Warnings: Main canonical mentions are as following; Luna Lovegood, Neville Longbottom, Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy. There is a slight romantic relationship between Draco Malfoy and Silas Astran (original character). If you do not approve of such relationships, please take your leave with elegance and honor.
Author's Note: This is a purely non-canonical piece of fanfiction, though it is intended to seem canonical to the movies. Forgive me for any discrepancies, if you see any blaring mistakes in plot, please do let me know, it may or may not be intentional. I do not own any part of Harry Potter, that honor is held by J. K. Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury and etc.
Athazagoraphobia
( the fear of being forgotten or ignored or forgetting )
Prologue
It was done.
The war was done. Finished.
There are still a few death eaters at large, but in hiding, they were as dangerous as a bull Finch to a rhinoceros.
He stood on the balcony of his castle, the same one his grandfather stood from. He finally saw what his grandfather had seen. Craggy, gaunt but terribly majestic mountainsides stared back at the viewer, with patches of luscious greenery carpeting the cliff edges, clinging onto life from a precarious location. The winged horses grazed among the grass they could find, resting in the caves carved in the side of the mountain. Not a single house or tenant of society in sight. He was isolated, alone, so very lonely.
He couldn't hear his parents chortling over his precious baby sister, but he knew they must be somewhere in the castle doing just that. Isolated from the war where no one could reach them, they didn't know what it had been like. War's fingers were not long enough to reach this part of the world. Even Society s sneaky appendages could not reach it.
From here, he could have lived, staring out into the mountains, imagining what it was like to be in the war, or perhaps ignoring it completely. From the castle balcony he could have waited for the war to blow over. From here, he could have lived his entire life peacefully. From his castle, he could have lived.
No amount of doting or comforting from his parents could change anything. No amount of potions and spells could help him forget. Fatigue dragged him down when he was awake, but his dreams made it impossible to sleep. The dreamless sleep potion had worked for a time, but after a while, he grew immune to it. There was little he could do, without a therapist. Due to his secluded location, miles and countries away from Britain, there weren't ant therapists that were either close enough to floo, and if they were, they didn't even know there had been a war and therefore would be of no use.
Had it been the right decision to fight? Had they needed him? Or would they have been alright without him? In his worst moments, he feared his aid had been in vain, and his pain could have been avoided. In his self pitying state, he would cope by telling himself his efforts made a difference in the war. Yet other times, like now, he didn't care whether it made even the slightest of differences or none at all, because it hurt too much to think of it.
Sometimes he wanted to blame his parents for being supporters of Voldemort before his disappearance and were expected to return which caused him so much trouble evading them. He chuckled to himself. What if something had gone wrong? What if someone had discovered his memories. What would he have done. He wouldn't have been able to remember his home, or his life or his friends. Not that they could remember him.
Everytime he tried to understand, he couldn't remember why exactly he had removed the memories of himself from his friend minds. He only remembered that he had done it and the next day, he was all alone. No one said hi to him, no one would acknowledge him as a friend. They only knew he was a student at Hogwarts, and that they had other things to be doing. He wondered if they ever got the feeling something was missing.
It was a mistake on his part and completely immoral. It had not been his right to take those memories from them. They were not his. It took him months to come up with a solution. It was hapless and an incomplete answer to his problem, but it was the best he could think of.
The war was finished, and he fixed the only regrets he had in life. He was ready.
He looked over the edge of the balcony and immediately regretted it. Nausea filled his throat as he recalled his grandfather. The craggy rocks would be unforgiving.
He wondered if his parents would forgive him they wouldn't be so bitter, now that they had another heir. He was pretty sure they had not wanted to give him the inheritance anyways since he had told them he would never be able to produce a true heir, or marry a woman of their choice because of his orientation. They had taken the news with stony faces, perfected after years of pureblooded parties, etiquette and raising. He still couldn't tell what they were thinking. He would probably never be sire. That was just how it was.
He never could understand anyone.
Taking a deep breath. The turned around to look at his castle. His safe haven. His life.
He straightened himself again, looking forward and jumped.