"Fuck" is Harry Potter's current main thought, and I think a reasonable one to have, considering the circumstances. His breathing is frantic as he huddles uselessly behind the gravestone, which is getting blasted with spells intended for him. He eyes Cedric Diggory's dead body out of the corner of his eye.

So the party was going great.

Fuck, Harry thinks again, just for good measure. Voldemort continued his slow walk toward his hiding place, all the while cackling madly and throwing Avada Kedavra's like there's no tomorrow. Which there might not be for Harry.

Harry takes the moment to consider his options, not that there were many. He was in unfamiliar territory, surrounded by Death Eaters, and face to face with the madman that's wanted him dead before he was even born.

He's fourteen and fairly sure he's going to die.

But he's also fairly sure that if he's gunna die, he's gunna take some fucker down with him. That fucker being Voldemort, of course.

Voldy is less than a social distancing page from him, which isn't ideal, but Harry can work with it. Harry grips his wand and considers using his iconic "Expelliarmus" on the bitch. But fuck that noise. Voldy's out for blood, so he might as well be, too.

Three feet away now, maybe less. This is it, he thinks, squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth. Fuck, this is it.

He was born to war so he'll die to it. (Two feet now; it's show time.) His eyes snap open and he shoots out from behind the gravestone, one fist swinging almost unthinkingly into Voldemort's stomach, which was unexpected enough to make Volde-fucking-mort falter-- only for a second but long enough. With his other hand he weilds his wand and practically screams, "Avada Kedavra."

Almost immediately, he's aware something something went wrong. The first sign was the killing curse rebounding off Voldemort onto him. The second sign was it rebounding off him onto Voldemort, picking up speed as it went back and forth at rapid speed and never hitting either of them.

Death Eaters watched on with awe.

But then, that third damning sign that something is Not Quite Right here rearing its head, the killing curse splits into two and one shoots at Voldy... and one toward Harry.

He's sure the next sequence of events is influenced by someone else's magic, or some strange divine intervention, but he's not sure exactly what was happening (he wouldn't know fully for a very long time), and he's mostly distracted by his own soul and the splintering pain it's in. He feels his magic absorb Voldemort's as Voldemort died, and then dance with his own before the soul cocktail split off, shooting away in seperate parts, leaving him with way less soul than before.

As these soul slivers shoot away, he notices he can see them and the ripple in the world as they move, as if time itself was in waves.

Voldemort lies dead on the grass. Harry has a couple of seconds to cherish the victory before all joy is replaced with confusion. From his forehead, reminiscent of where his lightning bolt scar sits, a pain that's so small it's almost more a discomfort than anything bursts. He watches as a figure is squeezed out of his head and falls to the floor with an oomph. Upon further expection, it's like looking in a fun house mirror.  A boy that looks like him almost, almost to a T, is slumped on the floor.

Odd as hell.

And, even odder, paces away, where Nagini once was curled and waiting to eat him, appears a boy with wild black hair and vivid green eyes, who jumps once he realizes he's holding a twelve foot snake in his arms.

Not for the first time tonight, Harry's mind is flooded with the beautiful word fuck.

So something is terribly, utterly wrong here. There's two Harry's too many who just appeared because fuck time and logic, I guess, and Harry Potter numero uno is not here for it. He'd welcomed death with open arms because he was sure as hell ready for it but he did not welcome this shit, thank you very much. It's confusing and a mess, and neither of the Other Harry's seem to have the vaguest idea of what was happening, either.

(So the party was going great.)

The Harry that popped out of his head and landed rather unceremoniously on the floor had jumped up by now and was gauging his surroundings. "Oh dear," he says, spotting the Death Eaters, who were gathering their wits and also trying to figure out what in the hell happened, and dead Volde-fucking-mort on the floor. OG Harry notes that his accent is thicker than his own, the sound of which would be soothing if the oddity of the situation wasn't so odd.

He spots the Harry who's currently shaking in his fucking boots because of the giant snake he's holding, then turns to spot OG Harry, too. Eyes widening minutely, he mutters, again, "Oh dear."

Harry's starting to think that's his version of "fuck."