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The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…
Approaches…approaches from where? Well, that was partly answered in the next line, but not fully. Prophecies, for all their foresight, were ever so vague, Voldermort mused, stroking Nagini’s scales idly. That someone would have enough power to vanquish him was bad enough, but to have so little information…it was almost worse.
Born to those who have thrice defied him,
He growled under his breath, sending one of his Death Eaters scurrying out of the room. No matter, striking fear into their hearts would ensure their loyalty. It was why dear Severus had given him the prophecy, sitting at the Hog’s Head under his orders. But defied was such a vague term. As a former prefect, plenty of students had skirted around his direct orders; should he check up on every single one of them and see if any had paired up and had a child? And during which era of his life did they defy him? It wasn’t as if it would be a young babe. And thrice, was it individually or as a pair?
Surely it wouldn’t be a Mudblood born to the orphans that barely deserved to breathe the same air as him, let alone torment him so? However, he had been raised in that ghastly environment, and yet had prospered…
Merde, it couldn't be a Muggle bastard, could it?
Born as the seventh month dies.
The most concrete clue, and yet the most vexing. He couldn’t very well pull birth registries for the months of July from every hospital; wixen would get suspicious, and start hiding information. No, he had to be more cunning than that.
He would start with his classmates, they had certainly defied him enough. If any of them had paired together and had a child, he could easily kill the spawn off and move on to the next. It wasn’t likely to be anyone in his immediate circle; they had been initiated far too soon for that, but everyone else…yes, he would have to be cautious.
He was at the height of his power, he could not afford to fail.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He used his Death Eaters to strike down most of his list but left the last two for himself. It was a personal matter.
He stood outside Dennis and Amy Bishop neé Benson’s home. The couple had gone on to have a ten-year-old boy born on the twenty-sixth of July. A late marriage, and a late birth. Shameful, really. He had decided he was going to take over the world by the time he was fifteen. People these days were so fickle.
But between the two of them, they had defied him three times, so here he was.
The boy he tortured first, and the two brats that Tom Riddle had once frightened so terribly in a cave, screamed and begged as they watched. Once the boy’s mind went, he tossed him away with a flick of his wand. Amy tried to crawl over to her dead son, a valiant and pointless effort, and he let her get within an inch before he killed her. Dennis only wept. People could be so amusing when facing death. He flicked his wand and another bolt of green flew out in quick succession.
He next stood outside of William ‘Billy’ Stubb’s house. The brat had grown to marry Florence from the orphanage, and each had defied him three times. Florence had ratted him out for his snakes, even when he demanded she didn’t, Billy had argued with him about his filthy rabbit, until he tired of the argument and hung it from the rafters, and both had teased and mocked him at any given opportunity.
They had three children, twins born on the thirtieth of October, and one who had died prematurely in childbirth. Pity, he would have enjoyed torturing the youngest while the family watched on, but he would settle for forcing Stubbs to watch as he murdered his twenty-year-old son. Shame the daughter was overseas, he would have to keep an eye out for her. Not that she could do much damage as a lowly Muggle.
The son went down without much of a fight, and all the consideration he gave the man’s wife was an absentminded Killing Curse before he moved on to the parents. Florence’s voice went before her mind, and mercifully he put her out of her misery before he killed her husband. Neither of them put up much of a fight.
However, he failed to notice the figure hidden behind a bathroom door, the Stubbs daughter who had come from overseas to visit her family.
He chuckled to himself all the way down the lane, plotting what next to do. The Potters and the Longbottoms had just had babies; perhaps that was the defiance the prophecy spoke of? Surely a lowly babe couldn’t bring him down. His thoughts came to a jarring halt as his body jerked forward.
He wobbled around to see the Stubbs girl, smoking metal wand in hand. He glanced down at his chest to see blood gushing from his chest. No, this shouldn’t be possible. He was immortal! He was going to live forever!
She snarled, and Voldemort cackled, holding up his wand. Wound or not, he was still the most powerful wizard ever to grace the Earth. And he would show her that. He threw an Exploding Charm towards her, chopping off her earlobe as she dodged, leaving what he was sure would be a large scar on her neck. Normally, he would simply finish her off with a Killing Curse and be done with it, but…it was so amusing to watch this Muggle seethe in her agony.
She shot him again, and this time, he went down.
A wraith-like figure emerged from his body, and a third bullet went through its shadowy figure. With a howl, Voldemort beelined for the woman who had dared strike him down, but his form evaporated with a screeching howl as soon as his smoky wraith form passed through her, giving her a new weight she very much did not want.
And so, the killer of Voldemort stood, adrenaline-fevered grip shaking on the gun handle, tears streaking down her face.
Hours away by car, broom, or Thestral, an old headmaster cautioned two young families into hiding, completely unaware of the goings on. It would only be the next day when one Severus Snape came to Albus Dumbledore, desperate to save his childhood friend and obsession that he would learn the truth. The Wixen World would simultaneously call it a hoax and hail her a hero, dubbing her, ‘Our Unexpected Saviour’, or ‘the Woman-Who-Avenged’.
Sixteen years later, it would be her, Abigail Florence Stubbs, alongside many, many friends, who would destroy seven Horcruxes with Fiendfyre, Basilisk Venom, and gun and bring Voldemort to his knees.
“For my family.” She muttered as she brought her finger to the trigger. In the back of her mind somewhere, she could hear someone screaming. She thought perhaps it must be her. “And for everyone else’s you tore apart.” She squeezed, and the man who pretended to be more was finally dead.
And she finally put the gun down.