Drabble and a half. It's been sitting in my hard drive for months, so I thought I'd post it.
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Blood on his hands. Harry can still feel it, sick-sweet and sticky and darkening to black as it dries. He washes his hands so often these days that they've gotten chapped, stays in the shadows because the light seems foreign to him. Hermione notices, he knows, but she doesn't say anything; he returns the favour by pretending not to see the way she turns white and stiff whenever a man touches her. They all have their invisible scars. He sighs, and stares numbly at the barren field stretched out in front of him. He too feels barren; stripped of all the life and colour he is sure he used to have, though he can't remember how that feels. His spirit is as withered and grey as the late November grass.