Chapter Text
The Department of Mysteries was having a nervous breakdown.
Spells ricocheted down the shadowed hallways like startled fireworks, turning the air into a flickering, breathless blur. Prophecies rattled in their cases as though offended by the chaos. Somewhere in the far corner, an Unspeakable was lying face-down behind a desk, quietly rethinking their career choices.
Harry ducked as a streak of red light shot past him and shattered against a wall with the sulky hiss of a spell denied a dramatic hit. He wasn’t sure who had cast it. At this point, he wasn’t sure anyone knew who was hexing who. There had been shouting, running, and a brief but unforgettable moment where someone (he suspected Tonks) tried to subdue a Death Eater with a chair.
“Harry, left!” Sirius shouted.
Harry spun, wand up – and paused.
For one stretched-out moment, everything in the room seemed to lose interest in being normal.
The light dimmed. The air thickened. Time went wobbly.
Voldemort. Standing there. Early. Not summoned by ritual or dramatic wind, not wreathed in soul-screams or triumph – just there, like he’d stopped by to check his mail. There was a faint dusting of something on his robes, as though he’d walked past a neglected shelf. His snake-like face maintained the mild irritation of a man finding out his coupon expired.
Harry blinked. Because what else were you supposed to do when your mortal enemy shows up without warning, as though Harry had invited him for tea and a light murder?
Harry’s brain, struggling to juggle fear, shock, and the knowledge that he really needed to pee, fired one lonely neuron. One.
I should do something impressive before I die.
He didn’t spend much time thinking about what that something should be. His brain was too busy panicking, vibrating, and trying to decide whether to scream or faint. His only thought process was:
Do I know any spell that can kill a person?
Uh… I do technically know the killing curse…
It wasn’t a brave thought, nor a strategic one. It was the half-formed practicality of someone who’d just endured an hour of chaos and spotted the big red button labeled “Do Not Press.”
Before destiny could clear its throat, before Voldemort could blink, before the universe could enact any narrative restraint whatsoever–
“Avada Kedavra!”
Green light exploded in the air with a sharp, ringing snap.
Voldemort turned around in surprise at the sound of that spell.
Unfortunately for him, that meant that the spell hit him straight into his chest.
There was no flash of counter-magic. No shield. No scream. No crying mothers declaring their undying love and sacrificing themselves. Voldemort’s eyes only widened slightly, as though mildly surprised by the inconvenience of being murdered.
Then, Voldemort crumpled.
Completely.
Instantly.
Like someone had unplugged him.
Silence surged into the room so fast it seemed to knock the wind out of everyone. Even the spells stopped mid-flight, dropping uselessly to the floor.
Harry’s wand-hand trembled.
He stared at the body.
Then at the Death Eaters.
Then at the Order.
His mind offered, quietly and unhelpfully, Oops?
Sirius froze mid-duel. Remus looked like he’d aged twelve years in twelve seconds. Kingsley blinked once and reconsidered every action that led to this moment. Ron gaped. Even the Veil rustled behind them, as if whispering, What did you just do?
A Death Eater in the back lowered his wand with a soft, strangled squeak.
Harry’s mouth opened. Nothing came out. The single syllable that eventually clawed free was a weak, “Um.”
No one responded.
No one breathed.
Harry swallowed. His throat felt like sandpaper dunked in dread.
“I didn’t mean– I didn’t– I mean I did– but– it was– he–”
The silence stretched so long it developed a personality.
Then a voice broke the stillness.
“IMPOSSIBLE!”
Bellatrix Lestrange staggered forward, hair crackling with static devotion. Her eyes darted between Harry and the fallen Dark Lord. She shook her head, violently enough that a few curls attempted escape.
“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no. The Dark Lord cannot be killed. Not by him. Not by anyone. Which means…”
Her pupils dilated with the intensity of a solar eclipse.
“...this is his plan.”
Harry made a noise that deserved its own classification in magical folklore.
Bellatrix inhaled a grand, operatic breath, turning in a slow circle like a prophet in the middle of an epiphany.
“If this is His plan, then the Dark Lord isn’t actually dead. Therefore He is someone else in this room. Therefore…” She took in the corpse. Took in Harry. Then back to the corpse. Then back to Harry.
For a terrifying moment, she looked like she was performing advanced mathematics with no supervision.
And then – Harry saw it – the moment the thought bloomed in her skull.
Her face lit with manic revelation.
Bellatrix straightened immediately. She inhaled, long and sharp. The kind of inhale that belonged in an opera.
“My Lord…” she whispered, voice trembling with ecstatic awe.
Harry’s soul attempted to flee his body.
Sirius made a strangled sound. Remus muttered a soft, horrified “no.”
Harry finally managed to regain his senses, but what came out of his mouth was anything but sensible. “No– no– absolutely not– he’s right there– dead– that’s Voldemort– I’m not– I didn’t– this is– what are you–”
Bellatrix’s smile widened into something ecstatic and deeply unwell. Then, she bowed.
“My Lord, your performance is masterful.”
“MY WHAT NOW?!”
“Your performance is unmatched, my Lord! Your cunning, brilliant! Your audacity, utterly divine!”
Harry turned to Sirius, who was staring in a kind of horrified awe.
“Siri…” Harry whispered, voice trembling, “...am I having a stroke?”
Sirius made a strangled sound that was half horror, half laughter. “Pup, blink twice if you’re in trouble.”
Harry blinked so fast that he could have sent morse code to Jupiter.
Bellatrix looked thrilled.
“The deception,” she breathed. “The GENIUS. To kill your own decoy body in front of us all…”
Bellatrix rose with the operatic flourish of a deranged stage actor and threw her arms out toward the remaining Death Eaters.
“OUR LORD, everyone! STUCK in the body of a teenager. Truly tragic, but the disguise is marvelously clever!”
Harry’s mouth fell open. “...I’M NOT VOLDEMORT!”
The Death Eaters around her stared. Then slowly, reverently, they followed her gaze to Harry.
Lucius gasped, “He planned this.”
Rabastan whispered, stunned, “He has transcended death.”
Another murmured, “The Dark Lord… masquerading as Potter. Layers upon layers…”
The Death Eaters’ reverent murmuring swelled like a very confused congregation. Harry stood trapped in the eye of the storm, wand limp at his side, silently begging someone, anyone, to explain the situation to reality.
No one did.
Kingsley opened his mouth, shut it again, then pointed vaguely at Harry, the corpse, then at Bellatrix. “This is… this is not in the handbook.”
Remus pressed one hand to his face, slowly dragging it downward until only his eyes peeked over the edge of existential fatigue. “Harry. Please. Just once. Once in your life. Could you do something that only causes a normal amount of panic?”
“Harry James Potter…” Hermione said, in a voice stringing together terror, affection, and the early symptoms of a breakdown, “...what on earth did you do?”
“Nothing! I mean– I did something but I didn’t mean to do something…”
“You used an Unforgivable!”
“I panicked!”
Kingsley strode forward, lowering his voice. “Potter, did you… feel anything? When you cast it?”
Harry stared. “Yes. I felt ‘I don’t want to die.’ Very powerful emotion. Highly motivating.”
“Anything dark?” Kingsley asked gently.
“JUST THE ROOM AROUND ME BECAUSE THE LIGHTS WERE EXPLODING!”
“We should test him,” someone muttered.
Hermione spun around. “NO ONE IS TESTING MY FRIEND TO SEE IF HE’S A DARK LORD!”
Ron nodded firmly. “Yeah, that seems rude.”
Bellatrix beamed. “They’re frightened of your power, my Lord."
“This is mad,” Ron stated. “Absolutely mental. Harry’s not Voldemort. Harry can barely remember to tie his shoelaces on time– no offense, mate.”
Sirius sighed, realising that someone’s got to check, and grabbed Harry’s shoulders, pulling him close. “Pup. Kid. Listen. Tell me truthfully. Are you Voldemort?”
“NO!”
“Okay! Good! Lovely! Just checking!”
“YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE TO CHECK!”
“AND YET,” Sirius said, gesturing broadly at the room full of delusional Death Eaters, “HERE WE ARE.”
A clatter echoed from the hallway.
Everyone turned.
Neville Longbottom burst into the room, wand raised, face covered in dust, breathing hard like he’d run through four different disasters to get here. “Harry! I found my wand! And also Bellatrix is somewhere and someone exploded a door and—”
He stopped.
Not slowly.
Instantly.
His eyes tracked from the stunned Order… to Voldemort’s very, very dead body… to the Death Eaters kneeling… to Harry standing in the middle of this mess.
“…I– uh– it feels like I’ve missed something.”
Harry stared at him with the wild, glassy look of someone begging the universe for an undo button.
“Neville,” Harry said weakly, “I think everything has gone horribly wrong.”
Neville blinked twice and then asked, “...Is Voldemort dead?”
Silence. Again.
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes.”
Neville took a short moment to process that and then walked towards Harry. “Right, and–”
Bellatrix shrieked and lunged toward him with a noise like an ecstatic kettle. “DO NOT APPROACH THE DARK LORD!”
Neville yelped and nearly dropped his wand.
He turned quickly to Harry, “Why did she call you that?” He squeaked.
“Because…” Harry said miserably, “...they think I’m Voldemort.”
Neville considered this. Then he blinked. Then sighed. Then nodded with the serene acceptance of someone used to walking into pure nonsense.
“Ah.”
“‘AH’?! Neville, what does ‘ah’ mean? Why is ‘ah’ your reaction?!” Harry demanded.
Neville shrugged, cheeks a little pink. “Well… your life does tend to do that thing where events… escalate.”
“NEVILLE,” Harry whined.
“Well, why do they think that, then?”
“Because they’re all completely unhinged!” Ron supplied.
“I AM DEVOTED!” Bellatrix shrieked.
“You are clinically worrying,” Hermione corrected.
Harry put his head in his hands and screamed.
Sirius stepped in, draping a hand over Harry’s shoulder with the exhausted authority of a godfather who has accepted that the universe is powered by nonsense.
“Alright,” Sirius announced, “everyone breathe. Harry’s a teenager, Voldemort’s dead, and nothing makes sense. This is fine. We can… fix this.”
Remus muttered, “Can we?”
Kingsley muttered, “Unclear.”
Tonks muttered, “Probably not.”
Ron muttered, “We’re doomed.”
Hermione muttered, “I need a quill.”
Neville muttered, “I walked into the wrong room,” and tried to back away.
Harry closed his eyes.
He wished the floor would open up beneath him.
He wished the Veil would swallow him whole.
He wished he could travel back five minutes and slap the Killing Curse right out of his own hand.
Instead, he opened his eyes to find Bellatrix watching him with the eager devotion of a dog expecting a biscuit.
“My Lord,” she whispered, “your orders?”
Harry wondered if it was socially acceptable to just lay down next to Voldemort and never respond to anything ever again. For professional reasons of course.