All Fall Down
Summary: "Ashes, ashes, we all fall down." The Last Battle. I know it's been done to death.
Feedback: Shaken, not stirred.
Disclaimer: You can tell I don't own Harry Potter by the fact that Draco's not the main character of the series. I think it's better for everyone that I own nothing.
Author's Note: I'm supposed to be writing my "statement of faith" for church, and yet I'm writing this. It's funny how I can get writer's block for something really important and suddenly get an idea for a Harry Potter story. Go figure.
Those of you who love me should buy the poetry book poetry.com's putting out. They're publishing my poem, "Last Vestiges of Summer", in it. I think the book's going to be called "Eternal Portraits", and it'll be out this June-ish. There's some good poetry in there. Buy it. You know you want to.
All Fall Down
No one was surprised when Voldemort won. He had been attacking randomly for weeks before the Final Battle, and it seemed inevitable to everyone that Voldemort would eventually triumph. His followers were getting stronger and stronger by the moment and people were predicting the Light side's downfall. No, it wasn't a surprise at all, not even to the Light side itself, hiding behind boulders and rocks and trying to escape as their world shattered.
Harry Potter refused to give up. He was battered and bruised, and his scar was throbbing terribly, but he wouldn't give himself up. He had too much to live for, and too many people to protect, and too many reasons to keep hiding and attack when no one was looking. But, suddenly, a hand grasped the back of Harry's robes and pulled him out from behind the bush that had been shielding him.
Harry stood tall and proud, like his father would have wanted. He would not be a coward; he was a Gryffindor! Gryffindors were brave. Gryffindors were valiant. Somehow, though, Harry couldn't help thinking that that was the only thing he had going for him right then.
"The brave Harry Potter," Bellatrix Lestrange snickered. "The 'Boy Who Lived'. I bet you never expected to be in this position, did you?" Harry looked around at the faces of the expectant Death Eaters and said nothing.
"My master has been waiting for you, boy," Bellatrix continued. "He's been waiting for you for seventeen years, Potter, and he finally has you. You can't win. You don't have a chance, boy. Give up now and maybe he'll kill you quickly."
Harry ran, ducking under a Death Eater's legs and running as fast as he could go. He didn't feel much like a Gryffindor at the moment, but he decided that cowardice was preferable to death. Harry ran as far as he could, and eventually stopped in his tracks. Someone was blocking his path; someone that had been haunting him for seventeen years of his life.
"Avada Kedavra." It was said as more of a casual statement than a curse, but it was said, nonetheless. There was a flash of green light and a rushing sound, and Harry Potter, the infamous 'Boy Who Lived', was dead.
They had all expected it to be grander, somehow. They had expected Harry to fight back, at least, and for Voldemort to hurt him a bit more. But it wasn't grand, and it wasn't beautiful, and it wasn't, by any standards, courageous. It was weak, and it was painless, and it was quick. And the Light side's secret weapon was dead, and they had no hope.
There was no time for a burial. One of the members of the Order Transfigured Harry's body into a stick and placed it under a tree, and they left, some wiping tears out of their tired eyes, some strangely calm despite the fact that all hope was lost. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down. Harry already had, and it was only a matter of time before the rest of them did.
-End
Author's Note #2: I hate it when the good side always wins. I'm rooting for the Dark side, because I'm bad like that.