A/N: Just the usual clichéd war-isn't-about-who's-right crap; I have a major case of HP fanfic writers' block, so excuse me.
Exams tomorrow, so wish me luck…
Plague
The blood on his hands is dried and swirled like paint on a canvas. This doesn't stop him from running his hands through his unruly hair and wiping them on the front of his robes. He is alive, and that's all that matters.
Dumbledore tells him that they've won. He tells him that Voldemort is gone and the Death Eaters have retreated, and that everything will be alright soon. But nothing, he knows, will ever be alright again. His friends are dead and their blood is gone, dried up and washed away, and they will soon be forgotten, just like he will be one day. He isn't a hero, and he isn't any better than the rest of them. But, somehow, he managed to live.
This doesn't make him gallant, just extraordinarily lucky. This is something that he'll just have to live with, because hating yourself gets you nowhere.
He knows this, but he cannot live with it.
And they didn't win, not really, he knows. They survived, but they didn't win. They were not victorious, because victory doesn't mean death and tears and hopelessness. Victory means justice and liberty and life; victory is comfort. Victory isn't pain. But this victory throbs in his chest and rips at his skin 'till he's tearing off his robes and throwing them on the ground, just because he feels dirty. This victory feels too hollow to be tangible.
This victory, he admits, feels an awful lot like defeat.
And Ron knows that, no matter what Dumbledore says, they did not – and will never – win. The Dark side will always be around, like a plague, swarming and poisoning and destroying 'till history repeats itself, again and again. The Dark side will grow, and the Dark side will attack.
In the end, really, the Dark side will always, always win.
The End