"RELEASE ME!" Voldemort's scream held genuine shock, no one had dared to lay hands on him in decades, to touch the physical form he considered nearly divine. His free hand clawed at Marquas's face, nails sharp as talons drawing bloody furrows down his cheek.
Their struggle became primitive, physical, magic momentarily forgotten in the desperate grappling for the Horcrux. Marquas felt Voldemort's unnatural strength as the Dark Lord tried to throw him off, but he clung with the determination of a man who knew this might be his only chance.
"GET THE DIARY!" he shouted to James and Sirius, unsure if they could even hear him through the deafening cacophony of battle. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth as Voldemort's elbow connected with his already damaged ribs.
Pain exploded through Marquas's torso as Voldemort's knee drove into his injured side. Something gave way with a wet crunch, another rib splintering, perhaps puncturing something vital. Each breath became agony, a desperate wheeze as his lungs struggled to inflate. But even as darkness threatened at the edges of his vision, Marquas managed to slam Voldemort's wand hand against the stone mantelpiece. The impact resonated up his arm, the jarring sensation of bone striking stone.
Beneath his grip, he felt the delicate bones of Voldemort's wrist give way with a sound like snapping twigs. The Dark Lord's howl of pain was inhuman, echoing through the room as his wand clattered to the floor. But the diary remained clutched in his other hand, pressed protectively against his chest like a talisman.
From across the room, Bellatrix's head snapped toward them, her battle with Sirius forgotten as she sensed her master's distress. Her remaining eye widened in horror at the sight of Voldemort, her lord, her god, locked in physical combat with a mere mortal.
"DON'T TOUCH HIM!" She abandoned all pretense of strategy, launching herself across the room with a banshee scream that cut through the din of battle. "TAKE YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF THE DARK LORD!"
Her curse struck Marquas between the shoulder blades, a whip of pure agony that sent him sprawling across the expensive carpet. His muscles seized, nerves alight with fire from whatever dark magic she'd employed. Through watering eyes, he saw Voldemort stagger away, wandless but still clutching the diary, his red eyes blazing with murderous intent.
"KILL HIM!" Voldemort ordered, his usual cold composure shattered by rage and pain. He cradled his broken wrist against his chest, alongside the diary. "KILL THEM ALL!"
The drawing room doors burst open with a sound like thunder. Order members poured in, led by Albus Dumbledore himself. The Headmaster's aura of power was palpable, a warm pressure against the skin that contrasted with Voldemort's cold radiation. Spells flew in all directions as the battle escalated to new heights, the very air thick with conflicting magics that made it difficult to breathe.
Through watering eyes, Marquas forced himself to focus. The after-effects of Bellatrix's curse still wracked his body with tremors, but through supreme effort, he pushed himself to his knees. Around him, the battle had transformed into something beyond an ordinary wizard's duel, this was titans clashing, magic at its most primal and devastating.
Sirius was pinned down by both Bellatrix and another Death Eater whose silver mask had been half-blasted away to reveal Rabastan Lestrange's scarred face. James fought like a man possessed, his movements becoming more desperate as Lucius drove him further into a corner, blood leaving a constellation of droplets on the marble floor with each step.
And there was Voldemort, backing toward a concealed side door, the diary still clutched against his chest. His broken wrist hung at an unnatural angle, yet he seemed not to notice the injury in his determination to escape with the Horcrux intact. His serpentine eyes met Marquas's across the chaos of the room, hatred radiating from them like physical heat.
"YOU WILL NEVER HAVE IT!" Voldemort's voice cut through the din, triumph edging his words despite his retreat.
Marquas had one chance, one desperate, impossible move. With trembling fingers, he withdrew the basilisk fang from within his robes. The distance between them was too great for physical attack, twenty feet of battle-torn drawing room separated Marquas from his target. But magic could bridge that gap.
Gathering the last dregs of his power, focusing through pain that threatened to blank his consciousness, Marquas cast a silent banishing charm. The spell left his wand with such force that it knocked him backward onto the floor. The basilisk fang rocketed across the room like a heat-seeking missile, its trajectory unerring toward the diary in Voldemort's grasp.
Time slowed. Voldemort's eyes widened as he recognized the object hurtling toward him. Comprehension dawned on his serpentine features, alarm, then disbelief, then the beginning of a defensive movement that came a heartbeat too late.
The basilisk fang struck the diary with uncanny precision, piercing the cover and sinking deep into the enchanted pages with a sound like a blade entering flesh. For one surreal moment, nothing happened, just a small, ancient tooth protruding from a seemingly ordinary book.
Then the diary began to scream.
The sound that tore from its pages wasn't human or animal, it was the wail of something fundamental being unmade, a piece of soul recognizing its own destruction. Black ink erupted from the puncture like arterial blood, pulsing in rhythm with the scream as it soaked Voldemort's robes and hands.
"NO!" The word ripped from Voldemort's throat, matching the diary's unholy cry. He clutched the bleeding Horcrux tighter even as the toxic ink burned his skin, raising blisters wherever it touched. His face contorted in agony beyond the physical, the pain of soul-death, of feeling a piece of himself being unmade.
Across the room, Bellatrix's scream joined her master's. She abandoned her duel and rushed toward him, tears streaming down her ravaged face. "MASTER! MASTER!" Raw fear replaced the madness in her eyes as she watched Voldemort fall to his knees, the diary still clutched to his chest as it hemorrhaged ink.
The magical backlash of the dying Horcrux rippled outward in concentric waves of dark energy. Windows shattered in their frames, crystal chandeliers crashed to the floor, and combatants from both sides were knocked off their feet by the sheer magical discharge. The very foundations of Malfoy Manor groaned in protest, ancient stones shifting as magic never meant to be contained indoors ravaged the structure.
Through the chaos, Dumbledore advanced on Voldemort, his weathered face set in grim determination, wand raised not in anger but in sorrowful necessity. Power radiated from the Headmaster, not the cold, oppressive aura of Voldemort's magic, but something warm and implacable as a summer storm.
"It's over, Tom," Dumbledore said, his voice carrying despite its softness. "Surrender now."
"YOU WILL NOT TOUCH HIM!" Bellatrix threw herself between them, her wand a blur as she cast a blasting curse not at Dumbledore but at the floor between them. Marble exploded upward, creating a wall of debris and choking dust that momentarily obscured vision.
The distinctive crack of apparition cut through the din, impossible, given the manor's legendary anti-apparition wards. But when the dust settled, both Voldemort and Bellatrix were gone, leaving only a pool of ink-like blood where they had stood.
The diary remained behind, impaled by the basilisk fang, its pages now still and sodden with ink that no longer pulsed with unnatural life. The Horcrux was beyond repair, the fragment of soul it had contained obliterated by basilisk venom, one of the few substances in the wizarding world capable of destroying such dark magic.
Marquas collapsed onto his back, staring up at the manor's vaulted ceiling as the adrenaline ebbed, leaving only pain and bone-deep exhaustion. Each breath sent fire through his broken ribs, but a grim smile tugged at his bloodied lips.
"It's done," he gasped as James fought his way to his side, looking nearly as battered as Marquas felt. "The diary, Voldemort's first Horcrux, the one he made as a student, it's destroyed. The fragment of his soul that started it all is gone."
James knelt beside him, his robes torn and blood streaking his face from a deep gash that would likely leave yet another scar. His glasses hung broken from one ear, yet his hazel eyes burned with fierce triumph. "We need to get out of here now, before they regroup."
"Sirius?" Marquas asked, looking around frantically for their companion, suddenly fearing the worst.
"Here," came Sirius's strained voice. He limped toward them, supported by Remus Lupin who had arrived with Dumbledore. Half of Sirius's handsome face was badly burned, the skin angry red and already blistering. His left arm hung at an unnatural angle, clearly broken in at least two places. Yet somehow he still managed a shadow of his usual roguish grin. "Should've known a Black family reunion would end with at least one of us halfway to a closed-casket funeral. "
Despite everything, the pain, the danger, the grim reality of their situation, Marquas felt a bubble of inappropriate laughter rise in his chest. Even wounded and half-dead, the Marauders maintained their defiant spirit.
"Secure the diary," Dumbledore commanded, already organizing the Order's retreat as fresh Death Eaters began to rally in other parts of the manor. From somewhere deeper in the house came the sound of running feet and shouted orders. "We must leave immediately."
Alastor Moody, his magical eye spinning wildly to track multiple threats, limped forward and snatched up the destroyed Horcrux with a dragonhide-gloved hand. He secured it in an enchanted container that hummed faintly as it sealed.
"Move, all of you!" he barked, his normal eye narrowed with urgency while the magical one rolled upward to peer through the ceiling. "We've got incoming, at least a dozen Death Eaters from the north wing!"
They fought their way back through the manor, Order members providing covering fire as they retreated toward the boundaries where they could disapparate. The battle continued unabated, Death Eaters pouring from other parts of the house, determined to prevent their escape.
Curses flew in every direction as they retreated, striking friend and foe alike. Through the chaos, Marquas saw Frank Longbottom take a curse meant for his wife, crumpling to the ground before Alice could drag him behind cover. Moody lost another chunk of his already scarred face deflecting a killing curse aimed at Remus, who was struggling to support both Sirius and an injured Emmeline Vance.
The journey through the manor's opulent halls became a blur of pain and desperate spellwork. They moved as a unit, the stronger protecting the wounded, the destroyed diary passing from hand to hand to ensure it wouldn't be recaptured if someone fell. Blood left a trail behind them, breadcrumbs marking their passage through gilded corridors and grand staircases now scarred by battle.
Finally, after what felt like hours but was likely only minutes, they reached the manor's boundaries. The air changed as they crossed an invisible line, the oppressive weight of the anti-apparition wards lifting like a physical burden removed. Behind them, the manor blazed with magical fire, flames in unnatural colors consuming centuries of dark history.
"NOW!" Dumbledore commanded, and with multiple cracks of displaced air, the Order of the Phoenix disappeared into the night, taking with them the shattered remains of Voldemort's final Horcrux, and with it, his claim to immortality.
Marquas's last glimpse of Malfoy Manor showed Death Eaters pouring from its doors, too late to stop their escape. Voldemort himself was nowhere to be seen, already gone to nurse his wounds and his rage. The Dark Lord was mortal once more, and nothing was more dangerous than a wounded, cornered predator with nothing left to lose.