirred.
He pressed the lightest of kisses to his Love's bone dry
forehead, as if she were a fragile porcelain doll, then
gently laid her down. Jinny didn't hesitate.
She plucked a small translucent suite from a sachet on her belt
and slipped it in between Narcissa's cracked lips.
The effect was immediate. Her body shimmered, fading from
view. This will keep her out of sight
for an hour, said Jinny, gripping Theo's hand and hauling
him to his feet with surprising strength.
She gave him a brisk nod, then gestured toward the gardens
before taking off in a Sprint. Theo followed.
Neither Hermione nor Draco were anywhere insight as they vaulted
over toppled tables, skidded past guests still cowering
beneath furniture, their Puffskin and Nifla masks Askew.
In the foyer, Mulsipa was locked in a three on one duel with
McNair and two Death Eater lackeys.
Ginny didn't break stride. She flicked her wand, sending a
hex straight at the ringleader. Executioner turned.
Professor McNair let out a strangled noise, then began
sneezing violently as massive, globulous bats erupted from his
nose, flapping wildly as if fleeing a cave.
As they burst through the main doors into the gardens, Theo
heard Mulciba's triumphant roar and the sickening third of
bodies hitting the floor. But what stole his focus was the
battlefield stretching before them.
By the left gate, a flock of Dementors were descending from
above. They're all consuming dread,
unfurling like skeletal claws of death.
They swooped toward Luna Lovegood, who stood her ground,
a brilliant wave of silver light bursting from her wand.
Her Patronus, a small bouncing creature with tall ears, dashed
forward, driving the Dementors back, but it wasn't enough.
She was surrounded. Kingsley Shacklebolt yelled
commands at a group of muggle military men and women.
A blonde woman, the 1st to blast a ball of fire from a wide black
tube she carried on her shoulder. 2 Dementors hurtled to
the ground like popped balloons near the hedge maze.
Long Bottom cast a powerful Repulso and a group of people
who had clearly chosen the wrong side of history to fight for.
Among the flower gardens to the right, the Weasleys had formed
an unbreakable line. Molly and Arthur stood
back-to-back, their Protego Shields pulsing outward in
shimmering domes of force, repelling the onslaught of
curses fired by the Unspeakable puppeted sons.
George Weasley moved like a leopard, darting between Death
Eaters, throwing potion vials and balls of crackling magic at
various groups of attackers. Bill Weasley and the silver
haired witch who covered him were hexing anyone who came too
close to their family. The air rippled and a deep
thunderous whoosh stole their attention skyward as an enormous
dragon swept across the moon, it's golden scales gleaming like
fire. It's vast wings cast a colossal
shadow over the battlefield, stretching across the blood
stained lawns like an omen of war.
The dragon landed, and the earth shuddered.
Charlie Weasley stood atop the beast, commanding it's great
fiery breath to scorch a line down the gravel path.
The heat hit them both in the face as Dragon Munter, who would
stop to witness the might of the dragon, was caught in the blast,
her body burning to a crisp before she even had time to
scream. Theo scoured the battlefield for
any sign of Draco or Hermione, his pulse hammering.
He found the latter pressed against the Stonewall beneath
the study windows, locked in a struggle with Gray back.
The werewolf bared his teeth in a twisted grin, his claws poised
to tear into her. It was not her own life that
flashed before her eyes as Femora Greyback's transformed
claws went to strike at her. It was the life of her babies.
Later, if she survived, she would scold herself for
theorizing in such moments whether getting infected with
werewolf gene while pregnant would pass along through the
bloodstream to her young. Luckily, it was a question she'd
never need answer to for Greyback halted, hit in his side
by an unexpected double jinx. Jinny and Theo pressed in and
her sister followed up with a secondary reducto, her wand
carving a brutal arc through the air, narrowly missing the
werewolf as he pulled away and fled.
Hermione gasped for breath, her chest rising and falling
rapidly. Her mind was the storm of panic
and strategy. Have you seen Draco?
She managed, voice strained. No, Jinny yelled back, her sharp
gaze sweeping across the chaos of the gardens.
Theo looked war-torn, his expression taut with exhaustion
and fury. Hermione wanted to offer
reassurance, but before she could, a rogue curse shot
straight towards them. Duck, she cried.
Jinny rolled aside just in time, and their small group scattered,
forced to break formation. Nearby, Angelina and the Patel
twins unleashed a relentless volley of jinxes at 2
Unspeakables desperate to break their hold on Fred and Ron.
Their spells coursed through the air, seeking to sever the
invisible threads of control that bound their friends.
Hermione couldn't afford to look.
She didn't dare. Seeing Ron like that was too
much. The weight of it threatened to
unravel her, and she couldn't afford to let it fester.
Not now, not when focus was the only thing keeping her alive.
Out behind the coops towards the main gate, Hermione spotted Rita
Skeeter. Ever the opportunist, the
journalist was tucked into the shadows, quill scratching
furiously even as hexes whizzed past her.
She had to hand it to the woman. She was relentless in the
pursuit of a story. Hermione spun, her frantic gaze
taking in the chaos, searching for Draco.
And then there he was, as if he had stepped from another plane
of existence. Her eyes found him at last, at
the heart of the battlefield, beside the shattered stone
fountain. Draco stood rigid, his arm
outstretched, trembling from the tip of his wand.
Red sparks crackled and flared, aimed directly at Voldemort.
Hermione ran. Draco, she cried, hoping to pull
his attention to her, just for a moment, just until she could
reach him. Pelting across the once
manicured, now sodden lawn. Her heart thudded, her stomach
twisted, her lungs fought for space to breathe.
Ahead of her, to her left, Mcgonigal was casting a chain of
transfiguration spells, turning stone debris into winged
sentries that were nose diving on Death Eaters from above.
Enchanted vines snaked across the muddy soil.
Commanded by Professor Sprout. They were wrapping around
enemies, constricting them and forcing them to drop their ones.
Professor Flitwick's body lay motionless in the high reeds of
the wildflower garden. To her right, Malfoy Manor's
four house elves were darting nimbly between the Wolf Pack,
popping in and out of existence like Deira calls.
Greta hopped from one shoulder to the next, disorienting Grey
back in his pack, while Gregor, Poppy and Kip wove through their
legs, binding the group in long strands of dress ribbon.
Tangling their limbs in a mess of colourful twine.
But once more, Greyback was faster.
He twisted, evading every knot. The sickening crack of shifting
bones reverberating through the air as he forced his infamous
full transformation, The bulk of his body crouching into beast
form. With a snarl, he tore through
the bindings with his incisors, his gleaming jaws snapping shut
around Kip's shoulder. With a vicious shake, he flung
her half across the battlefield. No, Hermione sobbed as Kip's
small body slammed against the wooden panelling of the Peacock
hoops, the sickening crunch of impact echoing through the
night. But none of it could matter.
Not Fenrir escaping, not the panicked cries of Poppy as she
held the tiny mould form of Kip in her slender arms.
Only Draco. Hermione reached the stone
fountain, her lungs burning, her body thumbing with adrenaline.
A slow, satisfied grin curled across the Dark Lord's ashen.
Lips, you're too late. It would be better to accept his
fate now. Draco, Hermione pleaded,
stepping closer. She cooked his face in her
hands, ignoring Voldemort's remarks and forcing his gaze to
hers. Look at me, focus only on me.
His eyes flickered, a storm of silver, lightning and shadow
warring within him. Voldemort scoffed.
Foolish girl. Fate has already decided Kill.
Me. Hermione's voice trembled, but
her words did not. Your mind is your own.
Do not give him what he wants. She drew in a shuddering breath.
You deserve happiness. You deserve to live.
You deserve me, US, everything you never thought you could
have. She held him tighter, her
fingers pressing into his jaw. But you've earned it, Draco.
You've been loving and smart and brave and loyal.
You've done all that was asked of you and more, continued the
fight that Harry died for, and you need to do that for me one
last time by lowering your wand. His breath hitched, his fingers
twitched, the magic inside him coiled and waiting.
Draco, trust me. She whispered this one last
time. His grip on his wand wavered.
The silver in his eyes lightened, the storm breaking,
revealing flashes of pale blue. Lower your want, she pleaded.
Please, for me, for us. Her voice broke.
I, we, we love Hugh. His eyelids fluttered.
His hand began to fall. Out of nowhere, a heck streaked
toward Draco, but before it could strike, Voldemort snarled
and counted. With a sharp potego.
His fury was incandescent as he spun on the Carros, both
recoiling back with deep grimaces, having misread the
altercation. Do not intervene.
His bone splitting voice screeched, the sound piercing
through the grounds. The boy must strike me with his
own magic. They hesitated just long enough.
A pair of Levy corpus jinxes aimed perfectly hit them from
behind. They yelped as they were yanked
into the air, ones slipping from their grasp, robes overturning
to expose matching leather underwear.
Obscenities filled the air. Hermione's sharp eyes tracked
the spell's origins, the ghostly trails of magic lingering like
the afterglow of a sparkler. 2 lightly smoking 1 tips gave
their casters away. Lupin and Tonks.
The silent figures behind them lowered their ones.
And then, as if some unseen force shifted the battlefield's
gravity, bodies slumped. Lupin and Tonks crumpled.
Ron's corpse tackled the hedge maze instead of Arthur, who had
been grappling him in a desperate, wanderless combat.
Fred, tangled in military netting, ceased struggling
against his restraints and by the Rose bushes.
Moody, his wand tip pressed into Bill's neck, took one unsteady
step back before toppling into the thorns.
The figures who moments ago held so much power over the field,
turned toward the gates. Had they decided the battle was
won, or had they decided it was already lost?
Stay, help us. Hermione's voice cut through the
chaos, fury bursting from her as hot as fiend fire, but the
cloaked figures did not turn back.
You think you can command them as I can?
Voldemort's mocking voice made her inside squirm.
I told you, cease your delusions of grandeur.
You shall never be my equal, and when I ascend to my new form, I
will be sure to remind you often and brutally, just how beneath
me you truly are. With a flourish of his wand,
Draco struck. For a moment, the world seemed
to pause, as if even the moon up high was holding its breath.
Sectum Sempra. It was not the curse she had
feared and expected. The magic flew from his wand and
sliced deep gashes across Voldemort's abdomen.
Then a blur of red and black, a fiery cascade of hair and a mop
of curls slammed into Voldemort's back.
Ginny and Theo had thrown their full force into him, catching
him off guard. He staggered forward, his grip
faltering. The Elder Wand tore from his
grasp. It tumbled through the air
before landing with a muted thud right at Draco's feet.
All six pair of eyes followed its path.
Draco reached down, fingers closing around its cool, ancient
surface. The power of the wand met his
own magic like 2 star crossed lovers, and suddenly everything
felt within his control once more.
Nothing else existed for a moment.
Not the battle, the screams, the storm of spells tearing through
the air. Just the wand in his grasp,
thromming with ancient power. It's magic fusing with his own
in a rush of searing clarity. He had felt power before, raw,
uncontrollable, something to be wielded.
But this was different. This was certainty.
Beyond him, he heard the strangled rasps of Voldemort,
who held his innards in place. Hermione's eyes searched
Draco's, wide with hope. He offered her the glint of a
smile. Voldemort had taken his mother,
but he would not take Draco from his family.
A sneer curled the Dark Lord's bloody lips, his shoulders
hunched over, breath rattling heavily.
You wish to defeat me with my own want, my death stick.
How poetic. Draco's fingers traced the one's
ridges. Its knots and grooves felt like
the face of an old friend. He smirked, slow and dangerous.
I don't think it ever answered to you.
His voice was measured, deliberate.
He tilted his head. Be honest, have you ever felt an
ounce of strength since taking it?
He rolled the wand in his grip, feeling the hum beneath his
skin, the weight of history pressing into his palm.
No, His eyes flashed silver, cold as steel.
You're weak. He took a step forward.
I think it's always belonged to me.
It matters not he. Screamed into the night.
Strike me down my son, You know you want to.
You yearn to to make us. Whole Voldemort was saying all
the right words, but at last they could not penetrate Draco's
will. My mind may be my own once more,
Granger, but do you have my heart?
Asked Draco, slipping effortlessly into Hermione's
mind. Always as you have mine.
Her words back to him, glowing and earnest, were all he needed
to feel fully grounded once more.
Draco filled his lungs with the cool night air.
With his love by his side. Draco called out to all who
could hear. He is not a God, he is not a
leader. He is just a man.
A man who will do anything to secure his own survival.
He does not care about you, nor your families.
How much more will he take before you realise he's nothing
but a Leech? Draco scanned the onlookers,
their fighting stances paused in action, his gaze locked onto as
many weary, battle worn faces as he could, watching, waiting
Hermione, her voice clear as a bell rang across the grounds.
We call on all those who stand with us.
Raise your wands. Draco lifted the Elder Wand once
more. This time, the light emitting
from it was pure and bright. Hermione stood like a goddess by
his side, raised hers. Strands of magic weaved forth,
curling around Voldemort. A murmur ran through the
fighters. One by one, ones lifted across
the gardens. Charlie stepped forward, his
face bloodied, one hand trailing the scales of his dragon,
soothing it to halt its attacks. His wand rose beside him.
Luna lifted hers in tandem. Then Kingsley lifted his own,
his deep voice in toning words of ancient magic under his
breath. Beside him, Mcgonigal, her robes
torn, her bun loose and wild, raised hers high, lips pressed
together in grim pride. What is this?
Voldemort screeched as trails of light swooped around him.
A small, hesitant flicker of light came unexpectedly from the
left. Professor Onai, the sickly
looking new teacher. Trembling, exhausted but
unbowed, he stepped forward, wand aloft.
A breath later, Mulsiba followed, his chest heaving as
he brandished his wand. Light magic spilled from all
corners of the gardens, thin strands of magic binding
Voldemort into submission. You cannot do this to me.
I will destroy all of you. The rest followed.
The older, old and new professors, party guests who had
stayed to fight former Death Eaters, all raised their ones in
Voldemort's direction. And then, finally, Rita Skeeter,
hovering at the edge of the battlefield.
She sniffed, straightened her crooked mask, and lifted her
wand high. Anyone close to her after the
events could have sworn she murmured.
Well, I suppose this. Will make for one.
Hell of a story. Golden threads of light wove
together, spilling from every wand, coiling through the night
like strands of sunlight. They twisted, curled, fused into
an intricate web of magic, snapping tort as it encircled
Voldemort. No, I am your.
Lord you. Answer only to me.
He struggled, his movements jerking and frantic.
His red eyes became slits of scorching fire as he searched
for any of his supporters to come to his aid.
The golden net tightened around him.
His eyes narrowed on the gates where the Carrows and a small
horde of Death Eaters were being hauled into military wagons.
The remaining Wolf Pack to the right still fought their
restraints while they howled in fury and Greyback.
Gone or apprehended, he did not know.
For the first time in his long, cursed existence, fear flickered
behind Voldemort's Serpentine eyes.
He crumpled to the ground under the constriction of the binds.
Like Devil's Snare, the more he fought it, the tighter the bind
became. Out of the fog of war, George
emerged, his freckled face spattered with blood, his left
eye swollen shut. From his belt he pulled out a
glass orb, the bulbous vial filled with a faintly
recognisable green liquid. Oh, you clever witch.
Draco praised, understanding flooding within him.
George unstoppered the cork. Hey, oldie Voldie.
He said flatly, Voldemort twisted, annoyance flickering in
his eyes. For my brothers.
Bottoms up. Jinny and Theo at his side
forced the man's mouth open, and George tipped the unmistakable
ageing potion into his mouth. Voldemort choked.
The liquid slid down his throat and the slits of his eyes went
wide, wider than Draco had ever seen them.
Filled with fear. A moment of nothing.
His flesh sagged. First the translucent skin
dripping from his body. Bones cracked, the weight of
stolen years collapsing upon him all at once.
His limbs shrank, his form shrivelled, his power withered.
He let out a single rasping breath before his body.
The death rattle and a collective gasp travelled
through the grounds as Voldemort crumpled into dust, scattering
his final exhale like ash on the wind.
Draco lowered the Elder Wand. The fight, at long last, was
over.