Death
It had been four long years, since the fall of Lord Voldemort, the golden trio's exit from Hogwarts, the end of one man's life and the beginning of another's.
The imminent fall of the dark lord was less spectacular, than most had anticipated. Darkness did not fall upon the land, the heavens did not offer up their lights nor did the earth open up to swallow the darkness upon her surface. In fact, after the destruction of the last Horcrux all it took was a single curse; a singular ray of green light and the thing that called itself a man fell under the very hand of the boy he'd marked his equal. The irony of a self fulfilling prophecy, would cause many to debate afterwards, what would have happened if he hadn't committed suicide so to speak, the first time round, by marking a baby as his equal. Thus sending into motion a myriad of events that would soon count down to his 'second' death.
Celebration rang through wizarding England that night and months to follow, as the masses truly realised, the prophecy had been fulfilled and the shackles invisibly binding their feet had fallen. Believing 'they' had truly rid the world of all that was truly vile and evil, joy overtook them all as they celebrated not only death but life as well. Only years after were they to really realise the implications of the resurrected dark lord's short but vicious reign.
Whilst Tom Riddle had been a vindictive, egotistical dictator of sorts during his original reign, death taught him much. In his resurrection he came to realise, fear, even though paralysing, could only take one so far. In order to achieve complete and utter domination he had to aim for the source. Infiltrate their innermost core and corrupt the very thing that kept the resistance alive and strong. He had to strip them of all hope and faith and instil within their very soul's his ambition, his hatred, his ideal.
Perhaps if Lord Voldemort had known just how much he had succeeded, he would have gone easier into the eternal darkness that was his after life.
Weeks preceding the dark Lord's fall an underground fire ran wild through Europe. Old societies were reborn, forgotten bloodlines renewed as the darkest of dark magic spurted anew from the wells of Menalus.