Decimation

The dirt was hard and dry, congealing to a thick impenetrable mound. He was constantly amazed at how the shovel did so little damage to the earth, compared to what it would do to flesh. It had been raining for weeks in moist drizzle and had cleared recently to a dusky grey overgrowth of clouds. The labor did not cease despite the weather. Considering the alternative, it was better that he dug as rigorously as he could. The pile of flesh was beginning to give off a scent so strong that it penetrated even the deepest of tiresome slumber a hundred yards from the pits to makeshift beds that had once housed chickens.
Sweat had already soaked his brows and was now beginning to lay tracks over his lids to enter his eyes. He paused to wipe his brow and give himself a well deserved stretch. He should be allowed to take a break, considering he’d been toiling for hours this morning without rest. He had already dug a score of holes already. He deserved this.
“Psst, Neville,” whispered a fellow laborer from nearby. It was Ernie. Old Ernie from way back. Way back when the earth was dug to bury seeds to yield life. Neville smiled back good naturedly.
“Yeah?”
“Keep your head down, dammit!” There was an urgent tension in his voice. Neville automatically shot a look at a distant tower. There rose a large castle of ancient ancestry, magical in all its glory. And from the balcony, he could discern a lone figure exiting to breath in the fresh air. Sudden fear gripped him from the deep insides. Neville crunched back to his labor. Shuffling debris aside as he picked a fresh spot in the ground. He glimpsed a shot of green light speeding from the tower. It pierced a forlorn worker ambling across the field.
A veteran of many battles, Neville knew that the chill that crept from his stomach was simply a psychological effect of the spell. Neville searched his mind in melancholy for the name of the unfortunate worker. There will have to be one more hole to dig that day.
It wasn’t the tardiness that was punished. He knew well from experience not to carry wheelbarrows when the overseer is out. Not to stand apart from the crowd. It was ennui. Boredom of an evil man to shoot down anyone who catches his eye. Don’t be unlucky, and bury someone else, today.
“The git’s taking pot shots. How more do you recon he’ll take?” the voice belonged to a muggle Neville had come to know as Eli. Eli was in his mid thirties, claimed to be an IT tech, whatever that meant. It eventually meant that he had no useful skills and ended up full time digging the pits. For Neville and Ernie, graduates of Hogwarts, pit jobs usually came around every once a week when the usual labor force couldn’t keep up with burying the surmounting death.
“Usually takes about five or six a day, doesn’t he?” Neville replied. “three on a good day, means he’s still aiming for at least two more.”
“ten on a bad day means shut yer trap!” Ernie hissed.
Draco…

Draco Malfoy surveyed the field in his underpants. Two years have passed since the war with the muggles ended. Two years in full service as regimental commander of the inferi in Bolivia. Two years liaising with the giants over the alps. And a full three years keeping an eye on the Japanese demon handlers in the Dark Lord’s name. He, a Death Eater, who was instrumental in killing Dumbledore, reduced to this. Overseeing the labor camps along the Rhine. At least he was in Europe. The original Death Eaters were spread thin. And what had been a key defense position, warding off the attacks from renegade Durmstrang elements that felt they should have a bigger piece of pie from the conquest, had turned into a sterile boring enterprise to assimilate the muggles. Twenty nine years old, ready for anything. Ready for a higher court. Ready to present himself and raise up the Malfoy name again. But no owl reached the Rhine from London, except for petty reports. He aimed his wand at a straggler. Nameless. Whatever.
“Avada Kedavara” he muttered, as the green light flashed the unknown worker into a final release.
There was a rustling sound from the bed. His last night conquest seemed nervous. He had been a little rough on her. She reminded him of Romilda Vane. Dark hair and all. Romilda had been his first toy. He had wanted Granger, but his father had shown an unhealthy obsession with the girl. He felt it wise not to show strife within the family, as its name was already quite low on the Dark Lord’s favour. Unwisely bleeding Romilda to death was a regretful act that eventually let him fall in favor, personally. The Dark Lord made it clear not to waste wizard blood in vain. At least that had been during the conquest. Now with peace settled he could waste a hundred Romildas if he wanted. Just bad timing, he said to himself.
The girl in bed was no witch. Just a scullery maid he had taken a fancy to at dinner. He had ordered his lackeys to bring her to his room bound and gagged. He was too tired to struggle, too much. Imperiusing was boring. He beat her first, with his own fists. Then when he finally found some energy, raped her. Raping her reminded him of Pansy. The girl was too tight. She’d been a bitch. Probably fawning over the higher-ups at court in London, while he’s wasting away in Germany. Realizing that she wasn’t a virgin, he felt dirtied. Some blasted mudblood, or even a muggle had already taken her and left him the scraps. He bound her and sent serpents from his wand. The magical creatures hissed and snapped at her as she passed out. He tied her up at his bed post and made her sleep on the floor. Vexed at sullying himself.
And woke up in a bad mood.

It was a body. Body of a young girl that had been flung from the balcony. Age 19. Muggle. Several bruises and lashes around the torso, right shoulder, hip. Animal bites along both knees and ankles. Bruises and lacerations inflicted before death. Death about 1 hour ago. No notable infections. No signs of allergic reactions.
Name… Name… Jane Doe. Until head counts come in. Which won’t be until tomorrow.
Parvati signed the documents and slipped a toe tag on before surrendering the body over to the awaiting cart. She had been working in Draco’s morgue for a couple of months. She had been transferred in from India where she had been working on the battlefield for the Red Serpent relief group. Fresh out of St Mungo’s she had been drafted into the battlefield. It was either that or the labor camps. Healers had been in short supply. India had been an obvious destination, despite never having been there in her entire life, her race and linguistic capabilities had made her a prime candidate. Being a previous member of Dumbledore’s army was not forgotten. How could she ever forget? DA was branded on her upper arm. She was required to submit her wand when she entered the castle. Her collar was indispensible when she went into town for supplies. Without it she would be attacked on the spot by anyone noticing the scars. Even local muggles would report her, if they didn’t stone her first for being an unprotected witch.
The body cart, which already held a dozen corpses were hauled out on her signal. At least she had clean quarters to herself. Working down at the morgue, which doubled as an infirmary on a few occasions, she had kept herself from being noticed by Malfoy. It was rumored that he had an insatiable blood lust, to match his sexual appetite. With few witches around he had been forcing himself onto any muggle girl in his sight. She had seen first hand his atrocities. Girls deformed in face to resemble witches he once knew at school. The poor things weren’t even allowed to die with their own faces. Witches rarely entered the morgue. He kept the few witches allowed to him closely. She heard what had become of poor Romilda Vane, and the displeasure to Malfoy that followed.
There was a rap at her window. Parvati nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound. It was only Neville Longbottom. She hurried to the window, picking up a carefully wrapped package along the way. Neville seemed quite exhausted. His shirt was tattered and reeked of death. As always he barred his heavy arms which bore not only DA, but also a lightning scar. The scar meant he had been branded as a close associate with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Mentioned, and had been important during the final wizarding war. That was more than ten years ago. Now it was only a scar, recognized by few, carried by fewer. She smiled fondly at the memory. Those were wonderful years, compared to this. She had been Neville’s chief suppliers during those dark years, secretly supplying ministry aided medicine to the underground. She had thought they would eventually win victorious. As so many tales had ended. She had delegated her role to a more secret one. In terror and fright she had supplied the medicine. Now that it was all over, she envied Neville’s lightning scar. What was one more scar, when I’m scarred throughout body and mind?
“Seems I’m always on the receiving end.” Neville smiled shyly. After all those years of hardship, he still retained the soul of an unsullied kind man. A man of the earth, who was kin to hardship and cherished the fruit of persistence. She handed him the package. Their fingers glancing for a moment, a warmth she longed for in silence. But warmth was scarce here up north.
“Share. There’s not much to go around.” She said quietly.
“This is more than I hoped for. Seamus will be back on his feet in no time.” Neville sported a wink, as was Neville resulted in something between a cringe and a grimace.
“I’ll contact you when the next shipment arrives. Usual means, usual time and place. Now, shoo! Before anyone sees you.”
“Any word from the village?”
He always asked that question. Perhaps that was what kept his smile. Perhaps she should keep a little hope as well. Perhaps. But reality is harsh. And though no news may not be bad news, it did not necessarily mean it was good.
“Neville…”
Neville. In all his ineptitude and bumbling clumsiness, his empathy to others kept his heart warm and his soul untarnished by the horrors of the world.
“Parvati. Ron’s still out there. I know it.”