The sun was setting on the battlefield. It was dark and gloomy; no one was left alive. But wait! What was that?
A figure struggled to move from underneath a pile of his year-mates—dead—who had fallen on him when they were slain.
His long, white-blond hair fell into his stormy blue eyes, and he brushed it away. When his eyes settled onto the destruction left by the clash of the Light and Dark, they widened. In all of his seventeen years, he had never seen such destruction.
And to think that all this happened because of one man, but could Lord Voldemort really be called a man? After what he'd done?
The worst part was that the only survivor was a supporter of the Dark Lord. He regretted that now, but it was too late to change what side he was on.
He looked around at the bodies of the dead. He had cast the Killing Curse on many of them. He knew these people. He saw them every day. He grew up with them.
He recognized everyone. His parents were there, as were the parents of his friends. All of the teachers and students, all of them. Hufflepuff, Gryffindor, Slytherin, and Ravenclaw. Voldemort and the famous Harry Potter were there, facing each other, wands at the ready. They had cast the Killing Curse at the same time. Everyone was there. They were all dead.
Everyone but Draco Malfoy.
He was alive, but he deserved to die, as many people here deserved to live. He had done every thing to give them a reason to hate him, kill him, and take him away from this world. But now no one could kill him.
The world was dead, and he had helped.