Dark Magic

The Final Showdown

A/N: Real quick: Super sorry for what you are about to read. Proceed with caution.

Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, The Chosen One, faced Voldemort, The Dark Lord, He Who Must Not Be Named, the man who murdered his parents.

"Scared, Tom?" Harry taunted. Voldemort's nostrils flared. "You dare-?" He said, aiming a spell at Harry, who flicked his wand lazily. "Yes, I dare."

They stared at each other for a while, then,

"Avada Kedavra!" Voldemort shouted, a jet of green light shooting from his wand.

"Avada Kedavra!" Harry shouted, his jet of green light meeting Voldemort's in the middle.

Everybody watched with bated breath.

Harry and Voldemort held on as long as they could until Voldemort's wand fell from his hand and The Dark Lord hit the ground with a mundane finality, the air going out of his lungs.

But nobody rejoiced, nobody cheered. They only had eyes for the boy with the untidy dark hair and green eyes, who was lying on the ground, not moving.

They whispered among themselves. "What happened? What happened to Harry?" Until a red headed Weasley said, "I'll tell you what happened. When V-Voldemort's wand slipped out of his hand, the Killing Curse hit Harry." She pointed to the motionless figure lying on the ground.

Her voice cracked as she announced, "Harry Potter is dead."

Everybody murmured among themselves. It wasn't as Harry had hoped; nobody felt happy that the boy who tortured them was dead, in fact, they didn't think of Harry that way.

What they thought was: Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, the one beacon of hope is everybody's lives is dead.

They had a funeral for Harry.

They buried him at Hogwarts, besides Dumbledore.

Because, as Ron, Hermione, Neville, Ginny, Luna and Draco said, "A great wizard should be buried with another."