As usual, I own nothing ( a depressing thought if ever there was one)

This is a drabble that hit me whilst I was trying (in vain) to do my History assignment. It's post-war. I imagined it through Hermione's eyes, but it could be any female really.

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All around her, the bloodied earth was littered with death.

Death in all its palsied forms. Again and again and again. They kept dying, were already dead.

The very air was ripe with the heavy putrefaction of singed corpses. Corpses - no longer people - would never be people again.

She turned, slowly, casting an unseeing gaze about her, in vain hope of glimpsing life. Any life.

There was none.

Slowly, slower, she sunk to her knees and rocked back on her heels.

A low keen rose from her throat. It jarred discordantly with the hushed silence.

This was no victory - it was simply an end.

She lay down on the ground now, face pressed into that stolen-blood earth, as if to return to that most primal of wombs. As if to die.

Eyes closed to ubiquitous Death. Yet wanting it all the same.

'Dead, dead!' her mind cried out. What need was there to carry on?

All of them were dead.

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I will not beg for reviews. I find it demeaning.