"Avada Kedavra!"

"Expelliarmous!"

Two shots of light exploded from the wands and met mid-air. The green overpowered the red, split in two and burst towards the two wand wielders. The two forms raised up off the ground, and soared in opposite directions, back into the walls.

The hall was quiet, as every spectator tried to grasp what had happened.

"He's dead!" screamed a half-shocked Oliver Wood, gazing down upon the empty snake-like eyes of the once powerful wizard.

A slight gasp of relief rang through the hall for a milli-second, before the crowd could grasp onto the fact that more was going on. That a shriek had rang through the hall, tearing from the stout, portly woman with flaming red hair, as she watched her daughter draw the slack body of the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, closer to her. Ginny whispered soothing words, soft-nothings of love as she grasped him tighter, praying that something, anything she might be able to say or do could help.

"He's dead." Poor Neville Longbottom muttered in complete awe, not comprehending what he was seeing. "He was actually alive. He was there."

The hall was still as the world shook beneath the good people in the hall of Hogwarts. They had fought the noble fight, the fight that Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore had asked of them, and now neither was here. Neither survived their tragic fight in bringing justice against Lord Voldemort.

–

Later that night, Hermione sat in an over-stuffed armchair in the Griffindor common room, gazing indirectly into the flames. For the first time in her whole life, her brain was empty. It was like mush, there was no room for thought or comprehension of anything.

–

Ron lay gazing up at the canopy of the four-poster bed he had once upon a time inhabited, his head resting on one arm. His brain, in perfect contrast to Hermione's, was working overtime. This isn't fair! He yelled to himself, as he let his eyes drift to the curtain on his right that he'd pulled closed, blocking the now empty four-poster that sat next to his. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. We were supposed to be able to save him. And he was supposed to save us. His thoughts drifted over Fred, young Colin Creevy, Lupin, Tonks... Drifting between moments of anger at Harry for letting so much happen before he could complete his task, to anger for Harry, directed at himself for not being able to save him too. He's dead. Ron continued to repeat to himself. As if seeing Fred like that, the laughter still in his eyes, wasn't bad enough. Harry should have been able to save himself too. He should have been able to save us all.

No noticing the small whisperings between Dean, Seamus and Neville had stopped, Hermione's voice breaking through his thoughts shocked him.

"Ron?"

Ron half-sat, looking around at Hermione. She stared solemnly at him for a moment, a single tear escaping from her watery eyes as he studied her. With no words said, he sat back on his bed, waited for her to join him, then closed the remaining curtain around his bed. As soon as she made it into his arms, her tears streamed free and she clung tightly to him. He pulled her into his chest, closed his eyes and let it all wash over him. He buried his nose in her hair, before lightly brushing a kiss over it, and tucked her closer into him. Slowly, and for the first time in years, Ron let himself cry, really cry, for everything. For his friends, for his brother, and for the torturous months they spent building up to this point, and for himself. I am a failure. After everything he had done for me, I couldn't even save him.

–

Meanwhile, Ginny sat in her dorm, by the bed she had occupied for six long years, gazing up at the moon she had been longing for for nearly seventeen years. As a child, the bright light reflecting from the sun off the rock orbiting the earth had been a comfort to her. It allowed her to wish, to dream, to hope. For a year now, she'd stared at this same moon, wondering when she would see him again. When he would be done and ready to truly be with her. Now not only was the hope and dream gone, so were so many more. Fred. Dear, good Fred, the brother that never let a frown wrinkle her brow for any given time. The brother that, one time when she was nine, magically made her bedspread sprout lilies for her every morning as a birthday present. Though her mother had reversed that remarkable piece of magic, Ginny never forgot that present. Colin Creevy, the boy she had schooled with for six years. He shouldn't have even been fighting, but like her he had insisted and snuck out during the chaos. Tonks, her mother's dear friend, and her own confidant during recent months. And many more. The poor girl that had been dismembered by Fenrir, laying out there in the grounds, begging for her mother. Ginny knew that scene would live in her mind forever. Just as the heroic, tragic Harry Potter would live on. The moon now only reminded her of promises broken, promises that, in her mind, Harry would come home to her, safe and sound and breathing. Broken promises.

–

Six weeks later, Ron and Hermione sat by the fire in the den of the Burrow, together with Ginny by them, curled in an armchair.

"It's almost fitting, really."

"What?" Ron asked groggily, turning his attention to Hermione, knowing she would elaborate.

"Harry. Almost as if his existence really did rely only on Voldemort's."

"That's sick," Ron told her, as Ginny glared indignantly at her.

"Don't look at me like that," Hermione sighed, "I don't mean he should have died, or don't wish that he was still here, with us. I just mean that it's kind of like the story is complete. Harry's life was so intrinsically linked with Voldemort's from such a young age, how was he ever truly going to be able to escape from that? Even if he was here now, it would seem, I don't know..." she trailed off as she thought for the right word.

"Don't you dare say wrong!" Ginny told her harshly.

"No, not wrong. I just meant, Voldemort's and Harry's existence maybe relied too much on each other. Neither can live while the other survives. But neither can survive or truly live beyond the death of the other."

"I'm not sure I'm really following." Ron told her, as he drew slightly away from her, anger and curiosity crowding his features.

"In moral tales, Harry and Voldemort are like two sides of one being. Harry the good, Voldemort the bad. Good only exists in the contrast to the bad. Without the bad, good can't exist. It's not even logically possible. Like it or not, Voldemort gave Harry his identity. Without Voldemort or evil, who, or what, was Harry? His existence was too tied up in Voldemort's to be separated."

Ron and Ginny sat quietly for the moment, lost in thought, as the truth of Hermione's words washed over them. Ron was distracted by the dancing flames in the grate, Ginny by the rising moon over the hillside.