Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. Do I really have to tell you who does?
Author's Note: Ok, so I've been on a Harry Potter kick today (the new trailer came out!) and I got this idea in my head. It's a one-shot about the final moments of the final battle. Enjoy!
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There was so much death. The young couple who had a one year old son. A young wizard of only 17 or 18 who only wanted to make his school proud. The man who lived in the worst prison for 12 years but still had life left in him. One of the greatest wizards of all time who had an odd affinity for Lemon Drops. A woman with seven children but still accepted more as her own. Twins who brought humor to even the darkest of times. A bright spunky witch who had the audacity to love a werewolf. The shell of a man who had lost three best friends to the dark side and the woman he loved. A man who had changed his ways and risked everything to help people who hated him, even if it meant killing the one person who trusted him.
They all hurt. Pain had hit just as hard in the first deaths as in the last ones. Countless others had also come to the wrath of the tyrant who stood fatigued over the wandless Harry. But those deaths didn't mean as much as those that were personal.
It was entirely his fault. He risked their lives by knowing them. While each and every one of them would deny it, Harry knew it was his fault. He could just hear their voices telling him otherwise. One would say that the fight was worth dying. Another telling him death was an adventure. The last complaining about Gryffindor's taking all of the credit for a matter they had absolutely no power over.
The man who towered over Harry's helpless body had a tinge of weariness in his horrible face. Battling had been long and hard, but he had triumphed. The boy who Lived was cornered, just waiting to be eliminated. After all of these long years his work had paid off. The world of wizards and muggles alike was now his.
The 17 year old laying on the ground thought otherwise. One last chance was left. He was cornered, wandless, and facing imminent death. If he was gone, the world was gone. Plans ran through his tired and fading mind. None of them had a chance. Hope was gone. The death that had surrounded Harry plagued his mind once more. It was barely tolerable for the energy worn teenager. Not only had the death come, pain of others had come too.
A clumsy boy's parents who had been tortured into insanity. The loss of his way into an actual place he had family. A loopy girl who had few friends and was teased just for her weird way of thinking. Best friends who had faced prejudices because they were half-blood, muggle born, poor. Being chased up a tree by a dog and not let down until well after midnight. A young boy who cowered in the corner while his muggle father abused his witch mother. The same young boy who years later was bitter and had his own brightly invented spells used against him. Every little bit of pain that come to Harry and people he had known flowed thickly in his blood.
The pain and death flowed thicker with every thought. He was ready to end it all. Didn't Voldemort, the Dark Lord, know how these things usually end? Good always won. Jerry always got away from Tom no matter the situation. That's how it worked.
Every emotion welled up in a matter of seconds. Voldemort held out his wand, ready to cast his enemy's life away. Before he could mutter a word, Harry used every last bit of strength and will. Magic exploded in every direction, vibrating the very air of the graveyard destroying all life in its path.
One last look told Harry he had won. He laid his head down and closed his eyes in peace at last. They didn't open back up.