With Dumbledore gone, there were less protections around the castle. There were less signs of their impending doom. The only warning came from a chorus of booms and screams from the great doors. All eyes in the Great Hall turned, frozen to the spot as they listened, all quiet.
The sounds of shouting and thunderous footsteps echoed in the silent Hall.
He had come.
The children started to panic, started to try to flee the Great Hall, go anywhere but where the Death Eaters were going to be. But everything stopped. Time slowed as the doors to the Great Hall flew open. Spells, all of them immobilizing spells, flew in large numbers. They settled over the occupants of the Great hall, stilling everyone, all frozen in position.
No sounds, save the heavy breathing from everyone.
The Death Eaters were silent now, lined up, creating a walkway for their Master.
Lord Voldemort.
Barely heard screams, sobs, and sharp intakes of breath.
He had come.
Only one person could move, only one person could do anything besides cry silent tears, watching their last minutes of existance form torturous immobility.
One person, barely a man, still so young. And yet, he had never been young. He was older by far than most anyone in this castle. All you had to do was look in his eyes.
Haunted, deep, terribly old, worn eyes. Eyes that had seen unimaginable destruction. Eyes that had seen deaths by the thousands. Eyes that held the guilt of every one of those deaths.
But curiously, they were now blank.
Understanding filtered though. A blank peace.
He was going to die today.
Maybe they both would.
Hopefully... Hopefully they both would...
Harry stood, his robes swishing around his ankles as he straightened. He dusted himself off, made sure to have his wand within easy access. He knew that Voldemort was cunning, and that he most probably would kill him before Harry got within ten feet of him. But another part, the part that had been attatched to this monster for seven years now, knew that Voldemort would wait. Would speak his piece before the final confrontation.
His steps echoed hollowly in the silence of the Great Hall, as he walked slowly to meet this madman. All those who could see him wondered, they wondered "What is he doing?" And all he could offer them was a smile, a blank, reassuring smile.
It was fake.
He was fake.
And now, he didn't have to pretend anymore.
"Voldemort."
"Haaarrryyy..." So drawn out, so condescending.
A head bent ever so slightly in recognition.
"So it comes to this?" No accusation, a simple, honest question.
A tilt of the inhuman head.
"Yesss. Here. Where all can see your downfall, and my ultimate victory!" Hissed Voldemort.
A nod.
"Yes, then. Shall we?"
So calm. The monster was taken aback, almost visually affronted.
"Have you nothing to say to them? No final words, no heroic speech?" Voldemort asked, laughing.
"Why would I give a heroic speech? There is no Hero here. Only You, only Me."
A self-depriciating smile. A slight shrug.
"There is no one here." He looked down at himself.
"There never was."
Two wands drawn, quickly.
Two curses spoken at the same time.
Two jets of light, one green, one black.
One fallen, one standing.
Two fallen, one standing.
Twelve fallen, one standing.
Twenty fallen, one standing.
Thirty fallen, four standing.
All fallen, all standing.
One whispered curse, a jet of green light.
The One, Fallen.
All standing. None daring move. Whispers, sobs. One entire table, sitting heavily, grief overwhelming. Two tables, three, four.
All seated, all trying to understand what just happened.
Voldemort was dead.
The Death Eaters had died with him, souls attatched through the Dark Mark, called to Hell for heinous crimes.
Harry was dead.
Their savior, the one who had been so counted upon, so looked down upon, even on his pedistal of duty.
The one no one knew, until now.
He was dead.
But he had never really been alive, they realized. How could they have missed it? The softly smiling, almost silent boy; for that was what he was, a boy. No more.
A boy of seventeen. Who was never loved. Never accepted for being a boy. Only for being The-Boy-Who-Lived.
Hushed crying turned into loud sobs as they grieved. Harry hadn't defeated Voldemort, he had Killed him.
Killed.
And then, he had used the killing curse.
The Avada Kevadra.
He had used it on himself.
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Just a drabble. A stupid idea. I don't care if you review, no one ever does anyways. Hope you liked.