My Classic Canon Challenge fic

sarky_moocow

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'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Harry was worried at the direction his thoughts had taken. He had tried to hold himself together for the past few hours; tried to tolerate the curses and the strain they put on his body without allowing it to snap his mind. Between the curses and Legilimency attacks, he had grasped at anything to keep his mind occupied on something other than reality.

His thoughts kept fixating on the lines of a poem only half-remembered from childhood. Some nonsense rhyme a teacher had read to his class at primary school, and Dudley had taken a fancy to, and forced his mother to read to him every night. The words ran together: ’twasbrilligandtheslythytoves…

Immediately after Apparating, Harry had been Stupefied and his wand taken away. They had taken no chances on losing him this time. Voldemort, reveling in the position he finally held over Harry, had summoned all of his Death Eaters to see Harry brought low. Their encircling robes had blackened the day.

Beware the Jabberwock, with eyes of flame! He half-hysterically thought to himself, and then chuckled brokenly at the thought. He was certain his laughter would only anger Voldemort, but at this point he could not make himself care. They were already beyond all that, and he knew if Voldemort wanted to look into his mind to see what the laughter was about, he could. Harry had no defences left, a fact of which both he and Voldemort were fully aware.

And it started out as such a nice day, Harry thought to himself. Slowly awakening on a quiet Saturday morning after an amazingly dreamless sleep.

The three of them had been enjoying the morning. Harry and Ron had wanted to start up a pick-me-up game of Quidditch, but Hermione had insisted that they study. As a compromise they had brought both their books and a Quaffle outside, and settled down under an outcropping of trees near the forest’s edge.

At the beginning of the year, Dumbledore had disallowed any forays into the forest, even for Care of Magical Creature and detentions, and everyone had wondered why, as he had offered no explanations. But it was a lovely day outside, and as Ron had put it, they weren’t planning on going into the forest, now were they?

The boys had both made a half-hearted attempt at studying, but quickly grew restless in the morning sunlight. They got up, and after a sharp warning from Hermione had stepped a good distance away from her and the books, and had begun to toss the Quaffle back and forth, with Hermione glancing up occasionally from a book.

What had started out as a game of catch had quickly escalated into a game of ‘try as hard as you can to make the other miss the Quaffle,’ and inevitably a wild throw had landed in the forest. Ron had been the one who had missed catching it, and so insisted on retrieving it, and Harry had insisted on tagging along. After a quick glance to make certain Hermione was engrossed in a book, they had slowly moved into the forest.

Five minutes later, Death Eaters had appeared. He supposed Voldemort had had a net of spells set up to warn him if Harry left the school grounds and entered an Apparition zone. One had immediately grabbed Harry and Disapparated, but before they left Harry had caught a glimpse of the second raising his wand at Ron instead of following directly.

Now, Harry supposed, he had his reason not to enter the forest. Damn Dumbledore for not telling him, and damn him for his stupid theory about the Gryffindor sword…It wouldn’t be much use, would it, not when I haven’t even the strength to lift it, or the training to use it even if I could. My trusty vorpal sword! Inwardly he was screaming at Dumbledore for allowing this to occur, while outwardly he only glared at Voldemort.

Right now he was too exhausted and sick from curses and the nausea of a forced Apparition to summon the concentration needed to call the sword to his hand. It would come to him when he called, but he had to do so.

He was empty-handed and blank-minded, so he focused solely on the poem, grabbing it as a lifeline to fix his thoughts on. He hoped any stray thoughts of a sword could be attributed to the poem. The sword of Gryffindor was the last possibility he had left, and if Voldemort picked it out of his mind he was screwed. He frantically ran the words through his mind: tookhisvorpalswordinhand, longtimethemanxomefoehesought…

It was working. He stared at the ceiling as Voldemort gloated, bragging that Harry’s all-consuming fear of him had broken his mind. In truth the terror at the situation was huge, but buried beneath it was a wellspring of hatred and determination. If he was going to die, here and now, he was not going to go without rebellion.

Then Voldemort was above him and goading him to rise, jeering at him to fight despite the fact that they both knew he did not have his wand. He scrabbled from back to knees to shaky feet, trembling in apprehension and what Voldemort took as fear but was actually dreadful determination.

A raised wand, the beginning of the incantation; Harry’s mind screamed at him- tookhisvorpalswordinhand! Ohgodohgod, nowplease!- with hands in front of him, held in position in preparation for the sword that needed to appear, had to appear.

The incantation finished, Voldemort’s face was terrible in triumph, mocking Harry’s futile hallucinations in the face of his death.

But there was a shimmer in Harry’s hands, and a green light reflected from a sword bounced back to strike the caster. All went quiet as the tall figure fell.

Silence hung, and was only broken by the clink of the metal sword-point hitting the ground, and scraping as it was drawn across the floor to Voldemort. Harry folded down, almost collapsing next to the body as he looked into the face and recognized death. A Death Eater came forward, and Harry tried to summon enough strength to raise the sword again, but Snape only took hold of his arm and Voldemort’s cloak, and Apparated away.

Harry closed his eyes in renewed exhaustion and nausea, and opened them to see the Forbidden Forest.

Snape released him and stepped back a few paces, leaving Harry standing next to Voldemort’s body. Harry stared down blankly. The poem filled his head suddenly, all he could hear- onetwo,onetwo, andthroughandthrough, thevorpalbladewentsnickersnack- and he half-chuckled, half-sobbed, face trying to crumple. But he grimaced, stiffened his resolve and straightened his face, refusing to break down in front of Snape.

The next line of the poem struck, hard, and he wearily raised the sword. Snape looked on without comment.

A few minutes later they emerged from the Forest and came to a halt at the front steps of the school, meeting Dumbledore, who was on his way down. Harry stared up at him.

"Ron? Is he..."

Dumbledore shook his head, opening his mouth to speak unwelcome words of comfort, but Harry silenced them by stepping forward and holding Voldemort’s head out towards him.

Harry’s mouth moved, trying to find the words.

“I…I’ve slain the Jabberwock, sir.” He placed the head at Dumbledore’s feet. Then, turning, he walked past the gathering crowd, moving towards bed and a sleep without dreams.

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