Nascor Denuo
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The final battle was a mess of mud, body parts and blood. The rain had stopped an hour ago. Creatures and wizards alike, both Light and Dark, lay drowning in their own fluids. At the top of a hill before the Forbidden Forest three figures dueled in a dance of emerald and ruby light, their voices rising and falling in the wind. Voldemort was weakening. He knew it would not be long before his last reserves of power would fail him. And now there was not a single Horcrux left to save him from death. Suddenly the three opponents stopped and observed one another for a moment. The two young wizards facing the Dark Lord were as different as earth and sky, fire and water.
Harry Potter, the Chosen One, prophesied to defeat him or die should he fail. Unruly shoulder length black hair snapped in the wind and emerald eyes burned with hatred. Tattered and bloodstained battle robes clung to his strong figure. In the year leading up to this moment Potter had become a man. With the application of nutrition potions and combat training, his skinny frame had thickened, put on well defined muscle and shot up to a height of 6'5. War had no mercy for the weak, as Severus Snape once said.
Draco Malfoy, however, seemed to be the exception to this rule. In the past year he had grown in height to match Potter but he had not had the benefit of nutrition potions nor a person who cared to prepare him for the coming conflict. Indeed, Malfoy had spent the last year 7 months languishing in the dungeons of his own home. Stretched and thin, he looked as though he was made of brittle twigs bound together beneath his translusent skin. Even sickly as he was, his silver eyes burned with the same hatred as Potter's though a familiar madness glittered in their depths. Dirty blond locks that had been shorn close to the skull during his imprisoment had grown and now reached his ears. The robes he wore were not fit for battle as evidenced by the blood leaking through the thin cloth and the shivers that racked his failing body but the young man did not seem to care.
The moment, for it had only been a moment, broke and the battle raged on once more. Calling on the last shreds of power and the sick twisted strands left of his soul, Voldemort screamed the darkest curse he knew, one that surpassed even Avada Kedavra in its evil nature. Only the Unspeakables of the Department of Mysteries knew of its existence, so sensitive was the knowledge of this spell. As twin beams of green shot towards his form, he laughed and the words that reached the champions ears burned through their minds like acid before darkness took them.
"UT DELEO SUUM ANIMUS!"
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Notes
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Nascor Denuo is Latin for "to be born anew". Corny, I know.
Ut deleo suum animus is Latin for "to erase their souls". Come on, what's worse? Being killed or having your very being erased from existence? There would be no one to mourn or remember you because you never existed in the first place.
And here I'm assuming Moldyvort's magic knew to seek out his opponents and not just everyone on the battlefield.
So, who likes it?