How many people would picture the showdown between the world's teenage wizard savior and the greatest dark lord ever taking place in a graveyard, at midnight during the worst storm of the year?

I thought so.

Apparently, Harry Potter did too. So naturally, a vast field of swiftly-trampled, multi-coloured wildflowers at high noon on a gorgeous summer day threw him. Which could be why he felt trance-like and tranquil while hexing death-eaters left and right? A confundus here, an incendio there, he moved with a fluid, dreamlike grace, robes swaying, his lips barely moving with his murmured spells. It felt like a perfect dance, his wand his passionate partner, tangoing his way past deaths' grinning skeleton reaper to the final prize.

Lord Voldemort.

The man once known as Riddle was dancing too, his moves the opposite of our jaded hero's, as mesmerizing in his death-dealing as a dancer in full pirouette. When he and Harry finally engaged each other, face to snake-face the wind itself stilled in awe. Time hung suspended in the air like the killing intent hung between them, a green flash murder only a whisper away. Death was not the purpose though, at this moment. Death was only the punishment for the first who faltered from this waltz, this slow crescendo of wills, of primal instinct to better, to survive.

Harry was in full-focus of the creature before him, serpent-like and red-eyed and foul, glaring into him like the emptiness of Nietzsche's vast abyss. He could tell it was close now, only a moment away. Only one spell would fly true. Only one would succeed. And for the love of all that lived, Harry hoped it was him.

It's strange then, to think that at such a crucial moment Harry could have been distracted by a sudden vision of white-blonde hair cursing down a random masked minion, but he was. The spells were cast and Harry was off just a quarter beat, and a hairsbreadth to the left perhaps. Harry Potter had faltered.

Avada Kedavra

End game.