Taste of a victory
It was over. Everything Harry been walking to all his life was over. Hogwarts stood tiredly, giving shelter to its few remaining students and professors.
Harry was watching everyone from aside. People were tending to others' and their own wounds. Some of them were still mourning friends and loved ones. Professor McGonagall stood motionless near Fred Weasley's body surrounded by his family who no longer had tears to wash away the sorrow. Hermione, covered in blood, clothes torn and dirty, had her arm around Ron whose face was pained but dry. For a moment, as if feeling Harry's eyes, Ginny turned her head towards him but then, not seeing the boy, returned to her mother's side.
Quietly Harry walked among the mess left after the battle. Small bits and pieces of the fighters' belongings, stones and his life were crunching under his boots. The wind carried the smell of still burning parts of the school, the smell of blood and the war.
Harry stopped and looked around at what was left of his home and little toy soldiers. He took in the sight which resembled a palette with people being just different shades of paint applied by more powerful and cleverer artists.
Feeling drained of any feelings he might feel or should have felt, checking whether he could feel at all, Harry bit his teeth into the lip.
So that was how a victory tasted. It wasn't sweet as people said. No, it tasted of ashes; ashes of your home, enemies and burnt expectations and lives.
And it had that metallic taste of blood.
Only if you were very lucky it was your own.