Just a short Post-war drabble. Something that wouldn't get out of my head. Hopefully I'll finish something else soon enough to give you. As of now I think I have about 30 half done stories, half of those with horrible, unplanned, half-baked, or just plain boring plots.

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Harry absentmindedly turned over a plank of wood with his foot as he wandered through the remains of Grimmauld place. Amazingly enough, the entire front hall floor was undamaged, along with half of the stairway. The rest of the house, however, was completely obliterated. A tiny, wrinkled, pale hand could be seen lying limply under a pile of rubble.

Harry sneered slightly, feeling slightly jubilated and triumphant for the first time in a while. The plank rolled back over onto Kreacher's hand and Harry went on, sighing. He got to the stairwell and sat on the remaining steps, looking out at the street before him.

Buildings had chunks of wood and stone knocked out of them, others were demonlished completely. Smoke still rose from the odd structure or two, although the dust had mostly settled. Harry ran a hand through his hair as he looked out at all of the destruction. The bodies had almost all been moved, of course, although Harry could just see a boot sticking out from where the neighbor's livingroom used to be. Harry looked up at the sky which was bright and strangely hopeful.

It was comforting to know that even after all this destruction, all of this death, the sun would rise another day, the clouds would continue drift lazily across the expanse of sky, and that life, in general, would go on.