In the moment in the story,
Between the beginning and the end,
There is a fragment of truth,
The Headmaster refused to amend.
In that festering wound,
Stood a fierce shadow of death,
In the footsteps of a boy,
An orphan of a life as of yet unmet.
He grew up in a cold manner,
All harsh edges and blank faces,
And learned to think only for himself,
And wrote his life down on blank pages.
He became the legacy of Lord Slytherin,
All for the Pureblood cause and rapport,
And of the Muggle world he had no fear,
For he was Lord Voldemort.
He killed his enemies in cold blood,
Led a band of malicious Death Eaters.
To cross him was a worse fate than death,
As he was crueler and worse than any dark creature.
In the midst of his assault of the magical world,
There fought the Order of the Phoenix.
Many members stood for what was right,
But of the corruption within magic couldn’t fix.
As it always happens when the day is pitch,
There came the answer to these dark times,
But who was who and where and when,
It came down to a few unclear lines.
A prophesy came about one night,
To plot an end to You Know Who was the notion.
But the child spoken of was by chance,
And the dark lord put everything in motion.
The child was born as the seventh month dies,
And marked by Him as his equal,
With parents who died to keep him alive,
He became a hero of the people.
He grew up surrounded by the worst sort,
But he grew up kind and humble,
And of the wrong versus the right,
From his morals and beliefs he did not stumble.
But the dark lord still survived the murder attempt,
Thanks to some magic foul and dark,
And came back to finish the deed,
Thanks to that scar, that lightning bolt mark.
The question soon became how,
How to defeat a man who survived the unforgivable,
With Horcruxes and minions by his side,
And made life for those less than Pureblood unlivable.
The Headmaster knew there was a way,
By payment of a serious and most expensive price,
Just one to surrender for the good of all,
It was just one small sacrifice.
For one to die at the hands of the other,
One Gryffindor against one Slytherin,
From one orphaned child to another,
Only one would be able to win.
This secret the Headmaster took to his grave,
And put into motion an end of a war decades extended.
The Chosen One couldn’t be forced to surrender,
His life had to be willingly conceded.
Seven years of adventures played out,
Drawing to a large and final battle,
Sides were taken and mistakes were made,
But to explain the depths of this would be to prattle.
Safe to say there was a manhunt,
For the pieces of broken soul,
Whittled away until just the man was left,
Embittered and broken and cold.
For such a large and important role,
Placed on such small shoulders,
The Chosen One never paused nor quit,
Even as the green light chilled him over.
The dark lord never once thought to remove the piece,
Of slivered soul tucked underneath the boys’ scar,
And as the sword of Gryffindor lopped off the snakes head,
The end of the dark lord was not far.
With the mastering of the three Deathly Hallows,
The Chosen One was able to survive the killing blow,
And was able to have one last chance to free the world,
From the hands of a mad man with no nose.
There are many more stories less important,
Than the tale of the amazing Boy Who Lived,
For if you ask millions of new and old readers,
The tale of Harry Potter was an unforgettable gift.