the last verse ; harry potter [2]

twenty three ; the old friend and the new one

There was going to be a war.

A war so vile, a war between a king and men, a war between god and mankind. There was hope: two hopes, in fact, born seventeen years ago and raised as burdens only to become heroes. A boy and a girl; it was the same story over and over, the story of Vera Beauregard and Tom Riddle, now it was Diana Riddle and Harry Potter. This was daughter against father. Boy against murderer.

Shell Cottage was now a graveyard. Just outside, the body of Dobby laid sleeping soundly beneath the sand, not the first, and most definitely not the last, to die. Who else was to leave? Who else was to be buried beneath the sand? Maybe it would be Diana, the Dark Lord's daughter. Maybe she would be the martyr, the one to die to end this. Maybe Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, would he soon become the Boy who Died?

This was a war, and they ached beneath the blood on their hands.

Gringotts was soon to be taken. Diana was not going, no matter how many times the Potter boy urged her to, she would not go; she was soon to visit Andromeda Tonks, the sister of Narcissa Malfoy, for it was Andromeda who was supposed to have the answers. All this time, it had been Andromeda. It had always been Andromeda.

And Diana Riddle, the Daughter of the Dark Lord, would be preparing to die. A prophecy, foretelling a boy and a father and a daughter, a prophecy in which only one may live at the End.

Diana had known long before she had learned the prophecy would require two sacrifices; she had known long before Dumbledore came for her in the hospital; she had known even before the hospital, when she'd spend her days cowering inside of closets to avoid the back of her adoptive father's hand, long before she realized that these were not her parents, these were monsters. 

Diana knew from the beginning how this would end, how she would be the martyr. She knew, and she embraced it like an old friend. Diana, the Daughter of the Dark Lord, embraced Death like an old friend even in the quaint cottage, in the middle of the night, the night before they would be leaving. 

Harry stared at the fire, his elbows against his knees, his profile dark and hunched. He heard her come in, and he gave her room to sit.

Diana embraced Death like an old friend. She always had.

"You're breaking into Gringotts tomorrow."

Harry snorted, for the plan was so ridiculous in the first place.

"I am."

She did not voice her worries of them getting killed. She did not tell him to stay, to stay, don't go on this mission that only one has ever achieved before. She did not tell him how she wondered if the two of them ought to just wander into the sea outside and never come back.

She looked over, and he was already looking at her, and he smiled.

She did not tell him how handsome he was, how he looked so much like his father. She did not tell him how proud his parents would be, how proud Dumbledore would be. She did not tell him how proud she was of him.

Then there was only the crackling of the fire, the flickering of the light against their cheeks, the soft breeze from the open window.

She did not tell him that she planned to give her life for his. She did not tell him that she was going to die.

"I love you," he said.

She did not tell him that she loved him back, even though she knew she did.

But she kissed him anyway, and he gratefully accepted, and they held each other tightly and savored this, for it might not ever happen again.

She did not tell him that she loved him back, even though she knew she did.

Diana Riddle, Daughter of the Dark Lord, embraced Death with a knife to His heart, for she would not give up so quickly.

Not when she had so much to live for.

the beginning of the third and final part. the final chapters of Diana Riddle.