"It's over, Voldemort," said Harry Potter.
Though spellburnt and exhausted, Harry stood before his nemesis boldly, wand in hand, ready to finish with an incantation the reign of terror his foe had started decades ago.
Voldemort was in a poor shape; his pale, waxy skin looked as though it was trying to run off his bones, which jutted out in ways that put an end to any pretense of humanity. He still had a wand, though, and in it, a chance.
"I must confess that I am surprised, Harry. As impertinent as you are, I'd expected you to mock me, rather than call me by my proper name. Perhaps you've learned some manners, after all."
Harry grinned.
"It's the least I could do. I mean, it's a stupid name, but you've earned it."
Voldemort shouted two words then, a spell you surely know, but one which I daren't repeat.
You've been told the story from here, I'm sure. For the second time in all of history, a spell that couldn't be stopped was reflected back on its caster, and Voldemort was defeated once and for all.
Voldemort toppled backwards, his face frozen in the unique mixture of shock and embarrassment that results from proving an enemy's point through suicide.