Author's Note: AU. Inspiration taken from Stone Sour's "Made of Scars." Self harm warning.
No one's left unmarked from the war.
There's the lightning bolt etched into Harry's forehead, of course. But the line that bisects it is new. Jagged and extending into his hairline, it's a present from an unnamed Death Eater with too-long robes and an askew silver mask that no one cared enough to push away when Avada Kedavra rang out and the form crumpled.
There are the scars criss-crossing Bill's face and arms that no one likes to talk about, most of all him. Fleur caresses each one with a feather light touch and murmurs in his ear, and there's a slight sag of relief in the set of his shoulders.
"Mudblood" glistens down Hermione's arm, but it's joined by a handful of raw, red wounds that the tip of her wand made one night when she couldn't stand it anymore, and everything hurt, and nothing else made it better. Sometimes she likes it better this way.
Luna's got wings cut bloody across her back from an impromptu visit to a shady tattoo parlour in Knockturn Alley. Scarification she calls it, and no one wants to ask questions. She cuts her hair short and jagged, brushing against the nape of her neck, and when her shirt's off and her robes discarded, she looks like a fallen angel.
Neville doesn't talk about his, jagged cuts to the bone that slash down both arms. The last person who asked him what happened, had he gone mental, found himself wandering in Siberia for a month. No one's dared ask after that. Most of the Hogwarts contingent knows without asking, anyway. Some pain is too deep for words. He keeps his pockets full of crumpled candy wrappers and gauze bandages.
Ron looks unmarked, at least from what you can see. His scars are ladder-lines along his soul. He doesn't talk anymore, not after a drop of Nagini's venom rendered it too painful. His throat rasps out the sounds in a painful husk until not even his mum pressures him to try.
Ginny's scars are laid over her eyes. A stray spell in the heat of battle, and Ginny can't see anymore. X's cross over each eyelid, and she never opens them. There's no point, she always says with a bitter quirk of her mouth. The bright, vivacious gleam is snuffed out, and dull film and blood take its place.
There's pain and suffering burnt into the walls of Hogwarts. McGonagall's smile fades every time she steps into her rooms. Snape lurks in the dungeons and refuses to teach classes, the barely healed wound at his throat a brand as surely as the skull and snake on his wrist. Dumbledore paces the confines of his portrait, his eyes somber and not twinkling.
But there's hope, too, gently flowering in the cracks of the pavement, and the crevices of the survivors' souls. Fleur is pregnant with twins. Ginny's taken up interpretative dance. There is great freedom in dancing like no one can see you, she explains with a laugh. Hermione's pursuing house elf legislation with single-minded determination, her arms carefully covered up in robes and fuzzy grey cardigans. Harry gets a cat, one that's squashy and part-Kneazle like Crookshanks, but with black and white fur. She purrs in his lap and on his pillow when he wakes up in the middle of the night, throat raw from screaming, and it helps. Somehow it helps.
And Luna and Neville are dating, although Luna calls it Nargle-searching, and Ron's found a job at the twins' joke shop, and Fred and George take him under their wing, even if George is missing an ear and Fred's missing both legs. Because family is family, and they've had enough of loss.
And in September, the halls of Hogwarts ring with the shouts and calls of excited first years and apprehensive returning students. McGonagall welcomes them, and Dumbledore offers them lemon drops from his portrait whenever a student is called to the Headmistress's office. Snape quits and takes up his own apothecary.
Maybe everything does move on, in time.