As Joren walked into the chamber of the ordeal, he suddenly knew, instinctively, that he wouldn't come out alive. And yet, he wasn't deterred by this, because somehow, it had happened before.
As Draco entered Hogwarts, he knew that it would be for the last time. He didn't know how he knew. It was just instinctive. But that didn't bother him. He knew, the same way he knew about his death. It had happened before.
The wind whipped around Joren. One moment it was burning sand, the next, snow.
Spells whipped around Draco. He could feel some as they passed. Heat spells, and Ice spells.
Then suddenly, every grain of the sand or snow was a weapon. Joren jumped and dodged for all he was worth, but a few still found their mark. Soon, he had cuts on every limb, and was getting tired.
Then suddenly, everyone was firing stunning spells, or Avada Kedavra. Draco dodged and shielded as much as he could, but still got hit by a few stunning spells. Soon, he had been stunned at least twenty times, he was getting tired.
And then the weapon found its mark.
And then the Avada Kedavra found its mark.
The sword hit him in the chest, and the world slowed. It didn't hurt, and yet everything was fading.
Time slowed. He laughed. The curse didn't hurt, and yet the world was fading.
Everything was white. Except, there wasn't anything to be white. Nothing was, except the other boy. And yet, they were the same person, the same soul. They saw each other, and, except for the hair, they were each other. They smiled at each other, a genuine smile, not the ones that they gave their cronies. They were each other, and understood the other perfectly. There was no need for words. They reached an understanding, and faded from existence.