Harry was looking around himself in horror, watching as the fighting continued in fervour. Voldemort was dead, yet around him, people continued to die. He watched as Ron, who had cheered hollowly at Voldemort's fall, was cut down by Sectumsempra, which seemed to cut through the sky, as the storm worsened. Harry's broken wand lay on the floor beside him, and there was no mental strength behind a wandless protego. Ron bled out.
He watched the Malfoys flee, Narcissa leading her husband and son, flashes of green light following them.
Bellatrix's cackle, pure madness and hatred sounded above everything else. Snape had died by Nagini's venom, and as the massacre continued around him, Harry realised there was no victory.
Only death, and loss, and suffering. Hermione, Ron, Ginny, dead. Fred, gone. Lupin, Mrs Weasely. Fleur a widow, and... his eyes travelled to where she was fighting, blond hair flashing like star and sunlight, a beacon in the rain.
She fell.
So few were left now. On either side.
Hogwarts was gone.
Everything was gone.
Night was dark, lit by spellfire alone. Funny.
In minutes, he would be 21 in minutes, and already he felt life was over.
All light was gone now. He sat down, shuffling away from the body that was all that was left of his lifelong enemy. It was still raining. Cold, cold, cold for July. He leaned a hollow bony cheek against his skeletal knee.
His clothes had seen better days, and he was never hungry anymore, his stomach shrunken beyond what he had once thought the minimum standard for survival.
He stopped shivering.
The desolate scene around him, he closed his eyes, wishing, wishing, wishing that it had all been different.
Until he didn't feel anything anymore.