Crimson Upon Clover

In his dreams there are voices. Cries of rage, cries of pain, shouted curses and wordless screams. But when he wakes up, there is silence. Not a stir anywhere around him, no movement, no noise. No sign of life. But he knows, for some reason, that he lives still.

He inhales, and his nose is attacked with the bitter stench of blood and other things. The breath expands his lungs, his ribcage, and he winces in pain. His ribs are bruised, maybe broken. His breath bubbles in his throat and he coughs. Blood floods his mouth, and he turns his head to the side and spits it out. Coughing again, he spits out more blood and wonders if one of his lungs is punctured. It certainly hurts enough.

As his senses slowly return, he is aware of a weight pinning him down. It is not too heavy, and he shifts under it slightly. It moves with him. He opens his eyes.

The first thing he sees is a mop of brown hair, flooding down his chest. The hair is hiding the face, but the uniform and the Head Girl badge tell him all he needs to know.

Slowly, painfully, he raises his hands to push her body off of him. His hands are crimson, slender fingers slick with blood. His muscles grating against his bones with exquisite pain, he puts his palms flat against her body and pushes. She slides sideways, still clutching her wand in her hand, her eyes shut but her mouth partway open. Her jumper is torn and covered with blood, and a dried trickle of crimson runs down her chin from her lips. He remembers the curse he cast, one of the most painful and terrible ones aside from the Unforgivables. He ruptured her insides, and she died of internal bleeding. She must've broken his rib with her last strength. He feels no remorse for her death. The Mudblood who bested him in everything and then rubbed it in his face had it coming. She deserved it. He pushes her body away and struggles to his feet.

Pain lances through his body and he welcomes it. He's alive, unlike the Mudblood, unlike many of his former classmates that lay scattered around the grounds. He looks up to the castle, the fortress that was his home for seven years. Over the Great Doors, a banner with the Hogwarts crest flutters limply in the weak breeze. It's dirty and torn, but still flying, still there. Still alive. McGonagall is crumpled under it in a pool of blood. She's not breathing, as far as he can tell, and her hair, always up in a severe twist, is falling freely around her face. Above her, Dumbledore is sitting on the steps. He has his eyes closed, and he's cradling his arm to his chest in a bundle of blood-soaked robes, but he's breathing. He's alive.

He draws a deep breath, feels the broken rib again and doubles over, splattering blood from his mouth onto the grass. Spitting, he straightens and stumbles away.

Everywhere, there are bodies of his schoolmates. He sees Pansy, fallen on her back, head tipped back and sightless eyes staring up at the sky. They were to be married in the fall. Looking at her, he feels nothing. No grief, no anger, no remorse. He turns away.

His gaze skims over Crabbe and Goyle, dead, no more than lumps of flesh. That's what they always were. They were trying to protect Pansy. The shattered, lifeless form of a little Gryffindor is crushed under Goyle's bulk. The Gryffindor's hand is clutching the strap of a huge, old-fashioned camera. He walks on.

Snape is sprawled on the ground, a crossbow bolt in his shoulder. A thin trickle of blood is flowing from his mouth. Their eyes meet, and Snape holds his gaze until he turns away. They say nothing.

He sees Lavender Brown, curled up on the ground, her blood staining the grass. One of her arms is gripping her belly, slashed open by a sword. Rigor mortis locked her fingers around the hand of Seamus Finnigan, whose head is almost severed from his body. Dead, all dead. He passes them by.

Morag MacDougal is sitting next to the body of Terry Boot. His leg is sticking out at a terribly wrong angle, and he whimpers, staring at his bloody fingers. They don't notice each other.

He passes the littlest Weasley, her shoulder pinned to the ground by a longsword. Hissing breaths escape her clenched teeth. One small hand pulls at the blade, leaving bloody fingerprints on the steel, all in vain.

As he struggles to move his feet, he sees more bodies, more blood, more destruction, more pain. He sees Ronald Weasley's body collapsed on top of Millicent, much like the Mudblood collapsed on top of him. Neither of them move. He continues his silent trek.

Next to Weasley's body, there is a small rise. He climbs it, and faces the reason for all the destruction, the source of all of the pain.

Harry Potter and Voldemort lie side by side, still as any other corpse out there. He stands, and he looks down at them, and feels nothing but the physical pain, but that is easily ignored. He doesn't know how long he stands there, staring, feeling the cool spring breeze on his face, hearing the weak moans of the wounded. His whole world is narrowed down to the two shapes in front of him.

After an eternity, one stirs.