A shout and a flash of green light. He falls to the ground. Who runs to help him?
Nobody.
In fact, nobody's aware he's dead until there's this terrible high-pitched laughter coming from the dark-cloaked end of the field. Then you know that you've lost, but at the same time, you've won. The curses come thick and fast, and, for once, you're not firing them.
It makes you wonder, if you could go back in time and do it all again, what would you change? Would you take back words you said? Would you love more, hate less?
Would you let him know before it was too late? If you could change it all, would you still have joined the Dark side?
When you look in the mirror and take in those cold eyes, that hair, that everything, would you still wonder why he never even noticed?
Do you want it to be possible for it all to change? The Dark wins, but your heart loses. Your every instinct, every fiber of your being, is crying out for change, for difference. You can do nothing but walk numbly to his body, gaze straight ahead.
You kneel on the blood-soaked ground, and press your lips to his still-warm forehead. You lightly touch the streak of dirt on his cheekbone.
"I'm sorry," you whisper, barely audible. Then you pull out your wand and snap it in half, pressing the fragments into his clenched fist.
Both sides stop in the wake of this act of blatant defiance of everything you stand for. Wands freeze, mid-air. Everyone's staring at you, and, for once, you do not like their gazes resting on you.
You push that messy dark hair off his face, trace with your fingers that scar on his forehead, and you know it's over.
It's over before it even began. The light is gone from those green eyes, the spark from his life. And you'd give anything to join him.
After years and years of torture, it all comes down to this one defining moment. That final second of existence, watching the life drain from the body lying limp in your arms.
You love him, but you can't do anything about it. You're too late, again. You stand, letting his body slump to the ground. You meet the cold red eyes of your Master.
"All yours," you say calmly, then step away. He's all Voldemort's. He's never been yours. He never will be, now.
So you walk off the battlefield, head held high like a Malfoy ought to, bloodstains on your knees, your hands, and scars already beginning to tear into your heart.
You fade into anonymity, but if anyone from your old life had tried to find you, they would've found that you were nothing.
You always were nothing, without Harry.