There was a battle raging. Two sides, evenly matched. Good against evil. Light against Dark. White against Black.
The battle seemed to rage on for hours, With no side relenting.
Losses were great, yet still increasing.
But for how much longer?
It was all dependant on the personal fight in the centre of the battle. Two people stood there. Fighting each other, and each other only. Curse after curse was flung. Both were beginning to tire. Everyone knew it would soon be resolved.
Outside of the fight, the light side was winning. The dark curses had tired out their users early. People were starting to gather around the centre to watch the fight.
"Crucio!" shouted the Dark Lord.
The hero moved out of its path just in time. "Reducto!" shot back the hero.
The Dark Lord dodged it with his infamous reflexes.
"This ends now!" the Dark Lord shouted. "Avada Kedavra!"
"Avada Kedavra!" the hero shouted at the same time.
The sickly green curses collided, creating a small explosion.
Smoke appeared.
One body hit the ground.
The smoke began to clear.
Nobody moved, but people looked on nervously, scared of the Dark Lord stepping out instead of their hero.
The smoke was gone.
The hero stepped out.
"The Dark Lord has been vanquished!" he declared in a voice that, while quiet, easily carried over the vast grounds for all to hear. "Our troubles are over!"
The battle grounds burst into applause and cheering. After all the fighting, all the pain and suffering, they were free.
As the cheers died down, people began to stare at the body of the recently deceased Dark Lord.
"What shall we do with him?" asked an odd, dirty blonde-haired woman.
"Let's leave him here," spat an Asian woman. "Let the dogs come for him."
"No," said the hero firmly. "He was our hero and friend once. We give him a proper burial. He deserves that much."
The crowd just shrugged. He had a point. Half of the crowd had known him, maybe even befriended him at some point. He had saved all their lives before. A man with platinum-blonde hair conjured a stretcher for the body, and levitated it on. Six redheads and a brunette at the edge of the crowd, short one in number due to the Ministry massacre from the second war, hesitated, then lifted the stretcher and began carrying it off the battle field where he would be buried alongside his parents.
Around him, people were talking about this recent development. The press was going to have a field day withy this, though it was questionable how much of it would be true due to an ever-buzzing beetle. The brunette and one of the redheads carrying the stretcher remembered how much he hated the press, especially the beetle.
A greasy-haired man walking with the crowd could still be heard ridiculing both the Dark Lord and the hero. If one listened closely, one could make out the words 'stupid boy still melts his cauldrons' and 'arrogant, just like his damned father'
As a familiar-looking toad hopped through the damp grass, the hero remembered all the wonderful and horrible memories he shared with the now dead Dark Lord that was once his dorm mate, classmate, and friend.
A cool breeze blew over the field, blowing the dark hair of the dead man, revealing the once-famous scar that had been there for as long as half the people could remember.
The crowd came to a small cemetery, stopping at a freshly dug grave right next to a gravestone with a stag and a lily on it.
The time had come to bury Harry Potter's body.
A/N: I know, I know, it's not very good. But cut me some slack! It's my first story... or at least, my first somewhat decent one. The others were all written ages after this was finished. Any that I wrote before this absolutely stunk. Thank god I wasn't 13 'till a bit over a month ago!
Can anyone figure out who everyone mentioned is? They're all major characters in the books at some point. Coffee to whoever guesses who the hero is! C'mon, guess! You know ya want to! ;) Heeheehee!