A/N: Three things:
1. Summery: She wakes up, and all anyone can say is that it was a dream. That the whole thing, the whole world, the whole life, was a dream. In a world with no good, no evil, no magic, and worst of all; no Harry Potter, can Ginny find out the truth to the world she dreamt? Was it real... or was it really just a dream?
2. This prologue is much more morbid than I originally intended. The story will not remain so, I promise.
3. This story was inspired by the song Evil by Interpol, that's where the title comes from and all. If you can be bothered you might want to download/purchase(haha) it, and maybe you'll get where I'm coming from with this fic :)
Pliz review :)
May 17th, 1997
The first explosion rocked her world.
The sheer all-out force of it sent her, and any debris within a one hundred metre radius, flying through the air.
The time it took her to orientate herself again, and discern ground from sky, meant that when she finally re-located Harry and Voldemort, the fog that had been building up steadily for that last half hour, prior to the explosion, had largely dissipated.
As she stared nervously at the two shadowy forms visible across the battlefield, she felt some space of her mind take what seemed to be a mental photograph.
A silhouette of Harry's profile cut away all details, until all that was left was his dark-outline against the rising sun. The battle had been raging all night. His hand raised, tightly gripping his wand as it pointed towards Voldemort, motionless.
Opposite Harry; another silhouette. That of a man, fallen to his knees.
Silence engulfed all who watched, while all who lived, were silent.
Victory blared up like liquid fire in her veins as she realised what this might mean:
Voldemort would not willingly display himself cowered before an enemy, bowed in a mockery of reverence, on his knees.
She jumped up giddily, the bottom of her stomach seemingly left behind where she had first fallen, and ran towards Harry as fast as the ground, still littered with both the bodies of those living and dead, would allow.
In the next thirty seconds, this would prove fatal.
With what must have been reserves not even he was aware of, Voldemort reached up.
Harry, no doubt aching and in pain, seemed too slow to act.
Voldemort's wand flicked up and he had whispered an intonation before Harry had the chance to blink. In the second that it took for the dark wizard to whisper his spell, Harry's eyes dropped closed in exhaustion. His want; phoenix feather, 13 inches, holly, fell to the ground as his hand slowly relaxed.
Before the wood had hit, Voldemort played his last, ever, card.
At the epicentre of the second explosion, Harry Potter and Tom Riddle where the first to die. Everything within one hundred metres was instantly incinerated.
Ginevra Weasley's body rolled red-hair over scuffed up shoes, moving jerkily like a rag-doll, her limbs flailing in different, previously impossible, directions.
When, at last, she came to a stop, her hazelnut eyes stared glassily horrified up at the sky.
All around her body, Europe was laid to waste.
While Elsewhere, Destiny raged.