The skies were grey
The clouds had entirely engulfed the Sun,
Leaving the school in darkness,
If it's still considered a school.
Bodies lie among ruins,
Memories among the shattered pieces,
Never to be made whole again.
The air reeks of Death,
Taste of ashes.
The silence that followed was deafening,
And excruciatingly painful.
The Boy who Lived had fallen,
All hopes from escaping this hell hole is gone.
Left in the hands of a blood purist.
An insane blood purist at that.
The only thing more cruel than hope is hope itself.
Hope against the unthinkable, the harshness of reality, the inevitable…
Power is not hope, it is the phenomenon of making things physically happen.
The end is near...
and of course, Saint Potter decided to rise again…