Title: Famous Last Words
Author: Jilly James
Fandom: Harry Potter, NCIS
Characters: Harry Potter, Tony DiNozzo, Zale Wright
Pairing: Tony/Zale (more off-screen than not)
Word Count: 995
Warnings: Character deaths different from how those deaths happened in canon, some violence and gross imagery. No beta. Decapitation. Because SWORDS.
Author Note: You could sorta, maybe, if you want to connect this to Pink, my other HP/NCIS short. I’ve borrowed Zale from Keira for this story too, except he’s on screen this time.
Summary: It seemed like a good idea at the time…
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SCIF – Sensitive Compartmentalized Information Facility.
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It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
Harry’s life summed up in one sentence.
Dad always said, “You’re a teenaged boy, which means you have an extra allotment of stupid decisions.” As he faced Voldemort, he figured he’d used up his allowance of stupid for the rest of his life.
His adopted fathers had never hidden the situation in Britain from Harry, but they had been determined that Harry wouldn’t be involved. But even though his parents had plans, they still made sure Harry trained. Hard. So that if Voldemort came for him, he’d be prepared.
Harry had never expected that day to come so soon.
He’d carried the burden of knowing Voldemort was alive for over two years while he was safe in Virginia. He’d known Dad and Zale were working the problem, but when Dumbledore had somehow found him, shown up within their wards saying that Voldemort had kidnapped his father… Well, Harry got stupid.
There’d been no answer when he’d called, and Dad always answered. He’d tried using his communication mirror to reach Zale. Nothing. He’d panicked and gone with Dumbledore.
Now he was facing off against the sorta-man who’d killed his biological parents. Who wanted nothing more than to kill Harry because of some muttered words that might not even be about him.
He wasn’t ready. For all that he’d trained and had dozens of spells rattling around in his head, he knew he wasn’t prepared.
“Any last words, Harry Potter?” Voldemort near-hissed as he brandished his wand at Harry. His Death Eaters laughed as if that were comic gold.
Harry was almost more annoyed by the bad repartee he’d been forced to endure than his shitty choice to go with the old goat—who was a big old lying liar who lied! Because Sortamort did not have Dad. Mr. high and mighty Albus Fucksagoat was trying to force this confrontation secure in the belief that somehow Harry would win. With the power the dark lord knows not.
The problem was that Harry didn’t know either!
Having no interest in further witless banter with Lizardlips, he figured he’d try the most aggressive parselmagic spell he knew and then hope.
He’d just opened his mouth to hiss the spell when he noticed a faint shimmer next to Sortamort. A second later, an invisibility cloak fell away. Harry had barely registered his father standing there—his squib father—when Sortamort’s head went flying.
It took Harry a beat to register that Dad had a fucking sword.
Death Eaters raised their wands and Harry shook off his shock, preparing to come to his father’s defense, when they started to drop, heads snapping back before crumpling to the ground.
It took Harry embarrassingly long to realize the Munchers were being killed by a sniper. “Uncle Jethro,” he breathed, looking around, trying to see where his father’s old mentor was, but all he saw was grass and trees.
In the next instant, Harry felt himself surrounded by a powerful shield. He knew the feel of his other father’s magic and wasn’t frightened or surprised when Zale popped in front of him and began firing off spells toward the Death Eaters.
Suddenly, the surviving VoldieMinions apparated away, and Harry found himself pulled into a fierce hug.
“You scared me to death, Harry!” Zale whispered against his hair.
“Dumbledore said Sortamort had Dad!” Harry countered, trying to peer around Zale to find his father. “I couldn’t find either of you.”
“We were set up. There was a dampening field around me and, by the time I got out, you were gone and your idiot father had left the U.S. with Gibbs and Fornell. I’ve been tracking him as he was tracking you.”
Harry finally got eyes on his father. “What is Dad doing?”
Zale turned, keeping one arm around Harry’s shoulders. They both stared for several long moments. “He appears to be hacking up Voldemort.”
“Why?” Harry asked, utterly bemused. Fortunately, Sortamort wasn’t…juicy. He seemed kind of dry and desiccated.
“I’m making Voldiebits!” Dad grunted with the next down stroke of the sword, lopping off a foot. “It’s helping me work off hours of terror and frustration.” And there went the leg at the knee. “And it’s saving you from being grounded until you’re Dumblefuck’s age.”
Harry sighed as his hair was ruffled by Uncle Tobias. Uncle Jethro just shot him a look that said they’d be having words later. “So how long am I grounded for?”
Dad seemed to have finished portioning Sortamort and stuck the sword in the ground and braced his weight on it, glaring at Harry. “Until you have two Ph.Ds. and three masteries.”
Harry scuffed the dirt with his toe. “The old goat said Voldie had you.”
Harry made a face. As the director of a federal agency, Dad was in SCIF mode sometimes, and Harry hadn’t thought about that. If he couldn’t reach his fathers, he was supposed to call Uncle Jethro.
“Get over here,” Dad said tiredly.
Immediately, Harry ran over held onto his father for all he was worth.
“Tony, my love,” Zale said sounding odd, “where did you get that sword?”
“What?” Dad pulled back and ran his hand over the hilt. Harry stared down at it, thinking it looked familiar. “Oh. This thing. I grabbed it as I was about to portkey out of the British Ministry. I’m not even sure why. I planned to shoot him, but the sword was just there…” he shrugged. “I was on the fencing team in prep school, you know.”
“I don’t want you to panic…” Zale stepped close to them. “That’s Excalibur. No one is supposed to be able to remove it from the stone.”
Harry’s mouth fell open, an exact replica of Dad’s expression.
“What?!” Dad yelped.
Harry suddenly giggled. “You are in way more trouble than me.”
Dad glared but then his expression turned sheepish. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
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Most of my short stories are prompt fills. As with my longer works, they are not up for adoption.