A/N: Beware...for your head may explode from the sheer epic.
The lone figure stared impassively out at the amassed army. His eyes slid over the ranks upon ranks of darkness. Werewolves howled, mouths drenched in feral saliva as their gazes burned with a rabid hunger. The almost translucent complexes of vampires seemed to glow in the moonlight, their fangs glistening ominously as they eyed their prey. Five giants towered over their comrades, mighty clubs resting on massive shoulders. A horde of mountain trolls stood tall, faces blank and mouths drooling. Men, draped in black cloaks and impassive white skull masks, chuckled sadistically as they gazed upon the single opposition.
And at the head of this vicious army stood the dark lord himself. His red eyes shone with glee at his enemy's solitude. Slitted nostrils flared and sickly pale skin crinkled as the inhumanly thin lips curled into a mocking smirk. A frail hand lifted the most feared wand in Britain, bringing the tip to a pale throat.
"Harry Potter..." the magically enhanced voice boomed across the empty field, washing over the lone man like a wave of blood-curdling hate. "It seems as though your precious light has abandoned you. It would usually be now when I would offer to let you join my ranks, but I'm afraid that Lord Voldemort is not in a giving mood. Know, Harry Potter, that today is the last that you will walk this earth. Today is the day that Harry Potter will finally fall at the dark lord's feet. You will die today, Harry. I promise you this."
The single defender did not reply. Instead, he reached across his waist and gripped two handles. Slowly, and with the drawn out sound of metal pulled from metal, two objects were removed from his belt. In one hand rested the brother of the evil wand, the symbol for hope amongst the darkness. Energy built within its wooden confines as the warrior readied himself. The symbol of the most courageous of the Hogwarts founders, the gleaming blade of Godric Gryffindor, was brandished in his other hand. Its ruby-encrusted hilt shone with immense power as the silver blade seemed to stare down the opposing army with a glint that radiated blood-lust. This was a weapon of war, and this confrontation was what it desired.
Startling green eyes, burning with the fire of an impending battle, once again glanced over the countless foes. His hands tightened on his wand and sword, as if to tell them that the time had come.
With a roar that tore the very heavens asunder, the single warrior and the dark army charged. There was no mighty clash of opposing forces. Instead, screams of agony flooded the field, only to be drown out by the shouts of spells and battle cries. Silver flashed hither and yon, accompanied by great gouts of blood and soaring extremities. Thunderous crashes shook the ground as great bodies fess and dense smoke rose to shroud this slaughter, this...this gruesome ballet of flesh, light, and steel.
Finally, silence reigned as the smoke fell. A late arrival bore witness to the truly epic site that was revealed. Bodies lay strewn across the blood-drenched turf. Mutilated forms stared into the void as their souls were carried off to their final judgment. Giants. Trolls. Werewolves. Vampires. Humans. None were spared as the curtain of death blanketed the once pristine field.
And at the center of it all stood one man. The great silver sword dyed ruby red from the blood of its fallen enemies. The wand, smoking from the sheer amount of energy that was forced through it. At he feet, piled, were the necrotized bodies of several men, topped with another visage.
Atop the pile of his minions lay the dark lord. Masticated...humiliated...eviscerated...his once smug, snake-like face was like so much ground beef, oozing stagnant black blood the drenched the already bloody robes of his followers.
A head of bushy, brunette hair bobbed through the carnage as she approached the victor. Seeing the champion, she stopped with a deep gasp. His hair was matted down with the dried blood of him and his enemies. His robes were all tatters, revealing the long gashes that adorned his chest. Small spasms ran across his muscles, remnants of countless torture curses. His eyes glowed with dwindling adrenaline as he pierced the body laying at his feet with a cold gaze.
"H-harry?" asked the woman, tears streaming from her eyes. Tears of sorrow for the fight that her friend and lover had been forced to fight alone. "H-how? How is it possible that you alone could defeat this army. How were you able to win?"
Looking into her deep brown eyes, the victor raised one foot and placed it on the pile of bodies before him. He gently tugged his tattered pants leg up to reveal the blood-soaked shoe beneath. The once vibrant check was dulled with grime.
"Just do it."
A/N: Available at your local shoe store. Buy many!