The emerald green spark flew out of Voldemort's wand and illuminated the tiny bedroom. Harry watched, mesmerised, as the curse ricocheted off his forehead and engulfed the room in a swirling blur, full of every colour in the spectrum.
An agonising shriek erupted out of the Dark Lord, as though his very soul had shattered into pieces. His piercing tones were overcome by the phenomenal power of his own curse that had betrayed him. The swarm of light entwined itself around Voldemort's figure, penetrating into his body at vital organs; stomach, brain, heart. He collapsed into a writhing heap, shuddering violently as his own dark magic viciously attacked him, his body morphing grotesquely until he was unrecognisable. His billowing cloak cascaded to the floor revealing his skeletal form, his bones protruding from underneath his thin layer of purple, mottled skin. His spine curved as he keeled over, drawing in pained breaths which were now visible as his emaciated ribcage rose up and down. Finally, the Dark Lord, the most infamous wizard of all time, fell to the floor, shaking the very foundations of the house. With one last quake, the walls of the Potter's residence fell along with He Who Must Not Be Named.
Harry sobbed in his rubble filled cot, the fiend that had taken away the pinnacles of his life lay crippled on the cold floor before him. He persistently reached and grabbed for his mothers attention but her eyes were glazed and wide, facing Harry's tearstained cheeks. His forehead was gushing with deep red blood where the unsuccessful curse had left its imprint, a lightning bolt shaped cut. Little did the boy know that that scar would become as famous as him.
Voldemort's body shifted, as he incoherently moaned. The infamous Dark Lord was now a withered and fragile shell at the immense power of his own killing curse. He knelt, defeated and exhausted, under Harry's gaze and, summoning the last of his energy, apparated into a black flurry.
The residence of Godrics Hollow watched in awe, petrified of what their eyes had just beheld. Some fled their houses and bundled their families into cars, whereas some fainted at the mere sight of it. Chaos ensued in the normally quiet village, as muggles screamed, ran, and phoned the police. All of them, however, took little regard for the sooty, wailing orphan in its battered cot.
The sky howled and the jet black clouds that had formed the Dark Mark earlier completely vanished. It looked almost painful to perceive, for the mouth of the mark became detached from the eyes that seemed to scream aloud in desperation. Death eaters from all around stared, horrified, at the mutating face in the blackness above. As the mark bellowed its last shriek of pain, all of Voldemort's followers hit the ground, clutching their forearms that burned with the intensity of the Dark Lords demise.
Somewhere in the distance, the roar of a motorcycle was heard.