The Kiss of Death

This is it. The final battle. Many will die this day. You try to keep your breath steady, pulling all the hatred from the darkest depths of your soul, preparing to destroy them so that your Lord will be able to vanquish that weakling Potter. You stand tall, or at least as tall as your shrunken frame allows, and march forward. These battles have become ritualistic. The sides will advance, the challenge cried out by Pettigrew and answered with Potter's defiance shouted in the Body Bind he lays with contempt upon the man who was once called friend.

You never wonder why Potter doesn't just Avada Kedavra the hell out of the sniveling fool. It's just the way things are. You never realize that maybe he thinks he needs to make up for his father's torment of Pettigrew. That is, after all, why he came and rescued that traitorous bastard Snape. These are not the thoughts on your mind.

You are waiting for Potter's mouth to open in the first syllable - "Peh-" - and then your mouth is open and you are filling the air with Unforgivable after Unforgivable.

You leave Neville to Aunt Bellatrix and the girl Weasel to Father and launch your curses instead at Bulstrode and Nott, the traitors to the cause who stand back to back as they defy their one time Lord.

Beside you, Branstone is lashing out with a hellish fury at her former Housemates. There is no Hufflepuff, no Ravenclaw, no Gryffindor, nor even Slytherin left. There are only Dumbledore's Order, Potter's DA, and above all, the Death Eaters.

Just in front of you is Crabbe. Goyle defected, but he was killed. Men and women, boys and girls, they fall all around you, but you keep searching for a target. Crabbe falls, Quirke is killed for that; McDonald is killed, but she takes Cauldwell with her.

You aim the Killing Curse into a circle of red hair. The thought crosses your mind that it might be fitting to use Imperius on the Mudblood and have her kill the Weasel, but you push that thought away, for you have seen her shrug it off time and time again in these never ending battles.

You keep flinging spells. Your throat is sore, but you shout, crying out to make yourself heard, if only to yourself, above the moans and groans of fallen comrades and enemies. When you can, you administer a painless sleep to those who surround you, but that is rare and becoming rarer as the Aurors advance.

You feel yourself hit the ground as a green light zings overhead and you know you have cheated death once again. You move in an attempt to push this weight off you so that you can continue fighting, but your arms are pinned beneath you. Potter has pushed you to the ground, inadvertently saving your life. Your eyes widen, for you know your debt and you whisper a prayer to an unknown deity that someone will save you from your Lord's displeasure.

There is no time for that. You feel the pain in your arm as a green light fires from Potter's wand and you know that it is over. His lips touch your forehead and you feel his breath stop. You begin to scream, and you know not if you are screaming for joy that he is dead or joy that it is your Lord who died, or perhaps its disbelief that they are dead - but who do you want alive?

Someone removes Harry's body from yours and the Mudblood and Weasel support it and each other as they trudge to safety. You watch them go but you don't realize your loss until a foot comes down on your wand, breaking it in two.