He's Still A Part of Me

1) He was alone in this.

The Great Hall had fallen silent, every pair of eyes fixed on the two figures standing alone in the middle of the vast, debris-strewn room. The sun was rising outside, casting pale light through the shattered windows, as if dawn itself were holding its breath.

Harry stood tall, his wand steady in his grip as he faced Voldemort, his long-time nemesis, his mind clearer than ever before. A strange calm washed over him. They had come to the end. Voldemort was weary, his face twisted in something that looked almost like desperation—no longer a figure of dark grandeur but a man terrified of the inevitable.

"This is your last chance, Tom," Harry said, his voice firm yet quiet, laced with a strange mixture of pity and resolve. He felt the weight of every life this man had destroyed, and yet, even now, he wished there had been another way. "Just this once... feel something other than hate. It doesn't have to end this way."

But Voldemort only sneered, his grip tightening on his wand, the red eyes gleaming with hatred. "It ends only in one way, Potter," he hissed, the rage barely contained. "I am beyond the reach of sentiment. Beyond pity. The wand—my wand—will finally obey its true master."

Harry felt his heartbeat steady, knew in his bones that Voldemort was wrong, that the Elder Wand recognized him as its master. The power thrummed in his hand, ready, waiting. He took a step forward.

"We both know that's not true," Harry replied, his voice now carrying a strength that even Voldemort could sense. "The wand belongs to me. And it will never serve you."

A flicker of doubt flashed in Voldemort's eyes. For a brief, almost human moment, he looked uncertain. Then the mask of rage returned, and with a final, desperate scream, Voldemort raised his wand.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Harry moved without thinking, raising his wand in one smooth, fluid motion. The spell that surged from his lips held no hatred, no malice—only determination.

"Expelliarmus!"

The two spells collided in midair with a blinding flash of light, spiraling and twisting, locked in a furious dance of green and red. Voldemort's face twisted in shock as his own curse recoiled, striking him with a force that seemed to pierce through every fiber of his being. His wand shot out of his hand, spinning into the air, and Voldemort staggered back, a silent scream frozen on his lips as his form began to unravel.

For a brief, fragile moment, Harry thought he saw a look of lost wonder on the Dark Lord's face, as though he were a child, grasping at something he had never understood.

And then he was gone, collapsing inward, a shell dissolving to dust.

The silence stretched as the last traces of Voldemort drifted away, the weight of the past years lifting, lightening. Harry lowered his wand, feeling an ache, a sudden emptiness, but above all, an overwhelming sense of relief.

It was over.

He let out a shaky breath, and around him, the Great Hall erupted in cheers, sobs, and the collective release of all the fear that had gripped them for so long. Harry looked around, his friends rushing forward, their faces beaming with joy and tears, and he felt, for the first time, a glimmer of peace.

As the last wisps of Voldemort's form dissipated into the air, the cheers and shouts from the Great Hall became a distant hum. For a moment, Harry stood frozen, wand still raised, his heart pounding. Something was wrong.

A strange sensation prickled across his skin, a shiver that wasn't his own but felt foreign and dark. It was as though a shadow had passed through him, like smoke wrapping itself around his core before sinking deep, unseen yet unmistakably there. Harry gasped softly, the cheers around him drowned out by the growing chill radiating through his body. He didn't need to look around to know that no one else could sense it.

He was alone in this.

For a few, dizzying seconds, his mind raced, grappling with the sickening idea that Voldemort's death had left something behind—some piece of dark magic, faint yet powerful, that had found him. It felt like a whisper in his veins, cold and heavy, echoing with a faint semblance of the hatred Voldemort had once harbored.

He tried to steady his breathing, pushing back the nausea that welled up as the feeling settled within him. Harry forced himself to keep still, to not let anyone see his unease. He had learned to mask his emotions, to keep his fears hidden, and now, with the whole wizarding world watching, he'd never had a stronger reason to do so.

But his thoughts wouldn't quiet. He felt the remnants of Voldemort's magic lingering inside him, like ink staining water. It didn't belong here, not in him. And yet, he knew it was bound to him somehow, tethered through all those years they had shared, the countless battles, the prophecy. It was as though the darkness had taken its last desperate refuge in him.

"What... what just happened?" he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible. But he couldn't look away, couldn't let go of the disorienting truth that, even in death, Voldemort had left his mark one last time.

"Harry!" Hermione's voice cut through the noise, her arms wrapping around him tightly. Ron joined, beaming, his face streaked with tears, pulling Harry into an embrace that left no room for fear or worry, just friendship and love. Harry hugged them back, his heart lifted by their warmth, yet that chill lingered, lurking beneath the surface.

Harry forced a smile, glancing around at the friends and faces he had fought for. This was their moment of victory, of hope. Whatever this was, he'd face it alone, for them. He had conquered Voldemort; he could conquer this too.

With one last glance at the fading spot where Voldemort had stood, Harry pushed down the shiver, letting his friends pull him into the crowd.