The Forbidden Forest was deathly quiet as Captain Price and his team moved through the trees, shadowing Harry Potter. Every step was deliberate, every movement careful. They knew what was coming, and it took every ounce of discipline they had not to intervene. This was Harry’s fight—his moment—but they would be there when the time was right.

Harry walked with a heavy heart, clutching the Snitch in his hand. Price’s keen eyes never left him, his mind racing with the implications of what was about to happen. The boy was walking to his death, and they had to let him. For now.

“Cap, this doesn’t feel right,” Soap muttered over the comms, his voice tinged with unease.

“I know, Soap,” Price responded, his voice tight. “But we hold. We have to see how this plays out.”

Harry stopped in a small clearing, the air around him growing colder as the ghosts of his parents and other loved ones appeared. The team, hidden in the shadows, watched in stunned silence as Harry spoke to them, his voice filled with both sorrow and determination.

Farah’s breath hitched as she saw the spectral figures. “Are those…?” she whispered, unable to finish the sentence.

“They’re his family,” Price said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. Even for a seasoned soldier like him, this was a sight that shook him to his core. He tightened his grip on his rifle, his instincts screaming at him to intervene, but he knew he couldn’t. Not yet.

Soap, usually quick with a quip, found himself at a loss for words. “Bloody hell… that’s his mum and dad, isn’t it?” he murmured, a rare note of vulnerability in his voice.

Ghost remained silent, his usual stoicism masking the turmoil he felt inside. He had seen death in many forms, but this… this was different. These weren’t just memories or hallucinations—these were the actual spirits of Harry’s loved ones, guiding him to his fate.

Tom, standing close to Ghost, could sense the shift in his demeanor. He reached out, placing a hand on Ghost’s shoulder. “This is his fight,” Tom said softly, his voice filled with empathy. “But damn if it isn’t hard to watch.”

Gaz, always the pragmatist, kept his eyes on Harry. “We’ve seen a lot of things on this mission… but this? This is something else.”

The team exchanged glances, each of them feeling the weight of what they were witnessing. Then Soap, never one to miss an opportunity for some dark humor, leaned over to Ghost with a smirk.

“Real ghosts, mate. Looks like you’ve got competition.”

The comment drew a snort from Gaz and a raised eyebrow from Farah, but Ghost just gave Soap a side-eye glance. “They’re not wearing masks, so I think I’m safe.”

The brief exchange lightened the tension for a moment, a small reminder of their camaraderie even in the darkest of times, short lived as it was. The team exchanged glances, each of them feeling the weight of what they were witnessing. They were watching a boy willingly walk to his death, guided by the spirits of his loved ones. It was a moment that went against every instinct they had as soldiers—and as human beings.

–

Then, Voldemort appeared, flanked by his Death Eaters, their dark forms looming like shadows in the night. The dark wizard’s voice was a low, venomous hiss as he confronted Harry, every word dripping with malice. The team, hidden in the shadows, watched with mounting dread as the encounter unfolded.

Voldemort raised his wand, and the air seemed to thicken with anticipation. The moment hung in the balance, each breath the team took felt like a struggle against the inevitable. Then, with a sickening inevitability, the green light of the Killing Curse erupted from Voldemort’s wand.

The flash was blinding, a violent burst of green that seared the night, etching itself into their memories. Time seemed to slow as the light struck Harry, the boy crumpling to the ground with a lifeless thud. The brilliance of the curse left ghostly afterimages dancing in their vision, but the reality of what they had just witnessed cut deeper than any light ever could.

The forest was deathly still, the only sound the rustling of leaves in the cold wind that now felt more chilling than ever. Price’s heart pounded in his chest, his mind screaming for action. He raised his rifle, finger hovering over the trigger, eyes locked on Voldemort. “I’ve got the shot,” he murmured, the words heavy with the weight of what he knew needed to be done.

Farah’s voice was tight with grief. “We just watched a child die… and we’re supposed to do nothing?”

Soap’s usual bravado was nowhere to be found, replaced by a grim determination. “One shot, Price. Just one, and we end this bastard.”

But Ghost, always the pragmatist, cut through the tension. “Cap, hold fire. We take the shot now, we’re done. Too many of them, and we’ll be overrun.”

Price’s hand shook with the desire to pull the trigger, to end the horror then and there. His instincts warred with his better judgment as he scanned the ranks of Death Eaters surrounding Voldemort. Ghost was right; they were outnumbered, and this wasn’t the time.

Reluctantly, he lowered his rifle, every muscle in his body protesting the decision. “Stand down,” he ordered, his voice thick with frustration and grief. “We wait.”

The Death Eaters closed in around Harry’s body, confirming what they all feared—Harry Potter was dead. Voldemort’s chilling laughter echoed through the trees, a sound that twisted the knife deeper into their hearts.

Price’s voice was low and hard as he spoke into the comms. “We’re pulling back. We’re going to end this. Damage Voldemort enough to destroy his physical body. We can’t let him walk away.”

Laswell’s voice crackled over the radio, her tone one of grim resolve. “Agreed, Price. We take him down here, and we give the world time to regroup.”

Caldwell chimed in, his voice equally determined. “We’ll do what we have to. This is our last shot.”

Price nodded to his team, his gaze steely as he gave the order. “Move out. We follow them back, and when the time is right, we hit them with everything we’ve got.”

The team moved silently, the weight of what they had just witnessed pressing heavily on their shoulders. The death of a child—no matter how many times they had faced death in their lives, it never got easier. But they knew their mission wasn’t over. The world needed time to heal, and they were the ones who would buy it that time.

As they melted into the shadows, following the Death Eaters and the fallen boy, each of them steeled themselves for what was to come. This wasn’t just a mission—it was a reckoning.

—

Hagrid’s heart-wrenching sobs filled the air as he lifted Harry’s lifeless body, the weight of his grief evident in every step. The team followed at a distance, moving silently through the trees, their usual calm replaced by a heavy sense of despair. They knew this mission was far from over, but the sight of the boy’s body, carried by a man who loved him like a son, was almost too much to bear.

As they moved through the forest, the silence between them was thick with unspoken thoughts. Each of them wrestled with the reality of what they had just witnessed. They had seen death before—too many times to count—but watching a child die, and knowing they couldn’t intervene, cut deeper than anything they’d faced before.

Soap clenched his fists, his knuckles white as he forced himself to stay focused. “It never gets easier, does it? Watching them go like that…” he muttered under his breath, barely audible.

Farah nodded, her eyes fixed on Hagrid’s massive form as he trudged ahead. “No matter how many times… it’s always the same,” she whispered, her voice tinged with sorrow. “And to see it happen to someone so young… It’s just wrong.”

Price remained silent, his gaze hard as he watched Hagrid carry the boy he’d come to respect. The death of a child—it was something that gnawed at his soul, something he could never fully reconcile, no matter how many times he faced it. But he knew they had a job to finish. They couldn’t let Harry’s sacrifice be in vain.

As they reached the edge of the forest, Voldemort and his army marched toward Hogwarts, triumph clear in every step. Price and his team stayed hidden, their eyes locked on Harry’s body. The oppressive weight of the moment pressed down on them—until something happened that none of them had expected.

Against all odds, Harry stirred. The team watched in shock as Harry rolled out of Hagrid’s arms, revealing that he was very much alive.

“Bloody hell…” Soap whispered, awe and disbelief mingling in his voice.

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Farah’s voice was hushed, almost reverent. “He’s back.”

Price’s eyes narrowed as he watched Harry, a thought gnawing at the back of his mind. “The boy who lived…” he murmured, the words carrying a weight of reverence. “Could he be… the final Horcrux?” It was a chilling thought, one that sent a ripple of unease through the team.

But before they could dwell on the implications, Soap, ever quick to lighten the mood, muttered under his breath, “Maybe he just needed to take a few deep breaths before getting back into the fight.” The comment, a comment on their own combat experiences, drew a few grim chuckles from the team, easing the tension ever so slightly.

The team exchanged quick, tense glances. Their hope was rekindled, but they knew the danger was far from over. They had to act, and they had to act fast.

As they prepared to follow, a grim discussion began. Ghost, ever the realist, suggested, “We could end this quick, Cap. Order another cruise missile strike, level the whole damn place.”

Soap nodded, his voice filled with grim resolve. “Or we could call in Graves, let him rain hell from above.”

But Price shook his head, his voice cutting through the dark suggestions with finality. “No. Enough children have already died. We do this precise. We take out Voldemort without risking more lives.”

The team fell silent, each of them understanding the weight of Price’s decision. There would be no more collateral damage, no more innocent lives lost. They would do this with precision, with the care and discipline that had brought them through every battle before.

Price’s voice was firm as he gave the final order. “We’re taking Voldemort down. No more children, no more innocents. We do this right.”

The team nodded in unison, their resolve solidified. They moved into position, ready to strike when the moment was right. This was no longer just a mission—it was a vow to end the terror, once and for all.

—

The defenders of Hogwarts gasped in unison as Harry stood, defiant, before Voldemort. The final battle was about to begin. The air was thick with tension, the anticipation palpable as the fate of the wizarding world hung in the balance. Price and his team moved into position, hidden but ready to strike. Every muscle in their bodies was coiled tight, prepared for what was about to unfold.

As they settled in, Ghost positioned himself with his rifle, the weapon an extension of his own body. He was the best sniper among them, his focus unmatched, his hand steady even in the most intense situations. If anyone could land this shot, it was Ghost. He had taken down targets at impossible distances, threading the needle between chaos and precision, and today would be no different.

As the team moved into position, Ghost settled in with his rifle, his focus intense as he lined up the shot. Price, standing nearby, glanced at him and smirked.

“You don’t need thermals for this one, Ghost,” Price muttered. “Voldemort’s a cold bastard—wouldn’t show up anyway.”

The team chuckled darkly at Price’s remark, a brief moment of levity in the tense atmosphere. It was the kind of comment that kept them grounded, even in the face of an enemy as fearsome as the Dark Lord.

“Good thing, too,” Ghost replied, not missing a beat. “Wouldn’t want him slipping by.”

“We’ve taken down juggernauts, terrorists, even warlords,” Soap muttered, his eyes narrowing as he watched Voldemort. “This Dark Lord prick is just another name on our list.”

Farah, always one to add her voice, smirked. “He’s got nothing on Barkov. If we can take down that monster, this one’s just another day in the office.”

Tom joined in, his voice filled with a mix of bravado and nerves. “And don’t forget the giants and Dementors we’ve faced. This guy’s just the next in line.”

Caldwell, his wand at the ready, added with a smirk, “We’ve got this. You just do your job, Ghost, and we’ll make sure that wand of his doesn’t stand a chance.”

As the discussion about the Elder Wand unfolded between Harry and Voldemort, Price could feel the moment approaching. This was it. This was where it would all end. His heartbeat thudded in his chest, but his mind was clear, every sense heightened, ready to act.

“Bloody twig,” Soap muttered, eyes locked on Voldemort’s wand. “You reckon that stick could block a .50 cal?”

Ghost, ever the pragmatist, replied, “Only one way to find out. But I’m betting he’s not that lucky.”

The team exchanged quick, confident smirks. They had faced the impossible before, and today was no different. This was just another mission, another target—but the stakes had never been higher.

Then, with a sudden movement, Neville Longbottom stepped forward, drawing Gryffindor’s sword from the Sorting Hat. In one swift motion, he decapitated Nagini, Voldemort’s final Horcrux. The snake’s head hit the ground, and with it, the last obstacle standing between them and victory.

Farah watched the serpent’s head roll across the ground, a shiver of revulsion running through her. “Finally. I hate snakes,” she muttered, her voice filled with disdain. “Nothing good ever comes from those damn things.”

Soap, hearing her, smirked. “You and Indy both.”

Price’s voice cut through the anticipation, cold and determined. “When you see the opening, take it. Voldemort doesn’t walk away from this.”

Caldwell and Tom exchanged a glance, the gravity of what was about to happen clear in their eyes. With a flick of their wands, they channeled magic into Ghost’s rifle, enhancing its power. The weapon pulsed with energy, a slight hum vibrating through the barrel. Ghost felt the surge, the added power blending seamlessly with his own precision. He didn’t flinch—his focus remained razor-sharp.

“You two better not blow me up,” Ghost muttered, half-jokingly, as he lined up the shot, his eye locked on Voldemort.

Caldwell’s voice was steady, filled with a quiet confidence. “Trust us. This shot will count.”

The tension was unbearable as Harry raised his wand, his voice clear and strong. “Expelliarmus!”

At the same moment, Voldemort’s voice rang out, filled with venomous rage. “Avada Kedavra!”

The two spells collided in a burst of energy, but Ghost, ever the professional, had his sights set. As the curses clashed, Ghost muttered under his breath, “Oh, I can curse you too, you snake-eyed wanker,” before squeezing the trigger.

Voldemort’s wand flew from his hand, and in that split second, the bullet, now charged with magical energy, sped toward its target with deadly precision. Time seemed to slow as the bullet sliced through the air, the weight of every battle they’d fought leading to this single moment.

The bullet struck Voldemort dead center, the force of the impact halting him mid-motion. There was a crack that echoed across the battlefield—a sound almost lost in the chaos, yet deafening in its significance.

Voldemort crumpled to the ground, lifeless, as the battle raged on around him. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath, the weight of what had just happened sinking in slowly. The Dark Lord was dead.

Ghost, lowering his rifle with a smirk, muttered under his breath, “Good riddance, you pale-faced tosser.

The team exchanged looks of grim satisfaction, their mission complete. But as the battle continued around them, they knew this was far from over. There was still a war to win, but for now, they had done what they came to do. They had ended the reign of terror with one final, perfect shot.

—

Price and the others maintained their professional composure. For them, this was just another mission, but they knew this victory was different. It was final.

“Target down,” Price said quietly, signaling the end of their part in the battle.

The wizards reacted with raw emotion as the reality of Voldemort’s death settled over them. Tom let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding, his eyes shining with disbelief and relief. Caldwell, usually stoic, felt a tear slide down his cheek—this was the end of a nightmare that had haunted their world for years.

A cheer rose from the defenders of Hogwarts—shouts of victory, tears of relief. Wizards hugged one another, some crying openly, others simply staring at Voldemort’s body, unable to believe it was truly over.

Tom turned to Ghost, his grin wide and genuine. Without thinking, Ghost—usually the most reserved of the group—pulled Tom into a quick but firm hug. The unexpected gesture caught Tom off guard, but he returned it with equal warmth, the moment heavy with unspoken understanding.

When they finally pulled apart, Ghost cleared his throat, looking slightly uncomfortable but not regretting the gesture. “Good work, mate,” he muttered, his usual stoicism slipping just a bit.

The rest of the team watched the exchange with a mix of tenderness and amusement. Soap, never one to miss an opportunity, smirked. “Didn’t know you had it in you, Ghost. I’ve known you for years, and I’ve never gotten a hug.”

Farah chuckled, her voice teasing. “Guess Tom’s just special, huh?”

Despite the humor, the team remained focused. They’d seen victories before, but this one felt different. The weight of what they had just accomplished was settling in, a mix of relief and exhaustion washing over them. As they began their retreat, Price gestured for the team to start pulling back, knowing their mission was complete.

Farah, watching the wizard tac team celebrate with unrestrained joy, couldn’t help but smile. The wizards, usually so disciplined and reserved, were now exchanging high-fives, clapping each other on the back, and even tossing their hats into the air. It was a rare and well-earned moment of triumph.

“Let them have this,” she murmured to Price, her voice soft but filled with warmth. “They’ve earned it.”

Price nodded, his expression softening for just a moment as he watched the wizards’ exuberant celebration. “Aye. They have,” he agreed, a touch of pride in his voice.

The sight of the wizards, usually so focused and serious, letting loose and reveling in their victory was a reminder of the stakes they had all faced together. It wasn’t just about defeating Voldemort; it was about the bond they had formed, the sacrifices they had made, and the world they had fought to protect.

As the team commenced their quiet retreat, Price keyed his comms. “Laswell, this is Price. Mission complete. We’re ready for evac.”

Laswell’s voice crackled over the radio, calm and controlled. “Copy that, Price. Bird’s on its way. Good work, John.”

As the team disappeared into the night, Price allowed himself a small smile. They had done their job, and they had done it well. The world was free from Voldemort’s terror, and that was all that mattered.

“Job done,” Price murmured, leading his team away from the battlefield, leaving behind a world that was finally at peace.

—

As the team slipped away into the shadows, Harry stood over Voldemort’s body, a strange sense of unease creeping over him. His eyes were drawn to the small, clean hole in Voldemort’s chest—something that shouldn’t have been there. For a moment, a flicker of doubt crossed his mind. Had he truly been alone in this fight? The feeling was brief but powerful, like the sensation of unseen guardians watching over him, guiding his steps in the darkest moments.

But then he looked at his friends—at Ron, Hermione, and all those who had fought beside him. He felt the warmth of their presence, the strength of their bond, and the thought faded away. Of course he wasn’t alone. He never had been. With a final glance at Voldemort, Harry brushed off the lingering unease and turned to face the future, surrounded by the friends who had always been there, by his side.