Harry, Hermione, and Ron made their way back to Gryffindor Tower. Everywhere they stepped were broken pieces-of stone, of wood, of people's lives. The hallway on which the entrance to the common room was located was splattered in blood, and the portrait of the Fat Lady was empty. However, when Hermione reached out to try and push it open, it swung in on its own.
The common room seemed oddly different. No, it was not destroyed. In fact, it seemed as if the Battle had not even touched here. The difference was in their perception of the space. What they had once considered to be cozy and warm now seemed austere, pressing down on them, trapping them, suffocating them. It's normally lively, flickering fire was now a dead pile of ashes. Even the brilliant sunrise lighting up the room from the east window did nothing to make the room brighter.
No, it wasn't the room that was dead. It was every piece of Harry that was able to feel any emotion other than despair. Ron and Hermione also stared bleakly about, but it was no use. Perhaps things would be better later on, but in the now, a hurricane was still blowing, tearing lives apart. There was nothing left to say, nothing left to do. The war was over, but there was yet to peace, yet to be a place without pain.
The climb up the stairs consisted of yet more silence. The men collapsed onto their beds, ready to sleep for hours, but the hoped for rest from mind and body wouldn't come. As the day drew on and they finally fell asleep, the pain of the darkness left and a greatful emptiness came with the midday light.