A Power They Knew Not

Title: A Power They Knew Not
Rating: PG
Warnings: Major character deaths.
Summary: Everyone knew that Harry would be the one to vanquish the Dark Lord, if anyone could, but no one understood that the ‘unknown’ power Harry possessed was something not unusual at all - if they had only thought to use it.

It was Ron, really, who saw the answer, though he didn’t know it at the time and wouldn’t understand until months later that his off-handed comment was the reason his best friend had died in the battle against Voldemort.

Such a small comment. Who could have expected that it would mean so much?

“Geez, you could almost feel sorry for the bloody git. The freak never had a chance.”

A derogatory comment about an enemy really shouldn’t have meant so much; at least, that’s what Ron tried to convince himself of as he tossed back his tenth firewhiskey.

But, it had meant something… to Harry.

Ron hadn’t understood what it meant, at the time, when he saw his friend go still with a look of angry comprehension on his face. At the time, he’d been certain that Harry was pissed at him for seeming to show sympathy for their opponent, but the anger had softened in Harry’s eyes as he leaned back against the castle wall and wiped sweat, blood, and grime from his face.

“No,” Harry answered quietly on a whisper, hoarse from screaming orders to the other DA members defending the unprepared students who were caught outside the castle by Voldemort’s surprise attack.

“You’re right; you almost could… I can. Maybe,” his eyes darkened with a shadow of pain that Ron didn't understand, and his voice dropped, “Maybe, I’m the only one who can.”

“What?!?”

Before Ron could ask if his mate had been hit too hard by that last hex, Harry did something unfathomable: he cast a thick bubble shield and stepped out from behind their cover to scream, “Tom, I’m sorry.”

In the sudden silence that fell as everyone watched what he did, Voldemort turned appearing shocked, but quickly recovered his composure.

“Harry, what is it you apologize for? Your arrogance in thinking that you have the right to use that name?” (Voldemort wouldn’t even acknowledge it as his own name - even though he was well aware that several of his death eaters were aware of that fact.)

“For your continued failure to thwart my return? Or, for your mere existence? Tell me, child, what are you sorry for?”

“You.”

Harry’s comment enraged Voldemort, who rapidly shot off a powerful cruciatis as he screamed, “For me? You have the arrogance to pity me?”

Harry’s shield barely held, as he lifted up a hand, unconsciously strengthening his barrier.

“No, I’m sorry that you were pushed to this.” Harry stepped away from Ron’s attempts to grab his leg and pull him back to cover.

“I’m sorry that you weren’t given the respect and attention that you deserved.” Harry began again as he walked forward, “I’m sorry that you weren’t protected when you needed to be. I’m sorry that you never got to know Merope’s love for you.”

To everyone’s astonishment, Voldemort backed down from Harry as he approached. If he had been capable of hearing his death eater’s challenges and taunts, the Dark Lord would have stood his ground if only to save face, but Voldemort could not hear them... could not see even see them. As Harry had approached, Voldemort had made the mistake of looking into the boy’s eyes and was trapped by what he saw there. Instead of the fear, hatred, disdain, or even worse – pity, that he had expected to see in the Gryffindor’s eyes – he saw shared pain and understanding.

It was hypnotizing. In his entire life, Voldemort had never felt, for even the briefest moment, that he was understood. Worshiped, pitied, feared – yes, but never, never understood. His astonishment at that feeling held him more tightly than any bodybind ever could - as Harry continued to approach him not stopping until they was dangerously close - less than a foot from each other.

“I’m sorry you were rejected.” The Gryffindor continued, “They shouldn’t have done that. No one should have made you feel that way.”

Then, Harry did something that astonished even Voldemort: he stepped forward, wrapped his arms around his enemy’s shoulders, and pulled the stiff wizard into a careful embrace that Voldemort tried but somehow found himself unable to break. He could feel, resounding through their shared link, the waves of pain that Harry was forcing on himself with their contact, and wondered what the boy thought he could hope to accomplish. But, even as he thought that,  Voldemort was reminded of his own craving to have the boy’s blood as a part of his rejuvenation.

Despite the atrocities that he had reveled in, Voldemort had been absolutely repulsed by the thought that he had become so inhuman that he could not even touch the boy without pain. It had been a nagging, irritating, lingering pain to know that, simply to survive, he would have to kill Harry... Harry, who, like a unicorn, was so pure that he was beyond physical contact. The concept had been a lingering irritant, but he had reconciled himself, years earlier, to killing unicorns to lengthen his half-life until he could be reincarnated, and with time, had been certain that he would eventually come to terms with the prospect of killing the boy. He had killed so many others, after all, one scrawny boy should not stand out.

He had been just as certain that he would eventually come to terms, when he had been brought to life, despite the fact that none of his death eaters had understood his lack of rage when his wand ... when their wands had connected, preventing him from killing the boy. Just as none of their onlookers, on the battlefield they now shared, seemed able to understand what they were seeing. How could they? Looking out at them all, at their aghast faces, Voldemort sneered at their ignorance and relaxed into the comfort of Harry’s embrace, somehow satisfied to know that he wasn’t beyond the boy's touch. As he relaxed, he realized that he’d missed some of what Harry had been saying.

“I know how much it hurts to feel you can’t rely on anyone. I’m sorry you were called and treated like a freak, and I’m sorry you felt you were alone.”

The last comment drug something of a surprised admission out of Voldemort, “I hate being alone.”

“I know; maybe that’s why we were linked.” Harry’s voice was filled with speculation as he stepped back and again stunned their now silent audience by running his free hand down to Voldemort’s. As he did, Harry briefly wondered if that’s why he had been left-handed, so that their wand hands were on the same side, and he could lift the wizard's hand with blocking their wands.

“I don’t want to be alone,” Voldemort whispered - again exploring a discomfort that he had avoided looking at all of his life - before shaking his head and snarling, “but one of us has to die.”

“I know.” Harry’s simple answer and acceptance, as he lifted their linked hands, confused him.
How could the boy be doing this? No one did this. Ever. Suddenly, as if the spell of Harry’s actions broke, Voldemort shook his head like a rabid dog, bared his fangish teeth, and glared at the boy.

“Do you think your pretty words are going to keep me from killing you?”

“No.”

Damn the boy, he wasn’t supposed to be this accepting. He wasn’t supposed to be holding his enemy’s hand like they were best of friends… like they understood each other. If he killed Potter… No, when he killed Potter. This display of sentimentality wasn’t going to change that. When he killed Potter… he’d be alo… No, no! That didn’t matter.

Forcing a vicious smile, Voldemort raised his wand and aimed at the boy - grimacing when the boy did nothing to stop him but say, “I’m sorry” for his last time.

But, Voldemort was too experienced with all of the vileness that life had to offer to let that stop him as he cast the death curse.

In the silence that followed his harsh whisper, the wait for the result of the spell seemed like an eternity, but ... eventually... Harry did crumple and fall to the aghast gasps on the light side.

Which were accompanied moments later, by the angry confused cries of the death eaters. In the months that followed, speculation ran rampant about why Voldemort was killed as well.

Only Ron had been close enough to see that instead of aiming directly at Harry, Voldemort had aimed at their joined hands --- with the intention of killing them both (or the spell would not have worked). Only Ron had been close enough to see that Harry had let his protection drop.

Only Ron realized the truth of it, a truth which he was desperately trying to submerge in the haze of firewhiskey : that it would never have come to this if anyone in the wizarding world had shown two discarded boys the simple compassion that every child should know.