A boy, no older than 18, is lying on the ground in front of a town called Hogsmead. Countless bodies are lying around him, with him. He put them there. His shallow breaths are the only indication that he has not succumbed to the wounds adorning his body. His blood travels in little streams out of his body to mingle with the earth around him.
His biggest fear has come true. A mob of muggles have come to the village, fires burning high and swords in their hands. The boy was standing there that night, just like all the nights before, his wand in his hand and his sword at his side.
They would have torn the town to pieces and Hogwarts would have followed. It was not an armed castle, it was an informative one. The boy could not let that happen. His friends and students were in there. He had to protect them.
The boy lying on the ground made a choice that night. He set up wards that were long overdue. The dead muggles' blood was used to create stone soldiers and their bodies turned to ash to create the keystone, a stone needed to ground all wards. The boy was the last part. His essence was pulled into the wards to secure them and his body turned to dust to finalise the spells.
The boy died that night to protect everything he knew and the world would not even know. His friends woke up the next day to discover him gone and wards set up so strongly, nothing they did could even scratch them. They ranted at his disobedience and cursed at his audacity, but they never did realise what he sacrificed that night.
The boy's legacy would be smeared over the years. He would be the one that, history said, ran away. History never did say how many times he stayed.