Harry stood stock-still and frantically tried to control his breathing.

The one part of him that would never acknowledge defeat, would never really deign to lose, would never stop fighting while it still lived on, was thinking. Harry's Dark Side, or more accurately the leftovers of Riddle's thought patterns, was generating strategies against its progenitor, preferably painful ones. Kill or otherwise incapacitate Lord Voldemort and 37 adult wizards without speaking or moving...

A power he knows not...

A POWER HE KNOWS NOT

Harry did not move. He did not need to. He pictured a tiny, microscopically thin line travelling from where his fingers touched his wand, through his own skin, through the ground, up through the Death Eaters' masks and Voldemort's robes -

- where it branched into a relatively thicker shape across the spinal cord and through the brain -

- such that the total volume was very, very small

Beneath the moonlight glints a tiny fragment of silver, a fraction of a line...

- Transfigured, as he had been practicing, first Voldemort and then the goons into sulphuric acid -

Black robes, falling

Blood spills out in liters

- and before Voldemort could recover from the pain of the resonance enough to desert his body...

And someone screams a word.

Harry's wand jabbed up and he roared, "OBLIVIATE!"