Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JKR, and the garden of sin belongs to Bosch (though I'm relatively sure the latter is public domain, as it's 500 years old).

A/N: Originally written for the HP ficathon, 7/15.

Themes and titles taken from Hieronymus Bosch's tryptych. There's a link to the painting in my profile.

Thank you to HPalto87 for beta'ing!

Downfall

I: Creation of the World

Prompt: Sacrosanct

Storm clouds gathered on the horizon, obscuring the moon. The world flickered an inconsistent green, the only light now being cast from wands.

It was a hopeless mess of a situation. The final battle had begun before we were ready for it, and the Death Eaters had easily gained the upper hand. Brave allies kept showing up to help, only to find themselves as sacrifices to the cause.

Although, I wasn't even sure I believed in the cause anymore. Were these people, who would hate and discriminate against one another so much that it would escalate into such a war, actually worth saving? Half-bloods were just as bad as the pure-bloods, and in the end, none of it would matter. All blood looks the same on a discarded battlefield.

I watched my friends fall; exhausted, broken, dead. I pushed on. There was nothing I could do for them, and how many of them had actually been my friends in the first place? They liked my name, my scar. I was their hero, a savior, and I just happened to also be good at Quidditch. If it weren't for an event that I can't even remember, they wouldn't care about me one way or another.

Because my parents were killed, I was marked as an equal of the darkest wizard of our time, and I had to fight in this stupid war, face pure evil on several occasions, and compete in a tournament I wanted nothing to do with; and let's face it, all those incredible things I've done were just pure luck. When I was fifteen, fighting Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries, I didn't know what I was doing any more than I did when I was eleven, holding the philosopher's stone.

So when we were attacked that night, I decided it would be the last time I would face Voldemort. We were outnumbered and had no plan of action, but I was confident that I at least had the power (and the pent-up anger) to win; so we dived into the battle, even though many of our fighters weren't ready. It's not like we had much of a choice, anyway. We were surrounded from the start. It was either try to run, or try to fight; and running would most likely get us killed. Hermione tried to insist that it was worth a shot; I knew better.

And then we were fighting, and my so-called friends were falling, and I was trying to make my way to Voldemort.

This turned out to be surprisingly easy. It soon became apparent that the Death Eaters were afraid of attacking me directly, and resorted to attacking the people close to me instead. It wouldn't work. I had spent a lot of time distancing myself from those people, so I wouldn't be distracted from my goal. Inwardly, I smirked, silently congratulating myself on outsmarting all of them. All they saw, however, was a determined glare set upon war-hardened features.

I came face-to-face with the Dark Lord. He acknowledged me with a curt nod before raising his wand. I cast a quick Shield spell on myself, and his attack couldn't touch me. In the moment he took between spells, I cast mine: a powerful Killing Curse. The brightest greens on the battlefield that night were my curse and my eyes, for I had won.

As I lifted my face to the heavens, victorious and finally free, the rains began, washing away the blood, the remorse, and the pain of the past seventeen years of my life.