Disclaimer; I own nothing, I'm not even sure about the idea.
A/N; This is something that popped up in my head when I read the titles of recently updated stories. Don't nag me about spelling, grammar, storypremises or the like. This was written to get it out of my system. Now, excuse me while I see if I can bash some common sense into my muse's head.
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Heroes and heroines come in a few shapes. The battle-hardened, who have seen nothing but battles through their lives. The destined, who come from nowhere and just won't die until they have won and gotten the girl or boy. The unlikely, who seem to be a background figure until the very end, where they do something that wins the battle or war, often costing them their lives. There are more sorts, definitely, but I'll leave those for you to figure out.
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Voldemort looked down on the boy lying sprawled out in the grass before him. The one fated to clash with him to fulfil a prophecy had forgotten his wand. Voldemort snorted in disgusted and walked away, his Death Eaters would take care of the boy, or the corpse, he didn't care.
As Voldemort walked off from the battle some movement in a brush caught his attention, Death Eaters were expendable, especially now, and those of the Order were better of dead in his opinion.
"Avada Kedavra," he spoke in a soft, almost bored tone of voice. When the bush silenced, and most likely it's inhabitant as well, Voldemort walked on. He had conquered Great Britain, now he had to squash any remaining forces in Ireland. After that? Well, he never cared much for French. Besides, it would make a good beachhead when attacking the rest of the mainland.
"Avada Ked-ouch!" came a boy's voice from behind Voldemort, urging him to turn around. His right hand, his wand hand, caught the orange flash. His hand immediately lost all feeling and his wand fell from his grasp.
"I don't know your name, boy. But you are not surviving this encounter. At least not if you can't cast such simple spells." Voldemort had bent down and picked up the wand in his left hand while he spoke; as he rose the boy's voice was heard again.
"Avada Keda…a…achoo!" This time a red glow surrounded Voldemort, seemingly doing nothing.
"What's your name, boy?" Voldemort hissed. He was angry with the fool of a boy for appearing to attempt to humiliate him to death.
"Neville Longbottom," the boy spoke, before realising it was unwise to give your name to someone who could probably use that against you.
"Well, mister Longbottom, you die now. Avada Kedavra!" The green flash never left Voldemort, but instead surrounded him much like the red glow had done earlier. It sparkled for but a moment, and left in it's wake a dead man. Over the fields a cry of anguish could be heard, before the spellcasting resumed with new vigour. Neville checked on the man who had felled himself with use of the techniques Hermione had shown him before the great battle. The lack of pulse made Neville certain that the Dark Lord had died, at least for the time being, he soon made way towards the great battle, in hopes of doing something right, his allergy notwithstanding. Blasted common birch.