Prologue
He was dead.
The Boy Who Lived, gone. Stricken down by the same killing curse he had survived twice before.
It was surreal.
Everyone, Death Eaters, students, and Order members alike, stood motionless, watching, waiting for him to jump up from the broken Great Hall floor. To defeat the evil You-Know-Who. But he didn't move. Not even a small twitch, a poorly concealed breath. Nothing.
He was dead.
Really. Truly. Dead.
The young man's murderer, too, appeared surprised that he had actually brought down him, Harry Potter, the almighty, the Chosen One. He sauntered over to the body, wand poised in front of him, ready to attack.
The wizard tilted his head to the side, snarling out "Crucio!" as he did. Light flashed from the tip of the Elder Wand, but Harry Potter's body gave no reaction to the unforgivable curse. He laid limp, arms and legs twisted in ways no person could ever twist comfortably. But comfortableness meant nothing to the boy anymore.
Lowering his wand, Voldemort knelt down, gaze never leaving Harry's face. He had finally defeated the one true obstacle in his way. All others he could dispose of with a simple wave of his wand. He inspected the hapless fool who dared challenge him, the all-powerful Dark Lord. He wanted to burn the image in his mind for all eternity. The image of Harry Potter, forever gone. He reached out a bony hand, digging his gnarled nails into the boy's face until they drew blood. He then jerked Harry's head to the side. The crack that echoed in the room was unintended, but it brought the murderer a sick sense of satisfaction and pride.
A shrill, bloodcurdling scream pierced the air. Voldemort reluctantly turned to the nuisance, momentarily wondering if that damned Bellatrix Lestrange had somehow come back from the grave to haunt what little soul he had left. But it wasn't. It was just a girl.
Flame red hair standing up everywhere and in every which way. Dirt, grime, and rubble covered her form. And her face – her face was contorted into an odd mixture of absolute agony and unadulterated rage. The girl was being restrained by Neville Longbottom, whom was holding her back by her thin arms. Voldemort would always remember that treacherous child. Neville Longbottom. The idiotic one who destroyed his beloved snake and horcrux, Nagini. He narrowed his eyes at the Gryffindor, not even paying half a thought to the female he was attempting to control.
Sobs broke from the redhead once her scream died down. They bounced off the walls of the Great Hall, enabling everyone to hear them as if she were right beside them all. It was like a haunting melody; one of loss, pain, and love. All of those who had been supporters of Potter felt their hearts tighten and go out to the girl who had lost so much. That was when the Dark Lord realized who she was. Ginny Weasley. Potter's love. Voldemort removed his glare from Longbottom to glance at the Weasley leaning limply in Neville's grip. Tears cascaded down her cheeks, leaving small trails where they cleaned off bits of filth. He smirked at the blubbering girl.
"You poor, poor girl," he teased, not even recognizing the small pun he made until after uttering it. "Whatever will you do without your beloved," the wizard paused, then spat, "Harry. Potter?" with a sneer. He watched as her face turned the color of her hair and the rage in her brown eyes escalated into full on blood lust.
She wanted to kill him.
The realization made him cackle.
His laughter fueled her ever-growing anger. To her, the man was a monster. He didn't deserve to live, especially when Harry no longer would. She thrashed against Neville's hold, waiting for the right moment to break free and attack.
Her wait wasn't long lived.
Neville, without thinking of any possible consequences, readjusted his hold on her arms, giving Ginny the chance to pull away. Tears of anger and despair flowed never-ending down her flushed and grimy cheeks. Quick as light, she raised her wand so it was level with Voldemort's chest. But, before she could even utter the first syllable of her curse, he flicked his wand, not even needing to vocalize the words he had repeated countless times before.
Ginevra Weasley fell, crumpling in a heap on the cracked and crumbled floor of the Great Hall, accompanying her dearest. Muffled cries from her family and friends were heard. They all attempted to stifle them, for fear they would bring more death upon their families by drawing attention with their cries.
"Does anyone else wish to challenge the Dark Lord?" he bellowed, baring his wand before him, showing how he wouldn't hesitate in killing another, or all of them. Voldemort scanned the room, looking at all of the heartbroken faces, and the victorious ones of his Death Eaters, once no one had spoken. "Hmm?" he asked once more, almost wanting someone else to step forward, just for the thrill of the kill. Silence rang through the room. Needless to say, no one challenged the dark wizard.
He shook his head, "Pity."
A/N: So, what do you think? I'll explain more in the chapters to come. I hope to write the first chapter soon, but who knows? Don't kill me. I have purpose for killing them. Reviews, criticism, and yes, even flames are appreciated.
Thanks!
JOKES