All of the survivors of the war trickled out, mourning for their dead, but wanting to see something as beautiful as the sunrise.
It filled them with hope. It was bright, and golden, and fast rising. A new day was coming; the night was receding.
The hope glinted from morning dew on some grass, off of shimmering frost on another, lower one. That soon melted into water. The mountains in the distance were concealing the sun somewhat, but not enough to dim its shine. It was gorgeous.
It tore across the field, changing everything. Suddenly, you could see flowers blooming. Suddenly, the grass was a rich, emerald-green... Though in some places contrasted with bright, scarlet red.
A mourner hunched over their friend, or sibling, or parent, or loved one looked up. Her tears shone like liquid gold. The castle gleamed.
And everyone saw the ruins once more, and was reminded of the battle before.
Even the horizon remembered the battle, with scarlet slashes painting the sky. It was sprinkled with blood-orange clouds, accentuating the red even more. It turned the mountains scarlet, turned everywhere blood-tinted.
Not that it needed any help.
And, at the same time, it provided a twisted source of comfort for the still living. It was as if their family and their friends were painting the sky in honor of their hardship.
As one, the crowd bowed their heads, lost in sadness and misery.
A rustle, a snap, and a herd of Thestrals emerged. They were bathed in sunlight, making them seem... Different.
And then more came. And more. And more. Until the area in front of the grieving wizards and witches was thick with them.
And first one wizard looked up. Then a witch. Then a few more witches and wizards. And soon everybody was looking.
And seeing.
They saw the Thestrals.