Anyway, my mum always said things we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end, If not always in the way we expect.
Tom Riddle hit the floor with a mundane finality, his body feeble and shrunken, the white hands empty, the snakelike face vacant and unknowing. Voldemort as dead, killed by his own rebounding curse, and Harry stood with two wands in his hand, staring down at his enemy’s shell.
