The Godric's Hollow War Memorial Cemetery. It stood, perched on the edge of a cliff, like some hunched vulture, patiently awaiting death. Gorged on the death of others, soon it, too, would follow into oblivion, and with it all the fleshless bodies of past souls –

James and Lily Potter. Only one of the many casualties, yet one of the most visited graves, because their child had defeated a forgotten wizard, so many aeons ago. Their bodies lying side-by-side, like how a couple would lie together in bed, close but not quite intertwined. The corpses had long ago become dust, and all that remained were the tombstones, weathered by the ages. So thus they lay.

Sirius Black. His funeral had been quick, hasty, for nobody could be found to make a eulogy for an ex-convict. There had been no coffin, no body, no disturbances of the ground – his tombstone had soon been pulled down by the grasses and weeds that stood triumphant over the crumbling rock, as Death over Life. Someone had, in incongruous irony, planted black roses to fringe the grave, and left a withered stalk of white roses within the center. Perhaps, that had been better than the eulogy. The resemblance, the metaphor, struck to the heart like an arrow, and departed as swiftly.

Remus Lupin and Nymphodora Tonks. Close to Sirius, but closer to each other. They had fallen seconds after the other, claimed by the bloody war that would be finished just an hour later. A photograph of Teddy stood nearby, steeped in a pool of rainwater. The colours had run together, and all that could be seen were his eyes, staring unblinkingly up at the grey skies.

Harry Potter. Now a popular folk legend, four hundred years after Voldemort's defeat. Harry Potter action figures, Harry Potter keychains, actual writings from his very hand – all these, and more, could be found in any souvenir shop across the land. Essays had been written about him, articles and books each disputing the very existence of the Boy-Who-Lived. And yet, he was as deeply ingrained into culture as Babbity Rabbity and Santa Claus, along with his downplayed sidekicks, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger (despite the claims of the Weasley-Grangers, a hugely widespread family whose branches spread all over the world, most people believed that they were not, in fact, descendants of those great heroes.).

Four hundred years. Four centuries – and all for nothing. A hundred years of peace, then the gradual return of discrimination, of Muggle hatred, of prejudice and violence, of disbelief, criticism, anger at the dead ones for not rising up to defeat their enemies, as described in those old folk tales that Great-Grandmother Luna used to tell. One day, the grasses and weeds would cover the graveyard, turning it into a jungle, and place of feverish heat and dampness, of graffiti and desecrated gravestones. One day, the whole War Memorial Cemetery would topple over the edge of the cliff and hit the ground, and be no more. One day…

One day, another Voldemort would rise. One day, another Harry Potter would defeat him. There will always be evil, and within the evil shall flourish another dynasty of freedom. The heroes and the villains shall forever be interlocked in a struggle, and only one shall survive…