No authors note. This is kinda depressing, though.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Harry Potter franchise.
It's a dance.
You're graceful, a ballerina, skillfully dodging death at every angle.
You twist, you turn, you bend over backwards. The numerous flashes blend into one, omniscient, green haze. You can hear the merciless cackling of your opponent, see her blazing eyes boring into yours. She's meant to be family- yet you can see no resemblance of her in yourself, characteristically or physically. Her long black curls sweep across her porcelain face - she hasn't even broken sweat. She's getting far too good at this.
You hear death's cruel taunts - it whispers in your ear, beckoning you into its cold grasp. But you can't give up. You need to fight, to come out of this alive. For Teddy.
And so you continue. Firing every curse and hex you can think of, aiming them squarely at your aunt's chest. Some hit their target, but she is only put off for a second, then she's back on form.
You're tired. Your grace is dwindling. Your luck is sure to run out.
No, you think, don't think like that. Keep fighting. For Remus.
The thought of him makes your chest pound, as if your heavy heart wishes to break free of its dark prison. You have no idea where he is, or what he's doing. You don't know if he's hurt, fighting, or even alive. But the very thought of him makes you stronger.
As if on cue, two figures burst through the door, one laughing loudly. He is standing tall, his massive frame filling the doorway, and his opponent faces him, visibly weary.
Death seems to laugh at you, cold and expectant, as you recognize his face. It's cut, and dirty, but you'd know those eyes anywhere, no matter how much it hurts to see them in such painful, empty state.
Your voice is breathless, your focus stolen. A witches cackle brings your mind back to your duel. You want nothing more than to go to him, to hold him for what is surely the last time, but you have to keep fighting. For the sake of the world.
But your mind is wandering, caught on another matter. You risk glimpses of him; he, too, is tiring, but Dolohov seems unfazed. Tears prick at the back of your eyes, your vision is blurred.
Not too blurred, however, to see the final flash of green light as your limp frame hits the floor.
The last thing you hear is your husband's desperate cry. He's calling you, and you want to go to him.
But you can't. You can't do anything anymore.
"Nymphadora! Dora! Tonks..."
The fight is unimportant now. She has fallen. You're nothing without her. You crouch over her fallen body, scooping it into your arms. "Tonks..." you whisper into her hair, still an angry red. You rock her back and forth. She's gone.
Only then do you notice the laughing. Whether it's the laughing of the enemy or death himself, you don't know. The laughs are high-pitched, mocking even, and they pity you in your sorry state. They are merely waiting for you to fall, just like her.
But she has given you a new thirst for revenge. You stand to face the tall man you have been battling for what seems like days. You send a curse to his chest, he deflects it with ease. You let out a desperate sob.
You're weak. You're alone. You're grieving.
He fires. There's nothing you can do - you fall to the floor, alongside your dead wife. More laughing.
The final Marauder; murdered at the hands of the enemy.
You'll be with her now.
You're returning to your friends.
...But leaving so much behind.