Generation War

Summary: She's looking at him. Again. She's looking at him as if she can recognise a part of herself in him: the most fragile and wounded part of her soul. Looking at him it's strange, in a curious and obsessive way. It's something she can't avoid, something she shouldn't do, but finds herself doing whenever he is alone.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. The one and only owner is J.K. Rowling. And I don't own Drive.

AN: English is not my first language, so I'm sorry for any lexical or grammatical mistake I made while writing this piece of something.

Part One

War always has an impact on people. In some tragic way, it builds a person from scratch, changing everything that has always been known: perceptions, feelings, meanings, relationships.

War is dust: it accumulates on people's shoulders until it becomes too heavy, too suffocating. But war is also scars: permanent marks of the psyche, long living traces of death and sorrow. War is whatever a person fears the most, and it is rarely merciful.

Dust and grief.

Physical and psychological wounds.

Loss and wandering in an unknown rotten land.

And then, after the storm, war leaves you alone, as a new fragile human being, surrounded by other broken people.

22th October 1998

She's looking at him. Again. She's looking at him as if she can recognise a part of herself in him: the most fragile and wounded part of her soul. Looking at him it's strange, in a curious and obsessive way. It's something she can't avoid, something she shouldn't do, but finds herself doing whenever he is alone – and it doesn't matter if he's really physically alone, or simply estranged, lost in thought, back to the waste land, the burial of the dead better known as war.

He's sitting on a bench in the courtyard, his back against the stony wall and a book in his hands. Dressed in his school uniform – grey jumper, emerald and silver tie, and black trousers – he seems to shiver, but his face shows nothing. He has to study. He needs to study. Noises, people, the frosty wind of Scotland: they don't matter because he needs to get lost in words and numbers. Words and numbers can erase pain and memories. Temporarily.

He's always reading, always writing on his tomes. Just like her. He's always quiet, disinterested, always with his head down – certainly not acting like the Draco Malfoy the school is used to. He doesn't look at her, doesn't even notice her presence. But she… damn, she does.

What are you reading?

What are you thinking?

How are you feeling?

Are you lost, like me?

Are you in pain, like me?

Questions, so many questions fill her mind each time she is mentally alone with him.

There is so much she wants to ask him, so much she wants to say to him.

Does your scar hurt? Mine does.

Do you regret your choices? I don't, but I wish I could have helped more. I wish I could have helped those like you.

29th October 1998

In some way, looking at him is healing, comforting, intellectually demanding.

Looking at him makes her realise some things she didn't know about herself. For example: now she knows that she is fascinated by the habits of the people around her, by the effects these habits have on people.

Now she knows that the only smile he allows himself is the one he unsuccessfully tries to hide after the first taste of his green apple at breakfast; now she is aware that he bites his lower lip as he reads something he finds intriguing.

Now she knows that he's kind to first years, even if they look at him with frightened expressions, that he's seriously a good student, and, shockingly, that he's not so terrible – physically speaking.

He's strikingly particular: handsome, in an unusual, almost timeless, aesthetical kind of way.

And this epiphany is what terrifies her most.

15th December 1998

"Watch we're you going, Granger."

His voice is deep, cracked, cold as the wintry breeze that is messing with his hair.

The grip on her shoulders tightens for a moment, as if he doesn't know who she is and who he is and what their history is.

"I'm sorry," she says, her voice soft and barely audible. The day is cold and dry, and it's snowing. The dark wounds of their souls are more visible in their eyes when everything around them is white, clear, pure, untouched. "I was… I was just…"

Thinking about you.

He sighs, and he seems tired. "It doesn't matter," he mutters, shoving past her without a glance.

13th January 1999

It's his.

Green apples, tonka bean, cedar wood and sandalwood, and… new parchment.

She drops the knife, drawing the attention of her classmates, and lets her arms drop. The beat of her heart reaches her throat, her brain starts asking questions: why? When? How? Why him?

Thump, thump, thump.

It's his, there's no doubt: Amortentia never lies. Her talents – Hermione Granger's talents – never fail.

"Shit," she almost screams when she realises she's in trouble.

"Hermione?" Ginny puts a hand on her shoulder. "Everything ok?"

No. Everything's a mess. My mind is a mess. He's not the shelter, the safe place I was looking for. He's only a subject I'm studying, a riddle I'm trying to understand. He's just someone as broken as I am.

"Yeah," she lies, faking a smile. "I can't place the scents."

Ginny breathes and then smirks. "Lucky you! Mine screams Harry Fucking Potter."

"Amortentia never lies," Hermione says, before landing her eyes on him.

His potion is almost finished, concentration is painted on every line of his aristocratic face.

She wants to know what the scents of his potion are. She doesn't want to be alone in this mess.