V for Vanquish.
Voldemort was dead.
For some reason, repeating that sentence in his head didn't fill him with the rapture he thought it would. He couldn't find it within himself to smile or laugh or dance with joy. He really thought that when the pale-faced snake-man was dead, he'd find some of that happiness he lost over the last three years of his stay at Hogwarts.
None of it came.
He stared down unendingly at the rotting corpse that was once Lord Voldemort that was once Thomas Riddle. He wasn't disgusted, not by the smell or the sight of him. Besides, what was one corpse to the thousands that had died during the battle? He slowly looked up, against his better judgment, and surveyed the damage. Damage couldn't even begin to describe the mess around him, once green grass was darkened with the blood of the Wizarding folk and all of the magical creatures in it. Body's lay strewn across the grass like malformed, fleshy snowflakes; some of them still wailing with agony.
--Some of them his friends.
He needed to know for sure though. He needed to know if he was the only one left. He clutched his wand tighter and forced himself to move away from the thing-that-was-Voldemort. He scaled the fields of Hogwarts where the battle took place, searching for his make-shift family. After a while, he started to wish he hadn't moved at all. It was easier to look at the pile of shit that was Voldemort than the dead, mutilated bodies of his friends and colleagues. Each red-haired, freckled face he saw, his heart broke into a hundred more pieces. Each House crested robe he saw, tattered and blood-stained, his heart broke again. He came upon a body so badly mangled and burned that it shouldn't have been possible to even tell the gender let alone who it was but he knew. He'd know Hermione anywhere.
He clenched his fist and moved on.
Remus.
Tonks.
McGonagall.
Shacklebolt.
Hagrid.
Seamus.
Neville.
Cho.
The list grew ever on and on; soon he lost count of all the people he knew. His family. They were all gone.
"P-Potter."
He stopped. A weak hand tugged on his torn pant leg. He knew who it was. He could never forget that voice. He felt himself grow cold with rage. He slowly turned his eyes to the ground, meeting coal black ones. He almost laughed. Even when he was dying that bastard had the nerve to look at him like he was still the insolent brat he had always thought him to be.
"Snape." He acknowledged, raking his eyes over the man's severely mangled body. Bones were sticking out in odd angles, blood seeped from every orifice and his clothes were mere strips across what was left of his body. "You look like hell."
"M-m not—." He gurgled pathetically, blood spilling over those thin lips of his. Harry kneeled beside him, to hear his mumblings more clearly. Even if the old bastard had killed Dumbledore, he had saved his life on more than one occasion. The least he could do was listen to his dying words—no---it was the only thing he'd do for him. "M-m not a coward." He took a deep ragged breath and mustered up the best glare he could. Harry had a feeling the man was delusional. He was probably reliving the last time he saw him.
"You're right Snape." Harry said quietly. "You're not a coward." Snape only continued to glare, his breathes slowing. "It takes a lot of damn nerve to serve a half-blooded snake-bastard like Voldemort." Snape still flinched, even though his master was dead. "But you know what? He's dead, I'm alive and the Light won." Even then the joy he so wanted to feel didn't come.
"You n-never cease to . . . to amaze me, Potter."
Maybe he wasn't as delusional as he thought.
Snape reached a gnarled hand up and grasped the front of his robes. He tried to pull him closer but Harry wasn't taking any chances. He easily resisted the weakening man's pull and frowned. Snape's eyes glittered strangely. "T-take a look around you, fool. A r-really good look. . ." He coughed several times, blood spraying from his mouth. ". . . We . . . won. . ." Snape's grip relaxed and Harry moved away from the dead man.
Harry stood and this time, he didn't search for the bodies of his make-shift family. This time, he looked for survivors. Of all the thousands of bodies strewn across the grass, not one of them was breathing. There were no more wails, no more pleads for help, no one walked, and no one even crawled. It was just him and the creaking of old Hogwarts.
He hadn't won this war.
No one had.
A/N: This doesn't mean I'm back, unfortunately. I know this isn't what any of you wanted but gosh darn it, College sucks! I've been overwhelmed this whole year, even all of last year and the summer. I've tried to write LMBT and even my other HP fan fiction. I can't. For some, horrible reason, I can't. I feel so horrible about it; you don't know how horrible I feel about it. I'm sorry, guys. I'm still trying to write my other works but it's going at a snail's pace, if not slower. It's truly because of my school and work though.
Once again, I'm sorry.
-Maximum Poofy.