Final War [1]

Time had lost meaning in the darkness. Marquas drifted between consciousness and something approaching meditation, conserving his strength while assessing his situation with clinical detachment.

His initial attempts at magical extrication had proven futile, the debris around him was saturated with residual magic from the Department's collapse, interfering with conventional spellwork in unpredictable ways. A simple Lumos charm had produced wispy blue flames that whispered incomprehensible prophecies rather than light. A levitation spell directed at the debris had caused temporal fluctuations, aging the stone to dust in some places while reverting it to raw geological material in others.

This magical contamination made his situation exponentially more dangerous, but also potentially offered opportunities if he could properly assess the unique properties of his surroundings.

The prophecy orb continued to pulse beside him, seemingly unaffected by the chaotic magic permeating the rubble. Its persistent glow provided minimal illumination while serving as a mocking reminder of the prediction that had triggered this disaster.

The one who wears another's face shall be the Dark Lord's undoing...

Marquas had enjoyed his advantage over both Dumbledore and Voldemort, the smug satisfaction of knowing the plot while they fumbled in ignorance. He'd relished outwitting Dumbledore, whose canonical omniscience had been undermined by Marquas's foreknowledge of events from the Harry Potter books. There had been an undeniable thrill in redirecting the story, in watching the great chess master Dumbledore struggle to understand moves he couldn't anticipate.

But he'd underestimated Voldemort's perceptiveness. While focused on managing Dumbledore's growing suspicions, he'd failed to notice the Dark Lord's systematic observation of anomalies in his behavior. What seemed like isolated successes in sabotaging Death Eater operations had formed a pattern that Voldemort. with his analytical brilliance, had eventually recognized as deliberate interference.

The prophecy had merely confirmed what Voldemort had already begun to suspect: Severus Snape was not what he appeared to be.

Arrogance, Marquas acknowledged to himself. I got cocky, assuming Voldemort would follow the same oblivious path as in the books, never suspecting betrayal until too late.

Instead, the Dark Lord had been watching, noting discrepancies, assembling evidence with patient calculation until the prophecy provided the final confirmation he needed. And unlike in the books, where Voldemort had reacted to the prophecy about Harry with surgical precision, this Voldemort had responded to the threat with overwhelming force, a direct assault on the Ministry itself.

A shift in the rubble above interrupted his self-recrimination. Dust rained down as something, or someone, moved debris on the surface. Rescue workers, perhaps? Or Death Eaters still searching the ruins?

Marquas tensed, his hand tightening around his wand despite knowing how unpredictable magic was in this environment. If Voldemort had remained behind to search for him personally, his chances of survival were minimal in his current condition.

The movement above grew more deliberate, precise magical displacement of debris rather than the haphazard clearing one would expect from general rescue efforts. Whoever was searching had identified his specific location and was working methodically to reach him.

Making a swift decision, Marquas reached for the prophecy orb. If nothing else, he could prevent Voldemort from hearing the full prediction. His fingers had just closed around the smooth glass sphere when a shaft of magical light penetrated the darkness from above, illuminating his trapped form in harsh relief.

"Well, well," came Bellatrix's unmistakable voice, her silhouette appearing against the light. "Look what we've found, my Lord. A traitor in his hole, like the rat he is."

Voldemort's face appeared beside hers, inhuman features displaying cold satisfaction as he surveyed Marquas's predicament. "Severus. Or should I address you by another name entirely? The one who wears another's face, perhaps?"

Despite his dire situation, Marquas managed a dry response. "Your theatrical timing remains impeccable. Though the dialogue could use some originality."

The Dark Lord's lipless mouth curved in what might have been amusement. "Even trapped and injured, you maintain your sardonic facade. Admirable, if futile." His red eyes fixed on the prophecy orb in Marquas's hand. "I see you've located what we came for. How considerate of you to preserve it through the collapse."

With a casual gesture, Voldemort magically shifted the remaining debris pinning Marquas in place. The sudden release of pressure sent fresh pain lancing through his injured side, but he maintained his grip on both his wand and the prophecy orb through sheer determination.

"I admit to considerable curiosity," Voldemort continued conversationally, as if they were discussing an interesting academic problem rather than a life-or-death confrontation. "The changes in your magical signature. The knowledge you shouldn't possess. The strategic insights that have systematically undermined my operations. A most comprehensive deception that raises fascinating questions about your true nature."

Before Marquas could respond, Voldemort's wand flicked with serpentine speed. The spell that struck him wasn't the expected Cruciatus or killing curse, but something far more insidious, a complex diagnostic charm that penetrated magical disguises and revealed fundamental magical properties.

The magic washed over him like ice water, his body glowing briefly with his core magical signature. But instead of exposing some elaborate disguise as Voldemort clearly expected, the spell merely revealed what was already visible: Severus Snape's physical form, albeit with a magical core that displayed subtle anomalies.

Voldemort's expression shifted from anticipation to deeper curiosity. "Most interesting. Not Polyjuice. Not glamour. Not possession in the conventional sense." He studied Marquas with the clinical interest of a researcher examining a particularly unusual specimen. "Something far more fundamental. As if..."

"As if someone else entirely inhabited this body?" Marquas finished for him, deciding that partial honesty might prove more disorienting than continued deception. "Your magical diagnosis is accurate, if incomplete. Congratulations on being more perceptive than your canonical counterpart."

The term "canonical" visibly confused Voldemort momentarily, a small victory in what was otherwise a catastrophic situation. Marquas used the moment of uncertainty to assess his options, which remained severely limited. Direct magical combat was impossible in his weakened state. Escape was blocked by both Voldemort and Bellatrix. His specialized equipment was largely destroyed in the collapse.

Marquas was seething with frustration. What now? Voldemort would surely kill him, there was no doubt. Panic clawed at his mind, but then, in the midst of his despair, a reckless idea sparked. It was dangerous, far more dangerous than anything he had ever dared before. It would twist the timeline itself, unleashing consequences he couldn't even begin to predict. But if he wanted to survive, he had no choice. He had to take the risk. He still held the prophecy orb and with it, a desperate gambit.

"You've been wondering about the prophecy's meaning," Marquas said, shifting the orb subtly in his hand. "About how someone could be 'neither born to this world nor bound by its predestined paths.' About what knowledge I possess that has allowed me to systematically dismantle your carefully constructed plans."

"Enlighten me," Voldemort invited with dangerous softness.

"I know how this story is supposed to end," Marquas stated simply. "I know every Horcrux location, every strategic decision you're predisposed to make, every fatal flaw in your grand design. And I know these things because where I come from, your entire existence is fiction, a cautionary tale about the pitfalls of magical fascism and the inevitable triumph of more worthy values."

The absurdity of this claim, despite being essentially true, had the intended effect. Momentary confusion flickered across Voldemort's face, quickly replaced by cold rage at what he perceived as mockery.

"You dare—" he began, raising his wand for what would undoubtedly be a devastating curse.

It was the opening Marquas needed. With desperate precision, he slammed the prophecy orb against a shard of twisted metal beside him. The glass sphere shattered, releasing not just the ghostly figure of Trelawney reciting her prediction, but also a wave of pure prophetic magic that interacted catastrophically with the unstable magical environment around them.

Reality itself seemed to hiccup. The surrounding debris flickered between states, solid, ethereal, temporally displaced. Trelawney's spectral form expanded, her prophecy booming with supernatural resonance while fragments of other predictions released in the Department's collapse echoed and overlapped in discordant harmony.

"THE ONE WHO WEARS ANOTHER'S FACE APPROACHES..."

The magical backlash created a momentary bubble of chaotic energy centered on the prophecy's release point. Marquas seized this singular opportunity, channeling his remaining magical reserves into a desperate apparition attempt, not traditional apparition, which remained blocked by Ministry wards, but a variant he'd theorized specifically for magically compromised environments.

"NEITHER BORN TO THIS WORLD NOR BOUND BY ITS PREDESTINED PATHS..."

The last thing he saw was Voldemort's face contorted with fury as the Dark Lord recognized his intent and cast a binding spell to prevent his escape. But the chaotic magical environment interfered with the spell's propagation, slowing it just enough for Marquas to complete his desperate maneuver.

"THE DARK LORD'S NIGHTMARES MANIFEST IN HUMAN FORM..."

The world compressed around him, reality folding in ways that standard apparition never attempted. The pain was extraordinary, like being simultaneously crushed and torn apart at the molecular level. But the technique worked, propelling him through the fractured magical barriers surrounding the collapsed Department.

"HIS KNOWLEDGE SUNDERS FATE'S DESIGN..."

As consciousness faded, Marquas had one final coherent thought: the game had fundamentally changed. Voldemort now knew he faced not merely a traitor, but something entirely outside his experience, someone with knowledge that threatened everything he had built. The subtle chess match of deception and counter-deception was over.

"WHAT WAS WRITTEN SHALL BE UNWRITTEN..."

Open war had begun. And Marquas had just become its central figure, not by choice, but by prophetic decree.

"THE ONE WHO WEARS ANOTHER'S FACE SHALL BE THE DARK LORD'S UNDOING..."

The last fragments of the prophecy pursued him into darkness as he materialized at the edge of Hogwarts grounds, his broken body collapsing on the forest floor as magical exhaustion claimed him. His last conscious act was casting a weak distress signal, a modified Patronus that would alert the castle to his location without conveying specific information that might be intercepted.

Then darkness claimed him completely, the prophecy's final words echoing in his fading thoughts:

"THOUGH VICTORY DEMANDS A PRICE IN BLOOD..."