Harry was the Prophesied One, Destined to stop Voldmort. Right? M for language and death.
It was a battlefield. The sounds of pain-filled screams drowned out many of the curses. But in the center of the battlefield, there was a strange silence.
There were but two people to be concerned with; one, a young man, rather gangly, with messy black hair, broken glasses askew, and bright green eyes. His opponent is in all things different - tall, scaly skin, red eyes. Both had wands out, and the sense of Destiny lingered, thick in the air. This would be the last battle. They both could feel it in their blood, in the air.
The wands pointed out. They both cried out, "Avada Kedavra!" and green light filled the dueling area.
When the light fades, only one figure was left standing. A young man and woman, one a red-head, the other a brunette both screamed, the words heart-broken and torn from their souls, "Noooooo! Harry!"
Voldemort turned towards the two, and lifted his wand up once more, when one of the masked men called out, "My Lord! Look out! He's going to use the AK..."
"I fear no Killing Curse..." the Dark Lord said, ignoring the warning. Then, beyond all reason or hope, came the response, "Who said anything about a Killing Curse. I got a fuckin' AK-47 here, asshole. Eat lead!"
And before He Who Could Not Be Named could turn, the sound of a hundred hammers filled the air, and before the echoes could fade... what was left of Tom Riddle laid on the ground next to his rival, a body riddles with holes. In shock, the witnesses looked from the ruin of a Dark Lord to the man who spoke. It was Hermione who whispered in disbelief, eyes on the rather pudgy young man, carrying a Muggle automatic machine gun, "...Neville?"
AN: Well, there you go. Sorry if you were expecting something longer. First attempt at published writing, so let me know what you think.