It seemed as though the Dark Lord and Harry Potter had cast their spells simultaneously. They should have rebounded. One should not have overpowered the other. It was not so.
'Avada Kedavra!'
'Expelliarmus!'
Harry should have heeded Lupin's words, about not using his supposed signature moves. Stun, if you aren't prepared to kill. Did he listen? No.
So much like his father. It was fitting they both met their deaths at the hand of the same being. Both attempting to protect the people they loved, driven by loyalty and courage; Gryffindors until the final moment.
Slytherin had the lowest number of fatalities that day.
Gryffindor suffered the most.
Of course, Slytherin was the only house after that day.
When the Dark Lord's Killing Curse touched Harry, he did not have a clichéd flashback of his life. He thought only of his family, the ones that had passed away long ago, and the ones that were standing, watching his death. He did not see green. He saw the Gryffindor banners: crimson and gold.
The onlookers watched, aghast, as their one hope passed into the void. But his friends did not watch.
They broke.
Ginny watched him go, and thought of how she should feel when her one true love died. Then she realised that Harry had ended their relationship. Hot tears coursed down her face. Why didn't she say I love you? Why didn't he say goodbye? Later, those questions would turn into statements. He gave up the fight. He didn't love you. Not in the end.
Ron felt hopelessness pervade his spirit, and not even his newfound sweetheart in Hermione could dull the sharp grating pain of losing his twin, mother and now, best friend, in the same night. Sometimes he had secretly wished Harry away, so that people might know him for something other than The Boy Who Lived's Best Friend but he had never wanted this to happen. Was it his fault then? Yes, it was, it must have been, because he had wished it so hard one night in their fourth year, after Harry's name was drawn from the Goblet of Fire. His fault, all his fault, he was to blame, his fault…
Hermione did not suffer the grief long. Two Deatheaters grasped her arms tightly, though she had lost the will to fight, and what was there to fight for? In her final seconds the contents of every book she had read, all her vast stores of knowledge disappeared. She forgot the words, the spells, the useless information. 'Harry. Ron. Mum, Dad.' She whispered the names of her dearest. 'I tried my best.' The Deatheaters drew their wands and left the Muggleborn lying on the bloodstained grass.
The Weasley family prided themselves on togetherness. Through thick and thin. But not through times of war, where blood traitors were being slaughtered. Even Pure Blood was spilt. A woman who lived for the happiness and well-being of her family was buried far away from them after losing a duel. Her passion for her husband and children could not overcome the prowess and sadistic nature of a beautiful witch with no conscience.
Neville did his grandmother proud that day. He said no to the Dark Lord, and she was so proud. Her pride turned to horror as the flames from the Sorting Hat burned him away, piece by piece. As she wept, she was still proud, and that was all he had wanted: her approval. In death, he showed her who he was. A true Gryffindor. And yet there had been no time to draw the sword.
Draco Malfoy died too that day. He did not do so physically, but his soul did. He turned his back Harry, after he had helped him escape the Fiendfyre. He betrayed them, thinking Potter would come out of this alive. He always did, didn't he? His conscience soothed his mind with lies. Draco did not believe a single one of them.
Soon, the flames tearing through the Dark Lord's beloved Hogwarts were extinguished by the wands of his faithful band, and they rounded up the survivors, and crushed any spirit of rebellion they may have been keeping, by burning the body of the one who had been tested against him, continually, until the last battle, where he had broken. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. Once.
His ashes scattered over the grounds, and disappeared.
The Dark Lord's slit-like eyes surveyed the battlefield, a small portion of the wizarding world he had conquered.