Usual disclaimers: I don't own any Harry Potter character, and don't intend to.

Ying and Yang go together, they say. Light and Dark, Morning and Night... cheerfulness and severity. I suppose it must be true.

How desolate. I expected it would come to that one day; I have witnessed atrocity at its wildest, cruelty at its hight and humanity at its basest. There is no reason why I shouldn't complete the circle with a desolate landscape of emptiness.

I never expected to make it this far. I always assumed that I would be the first one to fall, the first one to be felled as sacrifice to the justified rage when one betrays someone else; but no. I am still standing, ironically the only one left of the group of people I have pretended to abhor deeply and never once gave in to my need and temptation to prove it wasn't so.

There is no smoke, only sterile light. There is no differentiation between the bodies lying scattered around me in all positions possible. Darkness lies side by side with the Light, is one can assume that there is light and dark. I am not sure anymore if that is not just a ploy, a game that some higher, devious entity plays upon us to have us divided and weak. For both Deatheaters and Aurors alike look the same to me. They all look pained, killed before their time when they still had so much to give to the world and did not manage to.

Fathers and sons were separated in life, brothers and sisters, whole families torn apart because of trivialities that seem rediculous just to consider. What made purebloods what they are and who can claim that by some criteria their blood is not mixed?

It is the first time I let my thoughts run away with me, the first time I let them spill over the neat, vice like grip I have on them so I will not go mad. And I find that it is not so bad, to feel my thoughts gallop in a frenzy; it allows me not to think of the devastation, the meaningless pain I see before me. What was the Dark Lord but a hurt boy that saw no other way to prove himself than try and present himself to the world as superior to all others? I see his body crumbled over there, and to me it seems he was glad to let go, to die legitimately struggling after he had pronounced his intend to live forever. I believe that life was nothing but torture for him. I believe that deep down he wanted to let Potter win. Even if he had to make sure Potter would die along with him.

I approach the two bodies, my eyes dry. I don't think I have any tears left. I shed them all when Albus died. He too seemed glad to go, and I hated him for it. I did not go at his funeral nor have I visited his grave to this day. He was dearly needed. I needed him and so I selfishly pouted and did not go to bid him a last farewell. Somehow I wished that he would turn into a ghost over this. He did not. He died in my arms with a smirk on his face and telling me not to look as sour as a lemon. The nerve. But then perhaps he didn't turn into a ghost because he saw through me once more, and realised that at the time I did so very much try not to look as sour as a lemon, even though I failed.

I stopped giving detentions. I don't think anyone noticed. Things culminated days after the Headmaster's death. It was so fast it could have been only a single day. But I know it was at least a week. It must have been.

It's rediculously quiet. It's so quiet that the songbirds now starting to sing as the day is waning are deafening. It is grotesque, all this happiness near a place of such massive death. And what am I doing here? Was I spared because my appearance fits best the image of the angel of death? I wanted to be the first to go. And here I am, still hoping that some fanatic Deatheater will see the traitor roaming and will fire an Avada Kedavra with his last dying breath. Before I reach Voldemort;s and Potter's bodies. Somehow I dread to see them and can't resist seeing them in the same time. It's a tandalizing feeling.

No Deatheater spots me, no Auror looks up and see me blurred enough to think me a Deatheater. No killing curse comes to find me. I find myself weaving around and through the felled bodies like one would around harvested wheat. I avoid looking at faces. I realised what a bad idea it was when I saw Granger and Malfoy junior sleeping the eternal sleep in a deathgrip that betrayed the ferocity of their duel. They were both my students. My heart felt stabbed when I saw them and I could not breathe for a few seconds. I cannot afford to have that reaction again before I reach Voldemort and Potter: my betrayed Master and my reluctant student that never quite believed I was not two faced for Voldemort's benefit. Many thought that my loathing of the younger Potter was because of his resemblance to James. In the beginning it may have been that, added to my need to keep up a facade. But later on it was simply because his glance was a thousand times worse than James'. James never looked at me as if I was defiling the very soil I stepped on. But his son's glance had the hurt and mistrust and accusation from very early.

It is true that Potter had been the greatest wizard after Dumbledore. Not because of his enormous power or his astounding skills; at best he was mediocre and in Potions he bordered on bad. But he had perseverence and endless courage. As well as an unquenchable optimism and will to live. I marvelled at that. I think that that was what made him hold on to the end. That was what gave him the courage to withstand the multiple Cruciatus and attack Voldemort while still under the curse; how he did that I shall never understand. It was as if his energy repulsed everything negative that was channeled through the snake-like wizard's wand. It was as if the twin wands finally succumbed to Potter's will and obeyed him.

I think Voldemort suffered a coronary when he realised it; Potter never used the killing curse. That was somewhat funny. I wish I could find it in me to be amused.

I finally reach the two bodies. Voldemort is like a wax figure. As if he had never inhabited the carcass that I now see. There is no trace of life or remnant of it in the remains I see; it is just a pile of old tortured flesh that alludes more to a half decayed corpse than someone just deceaced. I have no feelings for the thing. For it is an 'it', it's false and insignificant. The true power still emanates from the one lying nearby.

It's amazing what an effort it takes for me to gaze upon Harry Potter. I expect to see a hideous image of his body after all the Cruciatus he got hit with as well as all the other curses the deatheaters shot at him before he could engage Voldemort, all the curses I failed to deflect or take on to my body.

But he's pristine, he's immaculate. His skin is ivory white and his hair black as coal. The scar is bleeding, marring his forehead but all else is as if nothing ever touched him and he died quietly in his bed. And here, I once more surprise myself with feelings I never thought I possessed. My self esteem goes up a few notches. I am crying. I still have tears left, I have not turned my heart to stone and turned into an unfeeling bastard. I am crying for the son of the man I was a rival to, I am crying for the student I never actually believed I cared for. There is no Dumbledore now to pay a debt with, there is no Dark Lord to fight, I am free to do as I please, and I am crying for the boy that I wished I could have been and never actually managed.

"Come Potter. This is no place for you." I tell the prone body. His body is not an 'it' to me. It's dear to me, precious, almost as much as Albus' was. I want to make sure that nothing will ever trouble the poor boy again. Not even the elements.

And so I pick him up.

And so he moans. True to his title, Harry Potter is still the Boy-Who- Lived.

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And that's it. I am pretty sure you know who it is who is narrating. Is this bad enough or should I maul it some more with another chapter? it will only be two parts at the most. Review and tell me what you think.