Every single one of them would face true fear that night. Before them would be the only thing that was worth fearing, the thing which must be conquered, used, disfigured at any cost: death.
Yes, death - a danger, but only for those too weak to prevent it. I loathed them, I pitied them. Too faint of heart, they could not seek, could not even understand the greatest freedom: being free of death. They could not comprehend that actions seeming so important to them are only small distractions on the way to a much greater truth. Meager strategies such as taking over the ministry, London, their precious school, the worthless as servants…those are nothing compared to taking over your own self. Having complete power over your spirit, you soul, your own death, that was the ultimate prize. And before such a command, all must fall to their knees.
I lifted the wand.
It was a familiar and comforting sight, beautiful even, that green flash of light: a clean, straight, thin beam leaving the tip of my wand, going toward him closer and closer, and from me farther and farther…
But suddenly, it was spinning back and returning to me…the light gained a burst of speed as my wand flew out of my hand of its own accord. The wand spun away and everything in my sight spun with it. Then, all I could see was the green piercing my eyes, filling the room…
It was right in front of me: a small, worthless lump. The other one, the woman, lay off to the side, quiet at last, an insignificant barrier. All of their childish protections were only small steps on the path to their inevitable fate: death. Yes, they had faced the worst tonight, all in the name of the boy. It was the greatest sign of their weakness “ their inability to use magic as power, as it is meant to be used. It took only two words and the strength to use them…those words I could trust.
But then that green light, that beam, always so constantly leaving my wand- to lead me to destiny no less- suddenly came back, my own reflection echoing throughout its beam. Those words, my own power, suddenly betraying me…the green entered me through every pore and ripped me apart.
I felt the tug of my souls: the cup, the locket, the diary, the ring, the “
When I looked down, I was nothing but a sliver of air. I was gone.
Standing there in the Great Hall, my own power came back to me as before, now only increased by my fury towards him. He, that insignificant crumb of existence who had the luck to have survived before and was now so arrogantly in front of me again. My own words turned against me, once again proof that nothing, not even a spell could be trusted. This spell was now as weak as any mortal, as easily manipulated and as easily turned away from its true purpose. The green light fed on my body, seeping in through my eyes, my ears, my skin; my own power draining me. Then it curled up in the center of my body, a black hole of green, sucking me in - an implosion.
This time, no tug came. But where was I? I reached out, feeling for myself, my soul, my life. My fingers made no contact; not the smallest piece of me remained. My voice was gone; nevertheless, I screamed. Was it possible? That boy had said it, he had known of my work, but how? Could he have been telling the truth? I had left nothing behind, nothing to hint at my work, my achievement of only what my powers were meant to do. Each one spun through my mind like pieces of a puzzle so close to completion: the diary and the cup, so naively entrusted to feeble servants; the ring, a symbol of my birthright protected by my own hand; the locket and diadem, hidden in the most inscrutable locations; Nagini, to be trusted perhaps even more than my own spells; and now, this boy.
It was the unthinkable; my own self, entombed in the shell of the most useless of humans. My very existence linked to my most stubborn barrier; I say not enemy, but a mere barrier as my misfortune, not his skill, led to his claims of victory. But even the most tortured piece of me in the least worthy of places was gone.
It was impossible. But there was nothing there. And without them, without myself…I was nothing. Blackness surrounded me.
I awoke to cold mist and burning fires, both pain so tangible yet neither quite real. I tried to move, but I was trapped: trapped in a form more pathetic than the most foolish being of those on earth.
Beyond the surrounding fog, beyond the circle within which my trapped form lay, seven more circles enclosed me. The first contained my soul as it had been in Nagini: the form of me created from my own weakest existence, but still immeasurably more than no existence at all. Weak but cunning, the form pushed at the boundaries of its circle, desperate to reach me in the middle, to help complete me. Its efforts were futile; it moved not an inch beyond its given limit.
In the second circle sat the form of me as it had lain, unnoticed for years, in the boy. I looked away; the sight of that form repulsed me, a reminder of my own power’s disloyalty.
Third, the diadem of Ravenclaw, supposedly so clever, but betrayed as well, by her own daughter’s weakness.
Fourth, the locket of Slytherin, most worthy founder of Hogwarts; yet even his pure strength was unable to break the divisions of the circle.
Next was the cup, another reminder of weakness, taken with such ease and now impossible to even touch.
Following the cup at quite a distance was the diary, the memory of my youth, of my early power, so stubbornly pressed against the side of its circle.
And at last, visible only with a careful eye, was the ring, the monument of my first true success, the destruction of shame and weak blood, the idiotic Riddle.
Each form in varying strengths, yet they all longed for the same thing: my form. As if attracted by gravity they craved to meet together, to rejoin.
In the middle circle, I, too, yearned to complete myself. Not merely by decision, but as if under my own Imperius, I longed to find each of my parts once again. In vain, I struggled. For uncountable hours I felt only the frustration of the boundaries of the circle; for long days and nights, though there was no sun, the pain of my failure rushed through me and not just within my own form. No, the pain was felt eight-fold, as each piece of my soul equally mourned its fate.
I loathed myself. I was weaker than the lowliest of creatures, weaker even than the most miserable spirit. I could not make myself whole; now not only my magic, but my own spirit betrayed me, refusing to fuse my broken pieces back into one. Each piece, lonely and meaningless without its seven brothers, was stuck in its own circle, unable to go back, unable to go forth, as even the dark Underworld only let in spirits that are whole.
I pushed and pulled; I tried every spell I knew, yet again and again, my own might, my own power failed me, and each of my own souls began to turn their back on me. Thus, unable to use what was left of my strength in any other way, my voice was left screaming, releasing the silent sounds of my pain.
Eventually, my consciousness itself disappeared. No longer able even to despise my own powerlessness, all thoughts left my dismal form. Yet from it still, and continuing eternally, the voiceless sounds of my failure, my pain and my weakness, my wretched, wretched weakness, pour out.