Final War [4]

"KILL THEM!"

Voldemort's command sliced through the stillness. His wand moved with serpentine grace, unleashing a killing curse that blazed toward Marquas with emerald fury.

Marquas dove behind an ornate side table, feeling the ancient marble vibrate as the curse struck. The tabletop exploded in a shower of razor-sharp fragments; one sliced his cheek open, warm blood trickling down to his jaw. The copper tang of it filled his mouth as he rolled, narrowly avoiding a second green jet that scorched the priceless carpet where he'd lain a moment before.

Across the room, James found himself face-to-face with Lucius Malfoy. The blond aristocrat's silver eyes narrowed to slits, his normally perfect composure fractured by raw hatred.

"POTTER!" Lucius advanced, his dragon-hide boots soundless on the thick carpet. Candlelight gleamed off his signet ring as he raised his wand. "How fitting, I've waited years to watch you die in my home. I'll make sure your mudblood wife receives your remains... what's left of them."

James's response wasn't words but a vicious slashing motion. His cutting curse hummed through the air, a near-invisible ribbon of lethal intent that caught Lucius across his wand arm. Blood sprayed in an arc, spattering the ancestral portraits that lined the wall. A Malfoy ancestor shrieked in painted outrage as crimson droplets marred his gilded frame.

"Protego!" Lucius's shield came a fraction too late, but managed to deflect the worst of the damage. His expensive robes darkened with blood, the metallic scent adding to the room's growing miasma of sweat, fear, and scorched magic.

"You'll die for that!" Lucius snarled through clenched teeth. His face, normally a mask of aristocratic disdain, contorted with something primal. He slashed his wand in three rapid movements, unleashing not one curse but a cascade, each darker than the last. The wood paneling between them blackened and warped as James dodged.

Ten feet away, trapped in their own deadly dance, Sirius faced his cousin beside a towering bookcase filled with dark artifacts. The shelves cast zebra-stripe shadows across Bellatrix's face, giving her an even more feral appearance.

"Little cousin," she crooned, her voice a disturbing singsong that clashed with the violence of her magic. A curse left her wand that would have liquefied Sirius's internal organs had it connected. Instead, it struck a shelf of ancient tomes, which dissolved into a bubbling, noxious puddle. The stench of burning leather and something far worse filled that corner of the room.

Sirius deflected her next attack with a grunt of effort, sweat beading on his forehead. The magical backlash made his hair stand on end. "I've wanted to end you for years, Bella," he growled, abandoning defense for a blasting curse aimed not at her but at the floor beneath her feet.

The explosion sent marble fragments flying like shrapnel. Bellatrix danced away with unnerving agility, but not before a jagged piece opened a gash along her thigh. She didn't seem to notice, her eyes fever-bright with battlelust.

"The last Black standing gets the family fortune," she taunted, absentmindedly touching the wound. She examined her bloodied fingers with detached curiosity before licking them clean, her eyes never leaving Sirius. "Shall we see who truly deserves it? Who has the proper family spirit?"

At the center of the chaos, Marquas found himself in the worst position of all, directly confronting Lord Voldemort. The Dark Lord's impassive, snakelike face betrayed little, but the diary, visible now in his left hand.

"You have interfered for the last time, Face-Wearer," Voldemort said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that somehow carried over the battle. The temperature around them plummeted as he conjured a whip of magical fire that writhed like a living thing, illuminating his corpse-white features from below.

Marquas felt the weight of the basilisk fang in his inner pocket which Dumbledore give him, their one hope if they could get close enough to the diary. He deflected the flame whip with a silent shield charm, sending it cracking into a nearby cabinet. The antique furniture, probably older than Hogwarts itself, exploded in a shower of splinters and burning debris. 

"You're nothing but a frightened half-blood playing at immortality," Marquas countered, deliberately using the words that would wound Voldemort most deeply. He needed the Dark Lord angry, needed him reckless. "Tom Riddle, the orphan boy, terrified of death like a child afraid of the dark."

Voldemort went very still, more dangerous than any display of rage. Then his lipless mouth twisted in a snarl, and raw magical energy erupted from him in a concussive wave that felt like being hit by a Muggle lorry. Marquas flew backward, slamming into a marble pillar with bone-jarring force. His ribs cracked with a sound like snapping twigs, bright stars of pain bursting behind his eyes. Each breath became fire in his chest.

"I AM LORD VOLDEMORT!" The name echoed through the drawing room, resonating with such power that crystal decanters on a distant sideboard shattered in sympathy. The pale figure advanced with lethal purpose, the diary clutched protectively close while his wand wove death with every step.

The space between Marquas and Voldemort became a gauntlet of killing curses, each jet of green light forcing Marquas to move despite his injured ribs screaming in protest. The pain kept him alert, kept him alive as he cast shield after shield, each one weaker than the last as his strength ebbed.

Meanwhile, James found himself backed against the drawing room's grand windows, fighting desperately against both Lucius and Antonin Dolohov. Blood from a deep gash above his eye half-blinded him, turning the world into a crimson blur. The bitter copper taste filled his mouth as he spat blood onto the Malfoys' priceless carpet.

"Is this all the great James Potter can manage?" Dolohov's thick Russian accent cut through the chaos. His face, prematurely lined from decades of dark magic use, twisted in a mocking smile as one of his signature purple curses caught James in the shoulder.

The impact spun James halfway around, his nerves screaming as the curse began eating through muscle tissue. Gritting his teeth against the spreading numbness in his wand arm, James channeled everything he had into a wordless curse, one Sirius had found in the Black family library, technically not dark, but certainly not taught at Hogwarts.

The spell struck Dolohov square in the chest with the sound of a thunderclap. The Death Eater's eyes widened in shock a moment before he was hurled backward through an illuminated display case of cursed artifacts. Glass tinkled musically as it rained down on his still form.

"I've got plenty more," James snarled, already pivoting to parry Lucius's renewed assault. His shoulder throbbed in time with his racing heart, blood soaking through his robes and running down his arm to his fingertips. Each drop that fell sizzled against the magically charged floor.

In their corner, Sirius and Bellatrix had transformed their surroundings into an apocalyptic landscape. Bookshelves lay splintered, their ancient contents scattered and burning. The marble floor had cracked open, revealing the foundations of the manor beneath.

Blood ran freely down Sirius's left arm where a severing charm had sliced through muscle to the bone. He couldn't feel his fingers anymore, but still he fought, switching his wand to his right hand with practiced ease. Across from him, Bellatrix was hardly recognizable, half her face scorched raw from a fire spell she'd barely dodged, her wild hair singed and smoking. Yet somehow she looked more alive than ever, her remaining eye gleaming with manic enthusiasm.

"Always were weak, Sirius!" She spat a broken tooth onto the floor, blood and spittle flying from her lips as she stalked forward in a half-circle. Her movements were jerky, birdlike, unpredictable. "Couldn't stomach the rituals, couldn't embrace the family gifts. Not worthy of the Black name!"

Sirius straightened despite the pain, his aristocratic features, so similar to hers, hardening with cold fury that would have made his mother proud, had it been directed elsewhere.

"The name will die with me before I let it continue with scum like you." His voice dropped to a whisper that carried the weight of absolute conviction. "Toujours Pur? I'd rather be the last than see it twisted into what you've become, Bella."

Something flickered in her remaining eye, hurt, perhaps, or a flash of the girl she'd once been, the cousin who'd taught him constellations on the Black family estate, before she'd gone to Hogwarts and fallen under the sway of pureblood mania. Then it was gone, replaced by renewed hatred as she launched a barrage of curses that drove him back, his shields fracturing under the onslaught.

Through the chaos, Marquas struggled to his feet, tasting blood and bile as he faced Voldemort again. Each breath sent daggers of pain through his broken ribs. The Dark Lord had paused several feet away, perhaps savoring the moment before delivering what he assumed would be the final blow. The diary remained clutched in his left hand, his long white fingers caressing its cover almost tenderly.

"I've destroyed four pieces of your soul already," Marquas said, deliberately keeping his gaze on Voldemort's eyes rather than the diary. He needed a plan, an opening, anything. "The ring, the locket, the cup, the diadem. One more, and you're nothing but a memory, Tom."

Something flickered across Voldemort's inhuman features, a momentary glimpse of fear quickly masked by contempt. The air around him crackled with suppressed magic, making Marquas's skin prickle.

"You understand nothing of what I've become," Voldemort replied, his voice dropping to a sibilant whisper. "What I will become. I'll make you my Horcrux after I kill you, and you have no idea how many possibilities I'll unlock through you."

The floor beneath them vibrated suddenly. Crystal chandeliers swayed overhead, tinkling ominously. A thunderous explosion shook the manor's eastern wing, Moody's team had arrived as planned, blasting through ancient wards with coordinated precision.

Voldemort's head whipped toward the sound, his concentration broken for a crucial second. The diary in his hand momentarily forgotten as new threats registered.

Time seemed to slow. Marquas felt his awareness sharpen, pain receding as battle clarity took hold. The basilisk fang pressed against his chest where he'd secured it in an inner pocket, its weight a reminder of their one chance. His muscles tensed, gathering the last reserves of his strength.

It was the opening he needed.

With every ounce of magical energy he possessed, Marquas launched himself forward. not away from Voldemort but directly at him. The unexpected move caught the Dark Lord by surprise, his wand coming up a fraction too late.

Marquas crashed into Voldemort's thin frame with the force of desperation, driving them both against the ornate fireplace. The impact knocked the wind from his already damaged lungs, black spots dancing at the edges of his vision. Voldemort's body felt wrong against his, unnaturally cold, with skin like parchment stretched over bone, yet with coiled strength that belied his skeletal appearance. The scent of him was worse, not sweat or normal human odors, but something chemical and preserved, like ancient tombs and formaldehyde.

Marquas's hand closed around Voldemort's wrist, trying to wrest the diary from his grip. The Dark Lord's skin was cold and dry beneath his fingers, like touching a snake.