Grimmly Determined

Disclaimer: I do not own RWBY or Harry Potter. That right goes to Rooster Teeth and J. respectively. The lucky skunks.

"He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you." Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil.

Chapter 1

"I had thought I had seen all the horrors that War, the dreaded Red Rider with his sword of Ruin at his side, could wreak on this world. Fathers killing daughters, mothers torturing sons. Bloated and rotten bodies of children stacked high while those stilling living foraged on the pile, devouring the rotten meat of their own species in an insane desperation to survive, morales thrown completely out the window.

I had seen entire towns wiped out in blasts of power, removing all those who dwelled there from existence in a moment. All because someone wanted something to laugh at.

I had heard the insane and gleeful laughter of monsters wearing human skin as they delighted in causing pain to those they saw as inferior, as mere animals, despite sharing the same blood.

All of these horrors and more I saw in the War, and I thought that nothing could shock me more...

Then I met the Grimm."

Excerpt of the First Entry of Volume One in the 'Journals of Huntsman Hadrian Potter-Black'.

London,

England,

Earth.

Explosions rang out and various colours of light beams shot through the rubble of what had been the London branch of Harrod's beneath the pouring rain.

"Curse you, boy!" A voice shrieked before it's fired another barrage of colourful lights from a stick of yew a little over a foot long, it's anger and hatred for the one it addressed clear for any who were foolish enough to be close to the one the voice belonged to at that moment.

The object of the voice's ire dodged a sickly yellow beam of light, rolling in the mud and rubble to avoid the jet of light. Eyes like emerald fire glanced back at the broken section of wall that had been hit instead of him, and couldn't but grimace and be silently relieved as he saw the stone and mortar melt like soft wax, eaten away by the acidic corruption of the yellow light.

'Wonderful,' the young man thought sarcastically before the hairs on the back of his neck flared, making throw himself into a roll as his instincts screamed.

White hot fire scorched the air and ground where he had been previously, the rain not dulling the unearthly flames a jot and creating a scalding steam.

"Enough of this shite," the youth muttered in annoyance before he sprinted out of his hiding spot, an unearthly emerald orb of power appearing in each of his fists. The palm sized emeralds embedded in plates of metal on the back of his fingerless gauntlets surging and intensifying the power he had summoned.

He flew across the slippery rubble, never loosing balance, as another barrage of hateful light rained down, tearing the air asunder and mixing with the bellowing roars of thunder and lightning overhead.

"Scurrying like the cowardly little rat that you are, Potter?" The youth's attacker called mockingly.

The youth named Potter just mentally his assailant the finger in reply before releasing his own barrage.

He dropped low, controlling his skidding and sliding in the mud, and as he turned around, raised the palms of his gauntlets in the direction that the voice came from and let loose.

The air seemed to shatter and the water, whether it be rain or puddle, followed, violently bursting apart and away from him. The earth beneath him rocked but he managed to keep his feet with the skill of long practice. And the balls of emerald energy, looking like obscene blendings of fire and smoke, shot from his palms with the force of thousand cannons.

One went low to the ground, making a buzzing roar as it tore through air and wall alike to reach it's designated target, flying faster than most of the jets of light created by Potter's assailant. In it's wake was left debris and disaster, emerald fires burning alight on stone and wood both with equal impunity when it passed.

Then it struck a large pile of debris, a shattered wall and the barely standing portion of what had been an upper class multi-storey department store. Potter's emerald orbs gleamed maliciously as, a moment before his orb struck home, he saw a pale face with red eyes up on the fourth floor.

Kra-BOOOOOOOM!

The orb exploded violently, shattering the night air like a bomb from the Blitz. Rubble was vaporised, reduced to less than dust, in the face of the detonation. The rubble which somehow managed to survive was blown away, making improvised shrapnel. Thankfully Potter didn't need to worry about that, the force was directed in such a manner as to be focused forward. Forward toward his foe.

Potter waste time sticking around, sprinting toward a new position. Old Snake Face wouldn't have been taken out by that explosion. The bastard had too many tricks up his sleeve to call up and experience under his belt to be eliminated by an improvised shrapnel bomb. He would have been killed off ages ago by himself if that was all it took.

Potter could hope that the bastard was more than a little maimed though.

Flashes of light raining from above, targeting his previous position, knocked away that small hope.

Potter smirked slightly in his new position though, as his foe kept 'bringing the rain' on his previous spot. The old bastard wasn't one to dirty himself in a hunt. He liked to take the high ground, to be king and God of all he surveyed, raining down divine punishment on the bugs below him. He followed the 'Wizard in the Tower' school of magical combat. Taking up a high position and fortifying it, wards and traps and guards abounding, and made his enemies come to him across the killing field of open land around his home, easy pickings for the Wizard in his Tower.

Wizards who followed such a path were arguably some of the most powerful, their magic levels several cuts above the rest and, in extreme cases, able to cast spells with enough power to rival the Hiroshima bomb. They also often had a wide range of spells at their disposal, their isolated position in their metaphorical Tower, aloof from the lower peons, encouraging the pursuit of knowledge, forbidden and not, and a great deal of experimentation with little regards to morality.

For all their power, however, they still had weaknesses.

To almost a man, they disdained close combat, confident that their magic would be able to fend of any of their foes, and thus were like glass cannons. If one could get into close combat with one, prevent them from casting their 'artillery' spells, ensure that any minions the bastard had were unable to come to his aid and succeed in removing the wizard from his Tower, then they were generally able to be taken down successfully. Not easily, but successfully.

Another weakness, one that Potter shamelessly took advantage of, was their sheer arrogance.

They believed that they were above others, destined to rule and command, and hated others that challenged. They saw themselves as smarter. And, while many of them were indeed intelligent, they often lacked the real life experiences that would allow what they learnt from their massive libraries to be shown and used in practice. It made them incredible chess players, but also made them for horrible military tacticians.

A classic example would be what was happening with Snake Face now. The old bastard thought that he would still be the same position he had been as he pressed the attack, just as the old bastard would have done.

However, as any half decent military strategist could tell, attacking continuously from one avenue was just asking to get your arse blindsided and killed. Especially in small, highly manoeuvrable, forces combat like a no holds barred, one on one, duel. Speed and movement, never standing still for longer than you needed to, was life in those types of battles.

An attribute that Potter was known for.

Another barrage of light smashed down on his previous position, shattering the low wall to pieces and exposing the lack of his presence there.

Potter smirked as he raised his left gauntlet, revelling in the shriek of anger high above. Seems the no nosed madman wasn't having a good day.

Time to make it worse.

Emerald sparks danced over his gauntlet as he clenched into a fist suddenly, rotated it ninety degrees, and extended his thumb down in sign that would familiar to those in the Ancient Roman circuses and triggered his magic.

And the world took an emerald cast as the second ball of power, the one he had sent towards the skies rather than at the gutted remains of Harrods, descended from on high, like a comet or a falling star, towards the pin-pointed position of his foe (a simple task considering the visible jets of light that the bastard fired.).

The thunderous sound of impact completely dwarfed the previous one he had made, practically erasing anything within the vicinity of the now utterly destroyed remains of the department store. The rain was shoved aside, blowing horizontally rather than vertically, as if swatted by an angry giant, and, far above, for the first time in a month, he could see the low slung and heavy clouds part, to see a small section of the night sky. He smiled slightly as he easily recognised the Orion constellation and the his hound, Sirius, beside, shining brightly, before the clouds regathered ed their strength, folding over the dark skies once more.

An omen? A sign? He didn't care, nor did he believe in such nonsense even others that did believe in such things had forced him into this predicament, but he would take all the help he could get.

He was facing someone who had enough power to level Dublin, after all.

He rolled from his position and was up and sprinting west, towards where he knew that the sold Snake had vanished to, the air saturated with enough of his power that he could feel the very different presence of his foe just at the edge of it. A presence that was filled with hatred and rage and, he smirked wildly, pain.

Within the first step, his body shimmered, rippled, becoming as transparent as pure and clean water, a rarity nowadays after Snake Face had shattered the divide.

Then he vanished.

"Half-blood wretch!" Voldemort hissed to himself, cursing his youthful foe, sounding like a ball of angry serpents, as he ran his red glowing wand down the left side of his torso, the scent of roasting pork and the hiss and crackle of burning fat following in it's wake, cauterising and cleansing an open wound inflicted by that Emerald Comet spell that the cowardly son of a mudblood had used. It had only his skill and speed with apparition that he had managed to dodge the spell as much as he had.

He hadn't expected that delayed spell. He had thought that the brat had used it in the frontal assault on his position. The sly little shit had screened it's path into the air behind the billowing and expanding explosion spell he had used.

The son of Merope had to give the little bastard props for that little trick. It hadn't killed him, but it would make moving around difficult for a month or so. Maybe only a week if he managed to kill the boy, finally, and drain his power for his own.

He cussed again, this time at the boy's luck. He always seemed to find that nigh non-existent chance for victory or survival and use it. It seemed to even extend to the boy surviving the Killing Curse...for the second time!

The first time he put down to the Mudblood Evans somehow managing to pull off a ritual of protection, a life ended for a life extended. She had offered herself three times in the place of the boy before he finally had enough and cut her down. Three was a powerful number in magic and, along with her willing sacrifice, had probably fuelled the spell.

The second time he had the boy dead to rights, cornered like a trapped rat, on the Halloween after the brat's fifth year. The boy had been almost filthy, covered in grime, sweat, dirt and dust, obviously having been living in the wild for quite a while, wearing only a silver amulet with a small blood ruby in it's centre attached to a fine silver chain around his neck that hung down to just over the where his heart would be behind his pale flesh, an Invisibility Cloak that had belonged to the brat's father and tattered black leather pants. The boy's wand had been firmly in his grasp and pointed at him, with his face a mask of determination and resignation.

The boy had known that he couldn't get away, that he knew he would lose and die, but he wouldn't go like a dog, but like a lion.

As much as Voldemort despised and hated the boy, in his blackened heart and soul he couldn't help but find the smallest mark of respect for the brat. Few were they who were able to meet his eyes unflinchingly and had the resolve to strike at him, knowing what the cost would ultimately be.

The exchange had been brief. There was no room for the boy to move in the small alley and Voldemort had been blocking the only physical way out. A single spell was fired by each of them. The boy's Disarming Spell, it's power easily matching any of his Inner Circle's, was easily dodged, the move practically telegraphed to the Dark Lord who had won several Duelling Tournaments under a handful of pseudonyms in his years of discovery, with a simple step and a roll of the shoulder.

His own volley of the Killing Curse had not been so easy for the boy to dodge. He tried well enough, and made a decent attempt, but all it did in the end was let the hood of his cloak fall in front face before the spell impacted, ironically, the mark he had left on the boy when he was but an infant.

The sound of a slumping body, a corpse, was then clearly heard by the Dark Lord.

He had frowned a moment, slightly disappointed at the ease of his success. There had been no elaborate plan or convoluted scheme that would result in the boy's death. It had been only mere happenstance that he had encountered the boy in a part of the ruins of London and he had seized the opportunity.

He had made sure the brat was dead and wasn't just playing possum, the Human Revealing charm coming up negative, showing that life had fled from the boy's invisible form.

He had then turned away and left the body where it lay. Let the scavengers and ragpickers have their day with the boy's body. The boy no longer had anything he wanted. It would be the only respect he would give he fallen foe by not defiling the corpse and presenting it to the world at large as a symbol of his superiority.

He regretted that decision less than a year later.

He shook his head. Now wasn't the time to dwell on such thoughts, now was the time to finally eradicate the little pest, the constant thorn in his side.

Twitch of his wand and the ground shifted and warped, the pile of rubble on top of it shaking, before dying down and stilling. A nasty little surprise for the little shit when he finally turned up.

Voldemort rose to his feet, his wand twitching and twisting all the way. Invisible spells striking the ground, the large puddles, piles of refuse and stone and mortar from ruined stores and buildings, and even the air itself. With each step he made, more and more spells poured from his wand, claiming his territory and creating his Tower.

He knew the little bastard of a Half-blood would be coming. He would just need to have a little patience and then he would be able to remove the final remaining piece on the board that stood against him before moving on to better things.

Standing rigidly atop a rubble mound of stone and mortar, his red eyes glared into the rainy night, disdainfully ignoring the sight of the ruins that had once been London. He cared little for this little mudborn city and the ugly wretches that called it home for whatever insipid reason that entered their feeble minds. Once Potter was removed, he would move to the final stages of his plans that would now be unstoppable.

Such was the power of a Wizard King.

Harry James Potter, last legacy of the Potter Family and Head of the Black Family, eyed the rubble strewn street carefully under the cover of one of his most potent and useful gifts.

The ability had originally belonged to a singular object, an Invisibility Cloak that had been in his sire's family for generation upon generation, passed from father to eldest son time and again. It was unique among all other such items because it had never once lost it's abilities, never fraying or the supposed charms and spells woven into it decaying. It had been a long held belief of the various Potters over the years, according to the few journals of his paternal family he had been able to read, that it had a Magnus Opus, a Masterwork of a Magical Artisan who had dedicated their life in creating this unparalleled item, given to the Potter Family as grateful payment for a great deed that they had performed for the artisan.

As imaginative and outlandish as that sounded, the true origins of the Cloak was far more unbelievable.

In actual fact, the item had been the Cloak of Death itself, given to their ancestor for the primal force as a supposed gift for his prowess in magic. It was able to hide the wearer even from the eyes of Death, the original master of the piece of watery cloth. However, the gifts of beings older than man given to mortals are never so simple, nor without price.

Something that Harry had found out when the second of his foe's death spells had struck him while he was wearing it.

Mentally gave himself a knock to the head, jarring his mind back to the present. Now wasn't the time to get lost in his head.

Unseen and undetectable to magic or mortal, he looked around at the rubble strewn street. Massive potholes in the ruined asphalt lead into the massive pipes and drains beneath the road and tumbled buildings had strewn their materials across footpaths and even the road. A large tree still stood proudly upon the footpath, even if it's leaves sagged and branches seemed cracked and old, the footpath around it's base was cracked and broken by the roots that had managed to emerge.

And, once more, surveying it all from a lofty perch atop a massive pile of rubble, was Voldemort, his keen crimson gaze darting back and forth.

He grunted softly in irritation. It seemed that the bastard was able to create his Tower quicker than he had expected. Great~.

He frowned slightly as his emerald eyes focused on the area, seeing more than just the physical surface. The place was absolutely saturated in the bastard's magic. In the earth and stone, the air and water, even that damned tree had been bespelled.

It was going to an absolute nightmare trying to get at the bastard and the two path spell trick wouldn't work again, not this soon. The snake faced murderer had erected enough wards and other spells to prevent it from happening and would be on the lookout for it. Though, he smiled unseen as he noticed slightly hunched stance the bastard was taking, it seemed that even if he had survived it, he hadn't got away unscathed.

Despite the satisfaction he had at wounding the snake, it still didn't help him solve the problem at getting to him. Voldemort was, unquestionably, the absolute monster, in both senses of the term, with regards to 'artillery' spells. He had the range, he had the power. Unless Harry could get up close without being detected (an exceeding difficult proposition even with his Cloak on. He was willing to bet his arse that some of the spells Voldemort set up would be able detect him, albeit indirectly, but that would all that was needed for him to unload veritable Armageddon in his direction. The snake didn't give a shit about collateral damage.) he would be hit by the six foot ICBM in snake form, called Voldemort, full in the face.

Not a desirable proposition or outcome.

He wasn't able to just go around anyway. The smart bastard had placed himself in just such a way that, unless they could fly, his adversaries (ie Potter) would be forced to come at him from the street level and through the no doubt trapped rubble, a powerful ward ensured that, even if it also locked Voldemort in place atop that pile of rubble, a balance for the creating a powerful ward.

He also made flying absolute suicide with the precision detection spells on the fucking rain, of all things! Anything that stopped the rain from reaching the ground, the snake would know about it and then it would be like duck shooting for the Tower Wizard.

Thankfully, the range of that rain detection spell seemed to be limited otherwise Harry already would have been scrambling.

He growled lowly, his emerald eyes burning for a moment before he managed to quell his temper. He had few options on how to proceed and all were fraught with more peril than he liked. Don't get him wrong, he would go through with them if he had to to ensure that snake face bit the big one, permanently this time, but he would like to come out of this whole debacle alive.

Not for the first time, nor likely the last, he cursed the senility and secretiveness of Dumbledore for letting everything reach this point instead of putting his foot down to stop it. It had forced him to pick up the shattered pieces in order to try and make some sense of it all.

One option he had was taking the Cloak to a higher level, pushing more of his magic into it in order for it's true nature to emerge. It would definitely get him within range to strike at Voldemort and avoid the layer upon layer of traps the bastard used, but the True State of the Cloak chewed up his magic faster than his semi-porcine cousin Dudley on a packet of crisps. Crossing even the relatively small distance between the two of them would take a good forty percent of his current reserves. Reserves that he would need to fight the bastard, especially in the heart of his own Tower.

He also ran the risk of falling to the curse of the Cloak if he lifted it to that state. As he had thought before, 'never so simple, nor without price'.

The second option was, simply, speed.

By that he meant not just able to move quickly from one place to another, but True Speed. Where the world slows down to a crawl and one could count the individual beats of a bees wings as they watched them in seeming slow motion. Where one can accomplish many things, like composing a sonnet, reading a book, writing a book, in the time it takes for a clock's second hand to tick, while seeming like, to them, that it took hours, days, weeks or even months and years.

Harry wasn't anywhere near that ultimate level, where time and space had no meaning, nor was he ever likely to attain that God-like state, but he could still move at a blistering pace, an unseen blur to many.

If he went fast enough, pushed his body and magic to the limits, he could be within striking range with his gauntlets before snake shit had managed to activate his defences or cut loose with a spell powerful enough to turn the Potter scion into salsa.

Again, this had consequences of it's own. His body would possibly only have a minute to a minute and a half to fight at full strength physically, as his magic would be devoured even worse than if he used the True Cloak, before it started collapsing around him and making him a sitting duck for Voldemort to eliminate, and he was confident that he could eliminate the powerful wizard within that time frame.

Not to mention he wouldn't put it past the vindictive bastard to put a retribution curse on his traps, making them all target the one that had slain their creator should he somehow die and, with Harry's weakened state, would probably end up torn apart anyway. Something that he wanted to prevent if at all possible.

He hunched his invisible but bare shoulders, squatting on the ground as he thought, never taking his burning eyes off of the figure atop the pile of rubble.

'Let's go over his strengths and weaknesses again,' he thought, 'he's hellishly powerful, packs a magical punch like a nuke, is a murderous bloodthirsty killer, believes that he is above everything else, is not adept at close quarters combat, has a great desire to string my guts over a thorn bush and invite some crows whilst I am kept alive, and is a Tower mage par excellence.'

He sat still for a moment more before shaking his head disgustedly at himself. He was drawing a complete blank on a course of action that wouldn't result in his painful death, win or lose.

A scrabbling noise, accompanied by squeaking, made him look back around the corner, his nose curling in disgust as he saw the cause of the commotion, a couple of mangy rats, before his face suddenly locked up as his mind stumbled on a possible idea.

Harry James Potter grinned a wicked grin, one that his own sire had crossing his face whenever he was planning a prank of epic proportions and that the Hogwarts Professors who taught him all feared equally.

Harry withdrew back around the corner and began to plot.

Lord Voldemort, born Tom Marvolo Riddle, scowled with impatience and slight apprehension.

The damned brat wasn't here.

An odd occurence as he knew that the Potter sprog's ability to sense magical energies, even from large distances, was quite acute and his speed was nothing to take lightly. Combined with the boy's own desire to tear him apart (not that he could, he assured himself) for various so-called crimes (he preferred to call them community service. He did the world a favour removing the trash, even when it was still alive.) and Gryffindor tendencies and you had the recipe for a rash and violent barbarian, one that could easily be taken down with the appropriate spells.

And yet the little bastard wasn't anywhere to be seen!

He frowned to himself and flicked his wand gently, extending the reach of the Revealing Rain spell, his own adaption of a spell from the Orient, just a bit further. Perhaps the boy was currently observing him, looking for any weaknesses, outside of the current influence of his Tower?

Even the dumbest of animals didn't rush in, after all.

The constant rain took on a slightly bluer hue as his magic became more invested in the spell, making it look in the dark night like it was underwater, and filled with the small darting creatures that lived in those deep dark depths.

The reach extended to just past the next row of buildings around him when he felt a sudden emptiness, an interruption between the rain and the ground. An emptiness that seemed to be moving.

His scarlet eyes narrowed and his thin pale lips curved into a serpentine smile of malicious glee.

His wand snapped out, a ball of lightning shooting across his killing field and smashing into, and through, the weakened wall of a clothing store in order to reach the cause of the emptiness.

Bricks and wood shattered, clothing strewn high and far from the resulting explosion, even as the lightning splashed a flowed into the wet morass of puddles and mud at the epicentre, creating a crackling web of power and pain to any who would have been foolish enough to step within range.

It was one of his fastest and most accurate spells. Lightning, the wrath of the Divine, given form and purpose before being sent against the fool who had dared to challenge him. It would have killed the majority of wizards or witches with a single blow.

His foe, unfortunately, wasn't a normal being, let alone a wizard, by any stretch of the imagination.

Voldemort was therefore prepared for the retaliation.

A swarm of emerald balls of fire, each no bigger than a fist, shot out of the dust cloud, that had been made by his own spell, towards the snake like wizard, homing in directly on his position, only to explode harmlessly on a smoky silver Shield Spell.

"Pathetic!" Voldemort called mockingly in the direction the spell came from, his wand idly extended to keep his shield up, "That was absolutely pathetic, Potter! What would your father say about using such a weak spell?!"

The boy's apparent response was an identical barrage of the fireballs being fired from a slightly different position, which in turn met the same shield for the same amount of damage. Meaning none.

Voldemort barked a laugh as he activated his traps in order to greet his foe.

Rubble shifted and grated, grinding against each other and interlocking and slotting together like a model doll or a jigsaw puzzle, as it took on a new form. Tall and broad and thick, with immense stone arms ended by a stone spiked mace instead of hands, stone pillars for legs and a blank dome for a head. The road trembled beneath the giant form's steps, as well as that of it's smaller brethren that tore themselves out of smaller piles and even from the few still standing walls of various buildings as they scrambled in the wake of their 'big brother'.

The single tree tore itself loose from the pavement, it's roots dragging it forward in an obscene cross of a spider's scuttle and an octopus' grasping, even as it's branches shook and waved wildly like a multitude of gnarled wooden fists. The middle of the trunk warped and twisted, becoming a mockery of a face with a gaping maw with a handful of peg like teeth and great pits for eyes.

The large puddles erupted upwards, about the size of a man, twisting and churning like a waterspout, before broaden and calming. The forms rippled as rain continuously spattered down on them as they flowed forward leglessly, like a wave. Thick and muscular arms were attached to the rippling lake of there broad torso and their heads curved like a fish hook, like a wave frozen still as it was about to break.

To a one, these constructs marched toward the position of his foe, willing to follow his command to rend and tear the boy limb from bloody limb.

All the while, the repetitive firing of emerald flames kept up, striking his constructs and his shield with equal measure, from within the hidden remains of the building. Voldemort couldn't help but smirk.

If the brat was still firing that same spell again and again, it probably meant that it was the only spell the brat could afford to cast. He recognised the spell as one of the first spells he saw the brat use against him and his Death Eaters after he had somehow resurrected himself.

He wouldn't make the same mistake twice. There would be no mercy or respect for his foe this day. He would strip the flesh from his dead corpse, grind his cold bones into meal, and burn it all furnace, just to make sure his luck didn't strike again.

His stone titan reached the building first, the emerald flames splattering against it's rocky torso and gouging out chunks of stone but not stopping the immense construct at all.

With a single swipe, the remaining roof and upper part of the walls of the building were smashed and swept aside, it's strength far beyond defence that such mundane materials could feasibly put up.

The treant (he had read Tolkien as a child. He was the only redeeming quality of the muggle rats and worms that infested the world.) used it's branches to tear out the few remaining portions of the front of the clothing store, tossing stone, mortar and wood away carelessly as it made a bellowing roar that boomed up it's hollow trunk.

The smaller scrambling golems and the watery undines slipped by the branches into the store, the sound of wood shattering, cloth tearing and the sight of emerald flashes of flames accompanied by sharp detonations.

Voldemort smiled almost beatifically as he finally heard the sound of something hard and solid, like a rock, meeting soft flesh, followed by a howling yell of pain and the wet crack of bone. There was a sudden larger flare of his opponent's signature emerald flame, lighting up the area before it buttered out like a spent candle just as swiftly.

Then there was silence except for his creation's small movements.

Lord Voldemort eyed the still shrouded area, his eyesight not the best in the dark and he had cut off his connection to the rain when he realised that he had cornered his prey, with both pleasure and caution. He had little in the way of doubt that he had managed to kill his foe, something that brought him a large amount of sadistic pleasure, but he had also seen the little shit come back from the dead, stronger than before. He wasn't willing to let that happen a second time.

A small compulsion sent to his constructs had his undines shift around, their thick arms grasping bits and pieces and exiting the now utterly destroyed establishment, carrying the burdens that their master had sent them to collect.

At the forefront of the little group of his aquatic minions was a small group of three, their arms laden with something that made him smile wider, a wicked smile of delighted pleasure, as they got close enough, ascending the small hill of debris to place it all at his feet.

A mangled pile of body parts from a elder teen make lay there, a muscular arm and leg having been torn off, even as their stilled attached counterparts looked like they had been crushed or constricted, bloody bone splinters sticking out from the flesh and, in the case of the leg, piercing through dark and tattered leather material of the pants the body had worn.

The torso looked like it had been caved in by a cannonball, judging by the depth of the impression in the shattered rib cage, before something sharp and jagged had messily slashed him open from hip to opposite shoulder, the organs somehow managing to stay in and remain unseen behind the flap of flesh.

The head, above a torn and bloody throat, however, made Voldemort want to crow triumphantly.

Messy black hair, a little longer than he had expected, and deathly glazed over emerald eyes, their fire snuffed out, and, upon his brow, a fading scar in the shape of a lightning bolt.

He would know that face anywhere. Potter really was finally dead!

He would doubly sure though.

A slash of his wand, like a sword stroke, and the body's head tumbled from it's shoulders, rolling and bouncing down the pile of rubble he stood on. Another movement of his wand, stab this time, and flames of darkness and crimson erupted, taking the shape of a large snake, the rain hissing and spitting and turning into steam as it met the creature's burning hide, which promptly struck out at the corpse, swallowing it into it's flawing maw. The body was quickly turned to ash.

Voldemort sweated slightly, invisible in the still pouring rain, as the snake tried to stay in existence, fighting the against the leash of willpower the Dark Lord had placed on it, before his own will won out, making the flames disperse and disappear. Fiendfyre might have been overkill, but he wanted to make sure that the brat was dead and wasn't going to somehow come back this time.

He let out a slow breath as he finished, before taking a deeper one. A rumbling sound was soon heard beneath the rain as his shoulders shook, growing louder and higher with every passing moment, before his mouth wide in a high pitched screeching cackle of triumph as his undines left, losing form and returning to their original state and on stand by, their stony and wooden brothers doing the same.

He was gone! Potter was gone! And he wasn't coming back!

"This is the power of Lord Voldemort!" He roared to the heavens, a flick of his wand and his will summoned the decapitated into his free hand, holding it roughly by the hair, and raised the pale face to the pouring sky, "Your Champion is dead, you old fool!" He crowed towards the sky, imagining the chagrined face of his old teacher, the rain drops his tears falling from those blue eyes into his long white beard. "Your army is shattered! Your ideals, broken! None one can stop me anymore!" He roared with laughter.

"I beg to differ." A cold voice said, coming from directly behind him. A very familiar voice. One that was impossible and yet dreaded.

He was barely able to react at all, only able to twitch a minute amount before he felt the impact of cold steel run him straight through his ribs from the back, the blade erupting out his chest.

All he could was stare numbly at the length of blade that protruded from his chest, the severed head falling from his suddenly feeble grasp and land right on the sharp edge of a concrete slab (making a sound like a breaking vase in the process) and splitting open like a melon to reveal the bodies of two rats inside the now revealed to be ceramic head, barely able to comprehend the bloodstained markings on the silver blade that formed a set of two words.

Godric Gryffindor.

Harry coldly stared at the back a man he hated beyond all others before he ripped Gryffindor's sword out roughly and slamming the sole of his bare bandage wrapped foot into the small of the deranged mage's back, sending him flying off of the top of the large mound of debris.

He felt his face twitch into a smile as he felt one of the wards the bastard had put up shatter like glass, the requirements for it's creation no longer met. He also felt more than a few strands of the web of magic the bastard had woven into the constructs (which had been a nasty surprise. That sort of thing was Dumbledore's schtick and generally needed a dedicated area attached to a ley line node or similar ambient magic hotspot.) snap like cotton thread, meaning that they wouldn't react to their creator's distress and would have to be manually compelled.

Take out the head of the snake and the body dies with it.

Harry saw a few puddles ripple, the water level rising, and a few mounds shake, including the one that contained the massive stone construct.

Unfortunately not all the strands were cut.

Harry moved quickly, leaping agilely down the mound to where his foe lay, struggling to raise his head from the mud he had landed in, his pale and spidery hand still clutching his wand. The bastard was still alive (Harry cursed himself for missing the megalomaniacal mage's heart. That last moment twitch had prevented the instant death.) and a threat as long as he was conscious and the wand was in his hand.

Green flames erupted from the jewels on the back of his gauntlets, running along the length of the goblin forged blade he held.

Time to change that.

Mid-air, he slashed out, the flames following the arc of the blade and leaving it, an emerald burning crescent of flame shooting towards the prone form of Voldemort.

A wall of water, unfortunately, sprung up between the flame and the Dark Lord, an aquatic pair of arms stretching out to shield their creator from burning death and embrace their own.

The two opposing elements met with an explosion.

The shockwave sent the airborne form of Harry tumbling wildly, having nowhere to brace himself or halt his flight. It had felt like he was backhandedly swatted by a giant.

He soared backward, over the length of this little intersection, his front feeling heavily bruised with a side order of a couple of cracked ribs, before slamming, back first, into a surprisingly still standing brick wall. He felt the hot agony in his ribs and a clear wet snap as at least one of them completely broke.

However, he couldn't afford to let that slow him down. Already he could hear the ear wrenching scrabbling of stone on stone as the smaller stone animations had managed to pull themselves back together first and were quickly (too quickly for his piece of mind. Rocks had no right to move that fast in his humble opinion.) closing the distance between them, jagged three fingered hands ready to rend him apart. The water creations also weren't far behind.

He staggered to his feet painfully, grimacing as his ribs protested, and set his blade aflame once more as he lurched forward for a couple of steps before smoothing out and running towards the pack of constructs. He would have to end them quickly, he really didn't want to have to face the still forming massive stone construct (which he mentally labelled Talos.) and the smaller ones at the same time.

His magical levels were a bit on the low side due to the decoy he had created to let him get within striking distance of the snake undetected and the fact that he had to keep a link to it in order to move it. The cost was even heavier when he had to cast his spells through it to ensure that the bastard would take the bait while he snuck down into the drains, entering the mage's Tower from the front and below, thus negating the ward that blocked a possible ambush from behind. Then all he had to do was wait under a manhole that was behind old snakey, but still within his Tower, until the detection spell on the rain was removed and then come up behind him stealthily and kill him.

For the most part it worked, he would just have to learn to keep his mouth shut in future.

He gritted his teeth as he ran, the green flames in his eyes and on his sword bright and malevolent, almost within reach of the constructs and they within his. He may have doomed himself because of his own foolishness, but he would make sure to the unholy bastard of a pasty worm down with him.

His sword met stone talons with a crash.

Voldemort coughed heavily and wetly where he slumped against a ruined wall. His body was weak, unheeding of his commands for his flesh to move. His hands were barely able to twitch and shift.

But his blood red eyes could see clearly and glared with all his malice at his sword dancing adversary as he ploughed about with both sword and magic, destroying his constructs slowly but steadily.

That sneaky little fucker had managed to do a number on him. The sword had pretty much cut his lung in half and nicked his heart deep enough for him to bleed slowly into his chest cavity. It was a fatal wound, but neither quick nor painless.

And that wasn't counting the Basilisk venom that was imbued in the damned blade. He could feel the corrosion of the venom on his organs as they slowly melted away under it's influence. It was made worse by the fact that, as a Parselmouth, he had a heavy resistance (but not an immunity) to snake venoms.

All that particular gift did in this case is slow the venom down, making a rather quick and painful death into a lengthy and excruciating one.

No matter how much he cursed, no matter how much he tried to deny it, no matter what he tried to do with his own limited healing skills, there was one inescapable fact.

Lord Voldemort was dying.

He would die like a dog, in the mud and refuse of a shattered land, rather than living for eternity in a black citadel on a mountain, ruler of all that he surveyed and even beyond that.

And it was all that damnable mongrel's fault.

The little worm had somehow managed to track down and destroy his treasures, the keys to his immortality, one by one over the past year in the lead up to this final battle. He didn't know how the brat had managed to even gain knowledge of horcruxes (though he was betting on the collection of books and knowledge, much of it Dark, belonging to the Blacks.) let alone manage to find the Dark Lord's own hiding places. All the while dodging his minions or himself when he can or fighting them and escaping when he couldn't.

As he watched the boy keep cutting down his constructs, turning the undines into steam and shattering his golems with single masterful swings of his sword, he felt rage burn in his injured heart and the desire for vengeance clog his throat as much as his own blood did.

He could see it now. The boy, having defeated him, would go on to be a leader of men, one who would treated with adoration and respect. He would forge this land anew, in his own image, before humbly accepting the role of king and ruler from the scattered people who had no one else to turn to (the Ministry, the Muggle Government and the Royal Family had all been eliminated by him on his rise to power. It wouldn't do to have someone around to challenge his authority and legitimacy of his rule. It was one of the reasons he had the boy hunted so earnestly when he showed his face again. He was a threat that he could not allow to exist.) before extending his influence to other countries.

Knowing the little sprog as well as he did, he knew that the little shit had the charisma, the power and the intelligence to pull it off. It would take a few decades, maybe even a century or two, but with the boy's power and the extended life span that went with it, Voldemort could see the boy seated on a golden throne, in an elegant open building made with columns of white marble, floating in the sky, looking down on the entirety of the earth, ruling not as King, nor even an Emperor.

But as a GOD.

And his rage reached even greater heights and his sanity slipped even more than it already had.

No. No. NO! He would not allow this to happen! He would not allow another to take away his dream!

Rage lending him strength, he slowly, haltingly, raised his wand and began to move it in a series of movements that he had only seen once, but had memorised, even as he haltingly, wetly spoke words from a tongue long forgotten. He also abandoned his attempts at healing himself, shifting the magic into the spell work he was now performing.

His eyes gleamed with wild and insane malice as he kept them locked on the back of his younger foe.

If he could not reach his rightful place, achieve his well earned dream...then no one would!

The Sword of Gryffindor destroyed another earthen construct, tearing it's shoulder, the arm attached to it and the form's head and neck with a single blow. The rest of the body was quick fold, returning to it's original state of debris.

The sword wielder went with the blow, rolling in the mud, to avoid the elongated watery arms of a very different construct coming from behind, before flowing back to a knee and slashing one of his assailant's watery brethren. The green flames on the blade refused to be doused as it cut through the construct, instead flaring up and reducing it to steam, never to reform as the magic that made it up was burnt away.

A gauntleted hand slammed into the mud before pumping hard, sending the wielder from his into a brief cartwheel that landed him on his feet before skidding and sliding back like an ice skater, avoiding the first water monster's second attempt at attacking, and stabbing out with the blade, impaling and destroying said monster.

Harry, the swordsman, then kept using the momentum of his slide and revolve in a tight circle, his blade extended out and slicing several of his foes deeply, destroying them. That finally gave him a little breathing room and he used it, gasping and taking deep breaths even as his body wobbled, his throat felt like he was inhaling and exhaling razors and his ribs felt like they were rattling in his chest like dice in a cup.

There seemed to be no end to these damn creatures. Every time he destroyed one, another took it's place. By what he had sensed before, the spells snake face had put up should be close to depleted by now. The only reason he hadn't finished them all and destroyed the massive one, that was uncomfortably close to being full formed and ready to beat the living crap out of him, was because some the 'broken' strands he had sensed were, in fact, only stretched or faded, meaning that they were just slower to form.

This had turned a quick extermination into a battle for survival.

He quickly eyed his remaining foes. Three stones, two waters -he then stumbled as a heavy weight struck the ground, making it shake- and that fucking colossus!

He grimaced as he saw the smaller threats move toward him and, reluctantly, doused the emerald flames that he had coated the blade with. He would have to be quick and not use any more magic. He would need it for that sixty foot behemoth.

He let the enemy come to him, not willing to waste anymore energy than he had to, and kept an weather eye on the ponderous form of Talos.

A stone was first, charging straight for him. A single side step, turn and slash ended that threat.

A rotation of his blade so that it pointed back and a fast step backward with a blind reverse thrust, that he felt satisfyingly meet a hard resistance briefly before pushing through, ended the second stone soldier, his back firmly meeting the now eroding chest of the construct, too close for it to feasibly slash or grab at him.

A step forward and practically rooting his feet to the earth gave him the leverage and strength to grasp the hilt of his blade with both hands and whipping it around, carrying the body of his 'dead' foe with it, to clobber one of the watery creations. With a large splash, the aquatic construct was dispersed into droplets and destroyed by the blunt force, ending it's existence.

He let the momentum of the swing carry him, simultaneously crouching, into a spin that let his sword cut the legs out from underneath the final small rocky figure. His leg then shot out, crashing and crushing what would have been the heart area for the falling detached stone torso and launching it back at great speed. Speed enough for the improvised stone missile to utterly destroy the form of the final watery figure.

All this took place in less than five seconds. Five seconds to destroy five constructs without even getting bruised.

But this was just the warm up.

Harry panted heavily, using the large blade of his weapon as a crutch, the point buried in the ground and around his knuckles white around the pommel as he fought to keep himself upright. He glared heavily at the now completed, moving and immense form of the formidable construct, feeling the creation's own sense of sight lock onto him from it's lofty height and see him as a threat.

Talos wouldn't be letting him go. Even if he ran now, the damn thing would follow and catch up pretty quick. His tank was getting close to empty at the moment, physically and magically. He would have to end this fast as possible, even if he had to take a few gambles.

Talos slowly reared back the massive spiked ball it had for hands and Harry let his magic flow, emerald flames once more erupting around his weapon, an aura of dread and destruction few could face, let alone match.

The outcome of the battle would be decided briefly, within at most five exchanges.

The massive ball shot down, aiming to squash and crush him from existence. The earth rocked and quaked and shattered beneath the force of the blow. It would have killed any mortal being that had been struck by it.

Thankfully, he hadn't been.

A large leap backwards, avoiding the blow, then, gripping the earth with his bare toes, he launched himself forward...

Landing on top of the massive spiked ball.

Not stopping, he sprinted up the stony arm with every ounce of speed he had, his feet somehow managing to stay purchased on the wet and slippery stone and keep his balance as he ran. In his desperate scramble, he kept pushing a large chunk of his power into the aura of flame around the Sword of Gryffindor, making it look like he was carrying a green sun or emerald comet in his fist.

Talos slowly reacted, lifting his arm ponderously slow in an attempt to shake him off.

It didn't work.

The other arm swung in, aiming to swat him off like a human would flick a bug off of their own arm.

Harry merely leant forward, his nose almost touching the 'skin' of Talos' arm he was running on. The other arm, flew over his head with a roar and a heavy buffet of displaced air. It had missed him by less than a foot.

And still he ran on, the emerald sun burning brightly.

He reached the shoulder of the construct and immediately put 'phase two' of his plan into action.

He leapt.

His speed and height aiding him, he rocketed into the sky, ascending quickly out of reach of even the long arms of Talos. The wind roared in his ears and the rain sounded like great drums as they struck near his listening organs.

Even injured and tired as he was, despite the severity of the situation, he couldn't help but smile at the feeling of flight. This was where he belonged, amongst the sky and the clouds. This was freedom.

But he also had a job to do, a task to accomplish.

Reaching the apex of his ascent, he twisted around to face the ground, both hands on the incandescent form of his sword. His burning eyes locked onto his target, which looked at him blankly.

Talos had no idea what was going to hit it. Or maybe didn't even care.

As he started to fall, he forced his will into the emerald sun that wrapped around his sword. Shaping it to his will, changing the aura's structure and form, expanding it, making it grow and grow.

When he had ascended into the air, he had held a green sun in his fist, something that could burn away anything before it and destroy it utterly with an explosion.

As he fell, he now had an immense sword made of emerald flames, one easily as tall as the target it was going to be used on. Something that looked like it could even, perhaps, cleave the heavens themselves asunder.

Harry fell like a comet, the emerald flames leaving their signature smoke in his wake only added to the image. He would have to time it just right to cut down the construct otherwise it would be more than just himself who would pay the price.

The flames he used for much of his magic nowadays were far from ordinary.

A moment passed. And another. He saw the form of Talos lift it's rocky arms high, crossing themselves above it's dome like head.

It wouldn't help.

Another moment passed and then, with a roar of exertion and anger, his emotions pouring into that bellow in an effort to push that little bit more strength into his tired limbs, he slashed down, the emerald sword blade following his motions.

The immense sword cut through the raised arm like a knife through hot butter, meeting almost no resistance. The head of Talos showed similar resistance, just like the rest of it's body, as it was immediately bifurcated, split right down the middle like a watermelon struck by a machete.

The immense figure slowly began to topple, the two sides of the construct falling sideways, crumbling and coming apart even as it fell. It would not recombine. Talos was ended.

But Harry's safety was not yet assured.

The force of the blow had sent flipping forward, his hand still clutching the sword that had, thankfully, lost the massive aura that had once surrounded it. He was still high up and just one wrong move would result in his landing having consequences.

Severe, deadly and fatal consequences.

The ground was getting nearer and nearer and the spinning and flipping was making it very difficult for the Head of House Black and Potter make an accurate and, more importantly, safe landing. He had barely a remnant of a remnant of mana left, just enough to keep him alive, thus he couldn't use spells to aid him, as he had spent it all on the Emerald Blade. His body was also tired and wounded, so he couldn't absorb as much punishment as he usually could, which would have given him a margin of error to work with.

The landing would have to be textbook perfect, without a jot of deviation, if he wanted to survive to the end of this horrid night.

He gritted his teeth as the ground loomed ever closer, and his possible death along with it.

'Alea Iacta Est.' He thought to himself grimly, his muscles tensing even as he flipped.

When he judged the moment perfect, he tucked his legs closed, making the flip increase speed for a small amount of time, giving him control of the revolutions.

Ten feet away from the ground, he completed one more revolution before slamming into a kneeling position with his free hand touching the muddy ground and his sword hand extended out an back. A textbook three-point landing.

Perfect.

Harry panted heavily, his face alternately flushed and pale as the conflicting responses to exertion and fear warred within him. That fall had been one of the scariest things in his life. He had made higher jumps many times before but not in the state he was currently in, almost completely exhausted (he coughed heavily to the side for a moment, the puddle there turning slightly red.) and heavily injured.

It was safe to say that he wasn't in the best of shapes.

He wavered slightly, his vision blurring momentarily, as he tried to get up on his feet but his other knee collapsed, making him slump on all fours, his sword wielding fist knuckled deeply in the mud to keep him there and not fall further.

Damn but he was tired! And he still wasn't quite done!

He mentally flogged his exhausted body, making it move slowly and staggeringly upright, the unholy emerald lamps of his eyes dimmed to a sullen glow as they peered around as he did so.

"Now where is he?" Harry murmured to himself, leaning heavily on his large sword, looking like a decrepit old warrior. He knew the snake bastard couldn't have gone far.

He looked beyond the physical for a moment, feeling like he was pushing a Boeing 747, uphill, with the brakes on, as he did so, such was his weariness. His eyes, contradictorily, widened and narrowed. The various spells that his parent's killer had cast were almost completely gone, unnaturally so. As if they had been consciously stripped, harvested, of the power initially used to create them by said creator.

That wasn't good.

He gave out a small cry, one of his hands snapping up to clutch his temple even as he almost fell back to his knees or lower, as he was suddenly struck by the feeling of a powerful spell on the verge of reaching critical mass. His brain felt like it was frying in his skull and an ice pick was being hammered through his eyeballs.

That wasn't good either. And he knew who the cause of this feeling was and he couldn't help but feel more apprehension.

What the hell was the snake bastard doing?!

His eyes closed in order to somehow ebb the pain enough for him to think and move, he blindly staggered in the direction he could feel the still swelling power. Even with his eyes closed, he could almost see the last few remnants of the magical traps the Dark Lord had set up for his Tower being drawn and dragged towards the source of this new and frankly frightening spell.

Harry grimaced tightly. Both because he blindly smacked his shin on a slab of rubble and because of what he could feel about the spell.

The raw power it was gathering aside, the feeling of the spell was completely malevolent. Filled with a raw hunger and complete disregard for morality, it wanted nothing more than to destroy and corrupt anything it could reach.

It was even worse than Fiendfyre in that regard. At least with that spell, once you were consumed and destroyed by it's evil flame, that was the end of it. This particular spell seemed to be more insidious, feeling like it would stick to the skin like hot tar, slowly metaphorically burning the victim, making them suffer before they were eventually destroyed.

"Voldemort!" He roared in the direction of the Dark Lord, his voice hail and strong despite his weakness, "Stop this madness! You will die if you continue with that spell!"

Harry still couldn't see the man formerly known as Tom Riddle, keeping his eyes closed tightly so they would not be overwhelmed by the magical spell that wracked his mind and body, but he could hope, just a little, that his words would reach his foe. The thing that Riddle feared most was death, and thus he would everything he could to avoid it, including stop creating that damned Holocaust of a spell he could feel building, which would then give him the chance to rend the snake lipped bastard limb from limb.

A wet, choked, chuckle, weak and wheezing as if the origin of the mirth was drowning, was the response he received, making the hairs on the back of his dirty neck rise even as he felt the spell keep building. It was a laugh of a man that had slid off the edge, had his world cut out from under him, and couldn't handle it.

He hobbled as fast as he could, which admittedly wasn't much, ignoring the pain in his legs as they banged against debris as he scrambled.

"I'm already dead, Potter," he heard the voice of his enemy spit, little more than a whisper, miraculously still able to heard even in the pouring rain, helped by the absence of the other sounds of the night that would have normally been heard from a year before. The chuckle came back, going higher and higher as the spell also rose to new heights. "But I won't go alone!"

His fear and adrenaline pushing him on, Harry finally just opened his eyes, ignoring the instant migraine he received as he used those insightful orbs to find his foolish enemy, and stopped dead.

His mouth gaped, his skin paled and his heart skipped a beat before freezing in his chest as he saw the spell and the caster.

Slumped into, or perhaps embedded, in a brick wall was his foe, but not like he had seen him before.

Every time he had faced Voldemort, he was always struck by the sight of his seeming physical frailty. His skin was pale and corpse like, his face twisted and misshapen as his soul. Rail thin and tall, Harry bet that under those robes it would look like the Dark Lord was one of those skeletal and starving children he once saw on the television advertisements for charity.

Yet contrary to this sight, Lord Voldemort had never shown a hint of weakness. He always seemed to carry an aura of power over him, like cloak, that screamed the power he commanded belied by his body, pressing down like a weight on the neck of those who were in his presence, making him seem beyond the flesh, beyond mortals.

Now however, the frailty of the Dark Lord was loud and clear.

His face was shrunken and wrinkled, the original features barely able to be made out, the now feverish and maddened red eyes the only ones he could see clearly as they glared at the instrument of his defeat. His pale spidery hand clutched a wand held shakily in his direction, spots of weeping and blackened flesh clear to see on the back of it.

It was like he was decaying where he was, a frightening sight.

As bad as the Dark Lord was, the spell was even worse.

A black sphere, thrice the height of a man and four times the width, hovered above the tip of the yew wand. Threads of dark crimson, like blood, ran randomly over the sphere, scarlet lightning crackling in their wake, snapping and hissing like incandescent serpents.

Harry, even his shocked state, couldn't help but grunt in pain, one of his eyes closing, as his 'Pure Sight' was forcefully activated by his mere proximity to the spell, the power that leaked off of it more than enough to fuel the sight as the magic wormed it's way into his metaphysical vessels.

Whatever that spell was designed to do, it wasn't anything good, and it was pointed in his direction.

And all the while, his enemy cackled in high pitched laughter, complete insanity in those tones.

"Hahahahahaha!" Voldemort roared as the crackling lightning moved faster, grew stronger, became more frequent, and the orb rippled and churned and distorted, more red lines appear, short and jagged, like cracks in an egg. "I win, Potter!" He howled, somehow finding a degree of strength. "I. Always. Win!"

Harry's eyes widened even further as a familiar green light appeared on the tip of Voldemort's wand, aimed not at him, but at the twisted orb of chaos and leapt desperately found, his body somehow finding that last fragment of strength to possibly save itself.

But it was too little, too late.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!" Bellowed Voldemort, the swift jet of the deadly spell leaving the wand just before Harry cleaved the hand from the Dark Lord's body at the wrist with his sword, the decaying and decorated hand arcing through the air, the green light of the spell dancing off of a thick golden ring set with an engraved, and cracked, black stone before the appendage and jewellery struck him on his bare chest.

Harry wasn't given a chance to curse, barely able to summon up the last dregs of his power from his core, a dim and weak outline of emerald light surrounding him, in an almost fruitless attempt to somehow protect himself from the volatile spell.

Voldemort wasn't given a chance to scream in pain, his face frozen in twisted laughter and the insane light in his scarlet eyes vanishing, dead before his last spell struck the massive orb of his vengeance.

The Killing Curse struck the massive orb and exploded.

A soundless wave of darkness and power engulfed what had once been a busy intersection of London as the orb was shattered and ruptured by the Unforgivable, devouring everything in it's path as it expanded high and low and wide. Massive arcs of the scarlet wrath of the sky shattered the night with booms of thunder, striking and destroying buildings and trees and other objects as far as the ruins of Kent, sundering the sky, land and sea.

Harry however received the worst of it.

It engulfed him almost immediately, cutting off his sight completely, and he couldn't help but soundlessly wail as he felt like he was being wrenched apart by a hundred giants, pulled in every direction as he fought to keep himself together, the pain and agony adding to his desperate will to survive, which made the metaphorical giants pull harder, creating a vicious cycle that got worse by the moment.

By the time the last spell of Voldemort had run it's course a few minutes and twenty blocks of buildings utterly erased from existence, leaving only a perfectly showed bowl in the ground that was quickly filling with water from the exposed drains, sewers and the very slow to dissipate rain clouds overhead, there was not a trace of Harry James Potter, Potter of Potter and Black of Black, Boy-Who-Lived and Mage of immense power, to be found and presumed to be dead to the world by the few remaining native 'Light' magic users of the British Isles (their counterparts all strangely having died almost simultaneously, all of them clutching their forearms as they passed.).

At least, dead to that world.

Long Qi Island

Unclaimed Land

World of Remnant

Crimson eyes stared out across the turbulent steel grey seas, unhindered by the driving rain.

White claws, bones that covered it's abyss black flesh, scraped against the rocks with screech that would have chilled the spines of any who had heard it.

But not it. Nor it's brethren.

It could sense the small Lights, the prey of itself and it's pack members, far off, across the waters and below the horizon, and a small few closer, in sight in their homes of wood on the sea, but still far from it's hungry reach.

It would not feel blood on it's claws or fangs this night.

It turned away from the hungry waters that it dared not brave. The grey seas hid many secrets and greater dangers than it was willing to face in order to feel a kill on it's claws once more. It had been such a long time since any of the Light Ones had appeared in it's limited range.

The sky shook and roared as sky fire erupted amidst the clouds that poured down the rain.

It would have to be patient. The Lights were ever curious and one of them would eventually enter it's range again. Time was on it's side. The Lights forgot.

It did not.

Another blast of sky fire shook the air and this time it froze, it's senses tickling and making it look to the sky, a hot and empty feeling filling it's mind and body.

It had sensed a Light in the sky! One that was heavy!

Crimson eyes brightened, practically glowing, with warped hunger. It would feed well this night!

Eyes of blood watched the sky intently as the sky fire grew stronger and closer together, changing colour from blue-white to a deep crimson, matching it's own eyes. And the feeling grew stronger.

It's maw opened as it crouched, ready to pounce when the Light revealed itself. It would have to be quick, it's brethren would no doubt be hastening to here at this very moment.

BOOOOOM!

The world rocked as three of the scarlet bolts of sky fire crashed against each other, merging and twisting and writhing like it's snake brethren, balling together. A form took shape, a round black stone that hovered for only a moment, sky fire the colour of a Light One's life playing over it.

It tensed. The Light was near! It growled lowly in anticipation, it's never wavering from that black stone.

Another crash of sky fire and a streak of light erupted from the flying black stone, edged in an outline of strange energy it had never encountered before, rocketing toward the ground.

It shot forward quickly, ignoring the disappearing sky fire, disregarding the vanished flying stone. They didn't matter. The falling Light did! It would truly feed well this night. It howled it's victory into the night.

It ran on, keeping an eye on the falling Light, waiting for the right moment to leap for and grab it. It's ears flattened and throat growled as it heard the sounds of it's brethren swiftly approaching. A glance back revealed a large specimen of it's serpentine kin, it's white head emerging first from the tree line and swiftly accompanied by the darker head, both head's eyes and markings glowing scarlet in their desire to kill, rend and maim the Light that had been sensed by them.

The clawed one growled, not wanting give up the chance at the new Light, but knowing that it was not strong enough to fend off it's much larger brethren.

It moved faster, paws digging into sand and stone to carry it in great leaps.

Shadows flickered at the edge of it's vision, indistinct shapes moving swiftly in the trees, brief shots of familiar scarlet revealing what they were.

It snarled. They were catching up, but it still had it's lead, being one of the swiftest amongst it's kind and was much closer to the Light than the others.

The Light was falling, plunging, and the dangerous glow around it, experience warning it that glowing Lights were deadly and dangerous prey, vanishing. It was now vulnerable.

On instinct, it leapt high and far, it's course about to intercept the falling and, if it's sense of smell was correct, wounded Light. It's jaws gaped open, ready to crunch down, claws bared, ready to slash, to extinguish that Light from existence, to fulfill it's purpose.

Then it's senses exploded.

Suddenly the instinct to kill and destroy and devour the Light fled, the instinct to dodge, to exercise caution, erupting. The Light was no longer registering as prey.

It was now a predator.

From the bared and wounded flesh of the Light, darkness erupted, tendrils of shadow made manifest exploding from the falling Light's body.

It reacted as well as it could mid-air, shifting it's body to avoid the swift tendril, spinning out of the way and off course from the now suddenly dangerous Light. Crimson eyes ignored the tendrils extending down to the shore line of it's range as it tumbled through the air.

It's brethren did not.

One of it's ursine brethren was the first to go, not swift enough to dodge the dangerous tendril of darkness as it pierced through it's dark flesh, shattering the bone plates that had protected it. It's wounded brethren roared in pain and rage, before it was cut off, the tendril engulfing the head of it's large brethren.

Then the spark that was it's brethren slowly faded, seeming to move along the tendril to the now landed Light. It felt the weak core, the heart, of the Light suddenly grow stronger as that spark met the Light's own body.

It didn't understand but it felt the Light Predator now grow even more dangerous.

It turned to run as it landed, only for another tendril to impale it's leg, rendering it immobile and pinned it down. It snarled and turned to tear the tendril away...

SHLUNK!

It hunched forward as yet another tendril pierced it's chest. It could feel it's spark being torn apart, devoured by the tendril, as it spread out to engulf it's head.

The last sight it had before dying was of a cloud of tendrils, black as it's own fur, fall like rain and pierce it's roaring, hissing and bellowing brethren, devouring them all...

Then it knew nothing.

That night, the roars of Grimm were heard far off, their cries carrying over the wind and the rain across the choppy steel waters. The brave few fisherman who dared to ply their trade in these waters, so close to an island known to be filled with Grimm centuries old and so close to the deeper waters that held ancient Grimm who were forgotten except in old tales told to scare children into obeying their parent's rules, had never heard such a ruckus before, like every Grimm that had ever lived had converged on that one spot to kill whatever they had sensed.

And yet, to their ears, distorted over the thunder and lightning, there was note in those roars and bellows, in those screeches and cries, that they had never heard in a Grimm before.

Fear.

When the sun rose clear and bright, the storm having expended itself, there was complete silence from the island, not a cry or roar heard as they generally did when they passed this close to the island.

Only the silence of the grave.

And on the far shore, opposite those now fearful fisherman, an unusual boy lay sound asleep on the white sandy beach, his leathery wings on his back outstretched...

And his face adorned by the mask of a Grimm.

Well folks, how did you like this?

In case many of you haven't noticed, Harry is now based on a character I have come to appreciate and sympathise with. His powers won't be identical but they will habe a fair few similarities.

This whole story will be my attempt at Potter in Remnant (the world of Rooster Teeth's RWBY), much like SmilingJester with 'Vampire of Beacon' and his compatriot, dawnriser, with my favourite one 'Nothing Left'. I also enjoyed 'Goodwitch Apprentice' by 88mph (who's stories are all brilliant. Now if only they were updated more often...) and 'Remnant of a Wizard' by Rothak. Hopefully I can make it a good one.

Also, before you canon purists jump down my throat for making Harry OOC, as I have alluded to in the chapter, it was a very AU universe from the end of fifth year onward and the fight takes place at what would be the end of his seventh year.

However, just because he finished the fight at a time when he would have been almost eighteen, it doesn't that he will be in Remnant~.

The magic of dimensional travel strikes again.

Heres hoping that you all enjoyed the pilot chapter.

As always, please leave a review,

Kujikiri21