The park was windy, rain pelting the river that ran through it. The tree trunks, green with moss, had every little critter hiding in its shelter. A few leaves flew out of the tree, forced to leave by the wind. The sky was a dark grey, almost black. The town clock chimed five o'clock p.m. with big dongs. The cobble stones that lined the footpath where slippery and shiny. Reds, greens, and blues flew everywhere out of the tips of the yew, oak, and mahogany wands. The spells, charms, and curses occasionally hit their target. Bodies in black, whites, and grey cloth falling lifelessly to the wet, dewy, green grass. Hot, red blood streaming down the sides of faces.
And then there was her. Her chocolate brown curls, dancing with the wind. Tears mixed in with blood, trailing down her pale cheeks. Her wand in the air, her mouth unmoving, apart from the slight tremor of her lower lip. Her warm, brown eyes darting all around her, pointing at something with cloaks of black and white shot from her wand like a snake weaving its way through the wind and rain towards its target to strike.
And then there was him. His pale blonde hair, untidy with the rips of wind streaking through the air, some locks falling before his eyes. His angry, grey eyes alert and sharp, trained on the vibrating magic that flowed through the air. His father faced him, his face contorted with a rage, furious rage. His eyes locked on his fathers, anger apparent in the older, hate apparent in the younger. The youngest was faster, shooting white through the air, hitting its mark. The younger watched the lifeless body hit the dewy grass that it had stood in. For him, the war was over.