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It is battle. For all that Voldemort used to call the battles between his Death Eaters and the Order of the Phoenix glorious, after six years of war, his zest for speeches has waned. He may enjoy the sound of his own voice, but this battle will not decide the fate of the war, nor will it bring glory to his cause. It is only spellfire and chaos, bone masks and protective armor, and it is the determination in his enemy’s gaze as he strides forward, leaving his cluster of the battle to meet Voldemort at the center of the battlefield.
Voldemort breathes through the smoke in the air, watches him proceed, and feels the boredom of endless war fall away. He had never had cause to value divination, but today he is its admirer, for it has given him his worthiest opponent. Potter has grown into himself over the years, a long way away from the boy he used to be. He’s a nuisance as much as he ever was; he’s also so much more. Voldemort waits, pointer finger running along the groves of the Elder Wand.
As Potter nears him, the green of his eyes is apparent. He looks so serious, so determined, as though this battle is not simply one of many, past and future. This is nothing; and yet, in a way, it is everything. For all that this day is meaningless, there is nothing that catches Voldemort’s attention so well as Potter.
That is why he is the first to see it: an Order member, nameless and as well as faceless for one far beneath Voldemort’s concern, breaks rank to follow Potter. He is not stealthy, but he is quick, and there is a knife in his hand. Voldemort assumes his target is Dolohov, who has been irritating enough lately that Voldemort will enjoy what comes his way.
It is not to be. The man reaches for Potter, his movement fast and fluid. A snake’s strike.
The metaphor is apt.
It has been quite a long time since Voldemort has been forced to watch from another’s eyes. Inaction had not suited him, driving him to madness, and those memories return as he watches blood rush from Potter’s throat. Even if Voldemort apparates to his side, the action has already been done. He intends to do it anyway, but Granger is faster. Within the barest moment, they are gone with the crack of apparition.
The traitor continues forward. All around them, the Order flees, knowing that for today the battle is over. The war will never end.
“My lord,” the traitor says as he falls to his knees before Voldemort. “I did it for you. I understand now, who the true leader of our world should be.”
“Do you,” Voldemort murmurs. He feels far away. The knife levitates through the air, stopping only when it rests in his outstretched hand. Potter’s blood clings to it, red and fresh, and it is all that Voldemort can smell.
The knife rotates on his palm until its point faces the traitor. There is no calculation behind it, but only mindless, instinctual knowledge: that he refuses to build a future that does not include Harry Potter in some capacity.
Propelled by his magic, the knife flies forward, going straight for the heart. The traitor’s body falls to the ground. The field is silent. His Death Eaters do not dare move, or breathe, or draw his attention. Voldemort steps over the body, walking forward until he reaches the spot where Potter had been wounded. Barely visible blood spatter catches his gaze.
The war will never end.
Not until someone ends it.
Potter’s death will end the war. If he lives, Voldemort knows that he must end it himself, in a way that means never again seeing Potter mortally wounded. It is unspeakably maddening, the fact that his mortal enemy is, in fact, mortal.