The End of Voldemort

The battlefield was eerily quiet now, save for the labored breaths of Lord Voldemort. He lay sprawled on the scorched earth, his body trembling with exhaustion and pain. Harry stood over him, an unyielding figure bathed in the glow of otherworldly power. Voldemort's crimson eyes, once filled with arrogance and fire, now flickered with desperation.

His wand, his Horcruxes, his immortality—gone. All of it destroyed by the boy, no, the god, who now loomed above him with an infuriatingly calm smirk.

"How…?" Voldemort rasped, his voice cracking like dry parchment. His mind raced, clawing for an answer, a plan, anything that would undo this nightmare. "How could you… you… overpower me? I am Lord Voldemort. I am eternal!"

Harry tilted his head, his glowing, nebula-like eyes narrowing with something between amusement and pity. "Eternal?" he echoed mockingly, his voice as smooth and deadly as a blade. "Tom, you were never more than a man desperately afraid of death. And now… look at you."

Harry gestured casually, conjuring a mirror from thin air. Voldemort saw his reflection and recoiled in horror. His once pale, snake-like features were deteriorating, black veins crawling across his skin like cracks in broken porcelain. His crimson eyes were dull and clouded, no longer holding the spark of life—or power.

Voldemort's thoughts churned, a storm of anger, hatred, and despair. How had this boy, this child of a filthy Mudblood, risen so far above him? Every calculated move, every spell, every life sacrificed for his ambition—rendered meaningless in the face of Harry Potter's ascension.

"I am a master of magic," he thought desperately. "I am the Dark Lord. He cannot defeat me. He cannot—"

But even as he tried to will the words into truth, his body betrayed him, trembling under the weight of Harry's presence. It wasn't just power—though that was immense—it was something far worse. Harry exuded inevitability, like death itself made flesh.

Harry crouched beside Voldemort, his grin widening as he leaned closer. The glow of his eyes illuminated Voldemort's paling face, and for the first time, the Dark Lord felt the true weight of his own mortality.

"You know," Harry said, his tone almost conversational, "for someone who feared death so much, you really made a mess of things. Horcruxes? Splitting your soul? Honestly, Tom, you should have done some research. If you'd just accepted death, you wouldn't be here… fading into nothing."

Voldemort's lips curled into a snarl, though the effort cost him. "You… dare lecture me?" he spat, his voice trembling. "You know nothing of power!"

Harry chuckled, the sound deep and resonant, sending a shiver through Voldemort's broken body. "Oh, Tom. I don't just know power—I am power. And death…" He stood, spreading his arms wide as his aura flared. "Death answers to me now."

Voldemort's mind reeled. "Master of Death?" The realization struck like a hammer. The boy—no, the being—standing before him wasn't merely a wizard. He was something beyond human comprehension, a divine force that had made death itself his servant.

Harry raised his hand, and Voldemort's body was lifted into the air, writhing helplessly against the invisible grip. Tendrils of black energy snaked around him, tearing at his soul, peeling away the fragments of his existence layer by layer.

"Please…" Voldemort choked, his voice barely audible. His pride warred with his survival instinct, but the pain overwhelmed him. "Spare me…"

Harry's expression darkened, his eyes hard and unyielding. "Spare you? After all the lives you've destroyed? After the terror you've unleashed on the world?" He leaned closer, his voice a whisper that carried like thunder. "No, Tom. You don't get mercy. You get what you deserve."

With a flick of his wrist, Harry summoned a swirling vortex of darkness. Voldemort's essence, the fractured remnants of his soul, was torn from his decaying body and drawn into the void. He screamed—a sound of pure anguish that echoed across the battlefield and reverberated in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, where students and teachers watched in stunned silence.

The vortex shifted, revealing an image of Hades' domain: a bleak, endless expanse of torment. Harry's voice cut through the cacophony of Voldemort's cries. "Say hello to Hades for me. I'm sure he'll find a fitting eternity for you."

As the last fragments of Voldemort's soul were consumed by the vortex, his body disintegrated into ash, carried away by the wind. The battlefield was silent once more. Harry turned to the projection still running in the Great Hall, addressing the gathered students and staff.

"It's over," he said simply.

The room erupted into cheers and applause, a wave of relief washing over everyone present. But Rita Skeeter's quill never stopped moving. She was already crafting her next article, one destined to be her magnum opus.

Excerpt from her previous works flashed in her mind as inspiration:

"Voldemort: The Coward of Darkness."

"The Dark Lord's Greatest Weakness? Fear."

"Harry Potter: The Boy Who Rose Above Death."

She smirked as she wrote, already imagining the headline: "Voldemort the Clown: How Harry Potter Turned the Dark Lord into a Laughingstock Before Sending Him to Eternal Torment."

Harry turned away from the battlefield, his laughter ringing out—not cruel or mocking, but triumphant and strangely calm. It wasn't the laughter of a man gloating over his victory. It was the laughter of someone who had faced death, mastered it, and come out stronger on the other side.

The projection faded, leaving the students and teachers in awe. The legend of Voldemort was over, replaced by the undeniable truth: Harry Potter was now a force beyond reckoning, a living god who had reshaped the very fabric of life and death.

And in the depths of Hades' realm, Voldemort's screams echoed, a fitting end for the one who had once sought to escape death but had instead found eternal damnation.

The atmosphere in Hades' realm was exactly what one might expect—dark, ominous, and filled with the faint echoes of tormented souls. The River Styx bubbled and gurgled ominously as boats floated lazily across its black waters. The great palace of Hades loomed above, its dark towers reaching into an eternal twilight sky. It was a realm designed to break even the most defiant of spirits.

Unfortunately for Lord Voldemort, it was also ruled by Hades.

And Hades was in a particularly good mood today.

Voldemort, or rather what remained of him, was dragged unceremoniously by two towering skeletal guards into the throne room. His essence flickered faintly, barely holding together after Harry's divine intervention had shredded him. He had no legs, and his arms looked more like melting shadows.

The throne room itself was a mix of intimidating grandeur and… questionable taste. Flames licked up the walls, eerie green and blue lights illuminated vast statues of tortured souls, and the floor was polished obsidian, so shiny that Voldemort could see his own pathetic reflection. He hated it.

At the center of it all sat Hades, leaning lazily on his throne with a smirk that would have put Harry Potter to shame. Beside him, Cerberus lounged like an oversized lapdog, one head chewing on a glowing bone, another snoring loudly, and the third watching Voldemort with a curious tilt of its massive head.

"Well, well, well," Hades drawled, straightening up and clasping his hands together. "If it isn't the self-proclaimed 'Dark Lord.' Or, should I say…" He leaned forward, grinning. "Dork Lord."

Voldemort glared—or at least, he tried to. Without proper eyes or a fully functioning face, it was more of a dark blob quivering angrily. "Hades," he hissed, his voice echoing weakly. "Release me from this wretched place. I am Lord Voldemort! I demand respect!"

Hades blinked, then burst into laughter so loud it caused the entire throne room to shake. Even Cerberus stopped gnawing on his bone to snicker, his middle head letting out a wheezing chuckle.

"Respect?" Hades gasped between laughs. "Oh, Tommy boy, you're in my domain now. Respect isn't exactly on the menu. But hey, if it makes you feel better, I've got something special just for you!"

With a snap of his fingers, Hades conjured a mirror in front of Voldemort. But this wasn't just any mirror—it was enchanted to show Voldemort at his most humiliating moments.

The first image appeared: Voldemort getting slapped around by a baby Harry Potter in Godric's Hollow.

"Ah, the good old days," Hades mused. "Nothing like getting defeated by a diaper-wearing wizard, eh?"

The next image flickered into view: Voldemort, bright pink robes and clown nose in full glory, screaming as Harry Potter destroyed his Horcruxes one by one.

"Classic Potter move," Hades said, wiping a fake tear from his eye. "You really leaned into that whole 'dark and terrifying' thing, didn't you? But let's be honest, you're more of a comedic tragedy."

Voldemort screeched in frustration. "This is an outrage! I am a master of magic, a conqueror of death—"

"—a loser at life," Hades interrupted, finishing the sentence for him.

With another snap of his fingers, Hades summoned a swarm of tiny imps, each carrying a miniature replica of Nagini, Voldemort's beloved snake.

"They're your biggest fans," Hades explained with a grin. "They just want to cuddle."

The imps swarmed Voldemort, poking and prodding his essence with their little toy snakes. Every time one poked him, he let out an annoyed growl.

"This is ridiculous!" Voldemort shouted, flailing uselessly as the imps continued their assault.

"Oh, you think this is bad?" Hades leaned back in his throne, a wicked smile on his face. "Wait until karaoke night. I hear Bellatrix is scheduled to perform her rendition of 'I Will Always Love You' tonight. And guess who gets front-row seats?"

Voldemort's shadowy form seemed to shrink in horror.

"And one last thing," Hades said, snapping his fingers again. A parchment appeared in front of Voldemort, detailing his new job.

"Congratulations!" Hades said cheerfully. "You've been promoted to Head Janitor of the Underworld! Your duties include cleaning Cerberus's… output, shining my throne, and maintaining the lava pits. Don't worry, you'll get plenty of breaks. By that, I mean none."

Voldemort glared at the contract, his nonexistent hands twitching. "You can't make me do this."

"Oh, I can and I will," Hades replied with a wink. "Welcome to eternity, Tom."

As Voldemort was dragged off by the imps to begin his first shift, Hades called after him, "Hey, Tommy boy! Don't forget to smile! After all, you're a real killer at parties!"

Cerberus barked in agreement, and Hades leaned back in his throne, thoroughly satisfied.

"You know," he muttered to himself, "this job never gets old."