Remus finds Draco Malfoy's body at the entrance to the dungeons after the battle. Three Death Eaters are strewn around the dead youth like broken baubles, robes torn, faces frozen in shock. Malfoy's face is slack, his body contorted. Remus thinks that perhaps the youth had gotten perverse satisfaction from the fact that he had taken his tormentors with him.
Three flights above the werewolf, Ron is hauling bodies into the library. The infirmary is full, and most of his burdens are already dead. The rest will be soon. The redhead heaves the body of a second-year Ravenclaw onto the only table not piled with corpses. The girl's arm is gone, her mouth twisted in a silent scream, and she stinks of blood. Ron gags and shoves aside the thought of another female body slumped somewhere in kitchens, ginger-red hair burnt and freckled eyes empty.
Five rooms down and across the hall, Severus Snape has turned the Charms classroom into a makeshift potions lab. The spy brews Veritaserum, healing draughts, Dreamless Sleep potions, consistently ignoring his slowly worsening limp. Neville and Madame Pomfrey are in dire need of all of them. The two served- serve, present tense, Severus almost forgets to remind himself, he's gotten so used to thinking in past- as remnants of constancy in an era that lacked- lacks, this isn't over yet- stasis above all else, and for that he almost owes them.
Outside, across the grounds, Harry is curled into trembling ball on the floor of Hagrid's hut. The half-giant has been dead for three years. Voldemort has been dead for half a year. The war is over, if that's possible; no one's sure it is. It should have been over five months ago. Death Eaters had proven deadlier in their wild rage than in all their careful scheming. They are all dead now; empty comfort to Harry, who has learned repeatedly that the gray lines between right and wrong are nothing more than horizontal puppet strings.