The world that the sun rose to was a quiet one. It was the calm after the end of a great war, a stillness felt throughout the land. Not a breath of wind stirred the blades of green grass that sprouted with the coming of the new spring, a sign of hope in a desolate battleground. The dragonflies flew low to the ground, drifting between the unmoving grasses, and though they were filled with life, they moved with a dreamlike slowness, searching for their morning meal that could not be found among the crushed flowers and broken blades.
Not a creature went near the water, however, though they were hungry and could find no food, and the surface of the Black Lake remained calm, almost frozen, as if the cold winter frost still lay heavily upon the land. Not a ripple disturbed the surreal reflection on the glass-like water, which loyally displayed the lonely scene around it.
It was indeed a quiet world that the golden sun had risen to, a silent world of death, just as the last breath slips away for the last time, and for once in its history, the sun was unable to bring a new light into the world, unable to vanquish the fear brought with the cover of night, and the horror of what happened in those dark hours; and so it was an early hour that the sun's head appeared over the east horizon, casting its cold glow on the broken walls of Hogwarts, where only one pale fighter stood by the shattered windows to witness the beginning of such a somber day.
Behind the cold walls of the destroyed castle, the atmosphere was just the same as the grounds beyond the heavy oak doors that lay now in splinters upon the flagged, cracked stones of the castle floor. Those who had survived the battle were sleeping soundly, though only in outward appearances. Truly they fought with themselves and battled the cries and death that only war could bring; yet every now and again there would be a shout as someone lost the battle with themselves.
The most oppressive silence, though, came from the dead. Despite that which remained of them was only a shell of who they used to be, it was they who forced such a dreadful quiet; the living deemed silence necessary to pay the proper respects to the fallen warriors, and yet it was still the faces of the fallen that haunted the dreams of the survivors, dreams that the lone fighter could not face.
She could not face the war again, could not face what had been done and who had died. She had lived through it once, and to live through it again in sleep that was supposed to bring refuge to those pursued by memories they wished to erase seemed to her a waste of time. The oppressive air of the dead, many of whom she knew, forced her mind to a restless state, an eagerness to run away; and so, what, she wondered, was the reason for why she remained in the castle, and yet she had no answer to her own question.
As she watched the world beyond the hole where a window had once stood, only now marked by the small shards of glass jutting out in awkward directions, she saw in the grounds bits and pieces of nature that reminded her of those who now cast the dreary mood on the castle. Closing her eyes tightly, she leaned against the wall, pressing her forehead to the cool stone. The jaggedness of a deep score in the wall, its uneven edges prickling her skin, served as evidence of the cruel battle that had taken place only hours before, bringing her to face the reality of what had occurred in a place, in the home, that to her seemed once so secure.
Bringing her hands up, she hugged herself tightly, willing herself not to cry, not when so many others needed her to be strong, but as she felt the tears slipping beneath her eyelids and down her cheeks, she new that all she wanted to do was break and let someone else pick up the pieces; to let someone else make the decisions and give the comfort, rather than it be she who gave the orders and helped the others make it through, keeping no comfort for herself.
But she knew that was not an option and so as she cried she tried to stay quiet, to let the tired sleep themselves out as she wished to do, but was afraid to, unable to face the fears and memories that she had believed she could so easily have conquered once upon a time.
Before long she found herself kneeling against the wall, which she hated. She hated it and all that it stood for. Walls were meant for protection, to hold people and buildings up when things became rough, not to tear them down or to fall down on the job and cause everything, everyone, to collapse within themselves when they should remain standing tall and proud.
For a long time she sat there as the grief of the past year finally came forth, as the world came crashing down around her, as reality pressured her ever more, asking questions she would not, could not, answer. But still not all her tears were spent, and it was not until she felt warm arms around her that she was pulled from her own remorse and woe, remembering that others suffered; and as she tried to repress the hurts once again, she found that she was unable to, and could only face the memories that plagued her, demanding her attention, the bad that stung both new and old wounds, and the happy that tore open the already stinging hurts.
But she did not care. She let herself be comforted as he told her that they would make it through the good and the bad, through the next few days and weeks which would prove to be the hardest, and she let herself show what she had never let anyone see, knowing that he grieved, too, as she felt his own tears stain her hair as he held her. She knew that he would see her no differently when the sun truly shown again, because they had all suffered, and the only way they could make it through was if they did it together…
A/N:: So, apparently, I don't actually own Harry Potter, it was all just a dream...*sigh*
So here's this depressing fic, because, you know, the world needs more post-Battle fics. (sarcasm, mate, learn to recognize it.)
Explanations: The second paragraph is to show just how disturbed the land is and the fact that even the water isn't rippling is supposed to be a big deal because animals are always disturbing the water.
~Also the line: "almost frozen...upon the land" is because the archetype of winter typically represents death, so the lake is as still as it would be when the water freezes in winter (because sooo many giant lakes freeze in winter.[again, sarcasm]) and so it's attempted symbolism for death.
(p.s.: Imagery is way too fun.)