Harry
thought he would always remember the first person he killed.
He
forgot.
Because the first blended into the second and third which
mixed into the tens and twenties which blurred into hundreds.
The
one Harry could never forget, was the last.
It wasn't on the
battlefield, nor did it happen during the hundred years of unrest
that followed.
Callused black hands comforted and held wrinkled
white hands steady.
A small please
slipped from Harry's mouth, but the man on the bed shook his head.
Please,
Harry. I need this.
Tears
glistened in Harry's eyes and three slipped before he could wipe
them away.
Then he said the spell he swore would never pass his
lips again.
Avada.
Kedavra.
The
tombstone read:
Blaise
Zabini
Beloved