Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and its components belong to their creator, J. K. Rowling. I make no money and intend no copyright or trademark infringement with this work.
At the culmination of an epic battle beneath stormy Scottish skies, a seventeen-year-old wizard fulfils the prophecy that has dictated his entire life. Harry Potter triumphs at last over the evil that threatens his country, his world, and humanity itself. One-shot
This is my idea of how the Harry Potter series might end, including scar as the last word, as JKR has said. I wrote this short one-shot last summer, when I was in a particularly gloomy mood, shortly after 7-7. It isn't my usual style, as you can see.
Hero
Blinding green light – the same green light that had always haunted Harry's nightmares – lit the Hogwarts grounds, recently turned battlefield. Harry watched in horror as it engulfed the tall, lanky figure of his best friend.
"RON!" shouted Harry. "NOOOOOOOO! NOT YOU TOO, RON –"
But the freckled face did not stir; the brown eyes remained closed as though in eternal sleep.
"He is dead, Harry," said Voldemort softly.
At the sound of his enemy's voice, a fierce determination seized Harry. He no longer felt the pain in his scar as he stared into the pitiless, inhuman red eyes of his parents' murderer.
The prophecy spoke of a power he had but Voldemort did not, the only advantage Harry had over him. As Dumbledore – Harry felt a deep pang of sorrow – had once said, it was his heart. It was his ability to love, and ultimately, his ability to suffer, for no other emotion caused as much pain as love did. No wonder Tom Riddle considered it a weakness rather than a power … yet what Riddle, who had never loved, did not know, was that there was no stronger emotion – and no magic more powerful – than love.
Voldemort turned his wand upon Harry. "For too long now you have stood in the path of Lord Voldemort. You survived on borrowed time when you should have joined your Mudblood mother in death fifteen years ago … but not even your luck could last indefinitely, Harry Potter. It ends now." Voldemort raised his wand.
Without thinking, without hesitating, Harry moved his own wand in the double-flick motion McGonagall had taught him. The Conjuring spell worked, and the sword of Gryffindor materialised in his hand. The sky suddenly seemed darker, thick grey clouds looming overhead as Harry lifted the sword high, the ruby-encrusted hilt familiar and comforting in his hand.
The Dark wizard opened his mouth, no doubt to speak the Killing Curse, but Harry was ready.
He brought the silver sword down in one swift motion and plunged it straight into Voldemort's heart.
A shrill, chilling scream was heard over the area; scarlet eyes opened wide in shock, and Harry saw their cat-like pupils shrink. A rivulet of warm, crimson blood hit Harry in the face, staining his glasses, and trickled down his cheeks. Harry shuddered in disgust. To his relief, his skin was soon washed clean by the rain pouring from the sky, and for once he was glad for the bleak weather.
His unruly black hair plastered with water, looking almost neat for once, the bloody sword in his hands being slowly washed clean by the downpour from the sky, Harry Potter stood in the mud in soaked, bloodstained robes. Behind foggy glasses, his emerald-green eyes were shining with a strange sense of peace. He had finally fulfilled his destiny; he had completed the mission that had been assigned to him before his birth.
A bolt of lightning, so familiar a shape, illuminated the skies. It was a shape that would from now on be but a legend, for had he looked in a mirror, Harry Potter would have discovered that his forehead no longer bore a scar.