Are We the Waiting

Chapter One

The Jesus of Suburbia is a Lie

She moaned. Her hands lifted to knot in his hair and she unabashedly pressed herself flush against him. Tongues clashed feverishly and his hand lowered dangerously; his pale, freckled eyelids flickering passionately as he smiled against her lips.

Hermione Granger looked away from Ron and Lavender's heated snogging session, a frown tugging at the corner of her lips. Last year she might have blushed furiously and averted her eyes immediately, or perhaps she might have huffed at their antics, storming out of the Great Hall muttering about the pair carelessly flaunting their relationship. But not now. Not anymore.

Many things had changed over the past year. Voldemort was dead. Dumbledore was dead. Snape was dead. Remus, Tonks, Sirius, Fred, Percy, Neville, Padma, Seamus, Millicent Bulstrode, Goyle, Theodore Nott, Angelina, Katie, the elder Malfoys, her mother... Tens, hundreds, thousands. Muggles. Mudbloods. Half-bloods. Purebloods. Wizards. Gone; dead. All dead. Mangled, torn, broken. Ripped to pieces, torn to shreds, tattered remains strewn over everything, over everyone. A rainbow of flashes of light, a rhythm of falling bodies, a chorus of screams of horror and pain. Chaos. Destruction. So much pain, so much darkness.

Hermione's expression darkened, her eyebrows furrowing as the thoughts and memories overcame her.

Yes, many things had changed.

She took it the hardest, she supposed. They had all killed, had all seen death. But it still managed to strike her hard. Every mission, every battle... There would always be at least one less of them. And each time they lost someone, she lost a part of herself. So young, she mourned, so young and full of life... So much potential. Cut short. Stolen. She had never seen so much carnage, especially during the final battle. Never. And as she watched friends, strangers, and enemies fall, she lost pieces of herself. And even as she watched Voldemort fall, she felt a part of her collapse. She felt bitter. Now what? Defeating Voldemort had been their focus for almost a decade. And now he was gone. Now what? As people cheered their joy at the Dark Lord's defeat, she just stood there. All the studying, all the development of new spells, hexes, and curses, all of the planning and organizing and scheming... She had done it all to aid in the Lord's defeat. And now it was over. So she stood there, silent, bitter, and lost.

The first thing she did once the war was over was visit her parents. Even though they were guarded under numerous wards and enchantments, even the fidelius charm, destruction greeted her. Her mother was just one more on the casualty list.

Harry found his comfort in Ginny. they had been interested in each other for years and with the war over they were finally free to be together. Harry was finally at peace. The marauders were together at last and his parents had been avenged. He was free to be with the woman he loved and help her overcome her own losses.

Ron had Lavender. They had broken up before the war began and had wasted no time in getting back together once it was over. Fred and Percy's death had hit him hard, and Lavender was there every step of the way on his road to recovery. He no longer froze at the mention of their names, his eyes no longer glazing over with suppressed memories.

Her father found his comfort in the alcohol. Hermione's frown deepened as she idly pushed her food around on her plate. Her mother and father had been childhood sweethearts. When her mother was killed in a Death Eater raid, it was like a part of him had died as well with her.

Hermione stood up abruptly, murmuring a quick excuse to Harry and Ron. She didn't even get a grunt of acknowledgment. She watched them forlornly for a moment before nodding slightly, almost to herself, and sweeping quietly out of the Great Hall.

As soon as the warm air hit her face, she sighed with a ghost of a smile quirking at the corner of her lips. Nature always seemed to calm her down, especially after the end of the war. Hogwarts, the ancient castle that had once been her haven, her home away from home, was now more like a cell than anything else. So heavy and dark and dreary with memories of death and screams and chaos. Constant reminders of the Final Battle, pulling her down, holding her back. But the grounds... oh, the grounds. They had been devastated by the war. But with a little magic, Hagrid's careful care, and some help from mother nature herself, the grounds were once again flourishing. It was as if nothing had ever happened, as if the war had never occurred, as if thousands of people's blood hadn't stained the ground little more than a year prior.

She smiled wryly, running a hand lightly over a tree trunk as she passed. Hermione wished she was that strong. She wished she could recover and regrow. She wanted to be whole and beautiful and forget, she wanted to be how she was before. Her hand dropped limply to her side as she stared stoically across the lake.

Hermione stroked her arm absentmindedly. He blamed her. Her father blamed her for her mother's death. He never said it out loud, but the way he looked at her and spoke to her... The way he looked at her right before he went to the cabinet for alcohol. The way he stared at her when she helped his drunken form to bed, tucking him in and bidding him goodnight, his dead gaze fixed on her until his bedroom door was closed... He blamed her.

Hermione slumped down, sitting with her knees held tightly to her chest. She refused to break down and cry. She had to be strong. Everyone depended on her to be strong. She couldn't help but feel slightly bitter about it. Everyone turned to her with their problems. They unloaded all their issues onto her, but whenever she tried to do the same... She wanted them to recover. She was glad she was helping them be happy. But... She wanted to be happy too. If one looked at it, it was logical, she supposed. If you reasoned it properly, they gave her their problems so that they could move on and be happy. They gave her their deepest darkest memories so that they wouldn't bog down their significant others. If she tried to unload her problems on them, it'd just drag them down and depress them again. That wasn't fair. That was selfish. She owed it to them to be a good friend and help them. She could do it. She could be strong. And she could take care of herself. She could take care of herself, by herself.

Hastily, she smeared the stray tears that had managed to escape her eyes with her thumb. She just wanted to be happy too. So why couldn't she?

Ungrateful.

The word burned in her mind. She was alive. She had survived the war when so many people had fallen. She had the highest honours bestowed upon her by the Ministry. She received a sizable sum of gold for helping with the defeat of the Dark Lord. She still had a home, a father, wonderful friends... Food, resources, hell, she had magic! So why couldn't she just be happy? She didn't know.

She heard shuffling, tensing for a moment, before forcing herself to appear relaxed. Listening intently, she began to dissect the information her brain was registering. Heavy footfalls; probably male. A few seconds between steps; long strides. Smooth sounds; graceful walker. From the sound and feel, the were twenty-five feet away, maybe thirty. Hermione felt bitter again. The war had trained her, taught her to hone her senses and how to survive. Now she couldn't even be approached by someone without tensing and assessing whether or not they were a threat.

"It's quiet."

She instantly knew who it was. There was no doubt in her mind who owned that deep, smooth voice.

"Draco." She greeted him neutrally.

"Hermione."

There was a pregnant pause. He stood not six feet from her and she assumed that he was gazing out across the lake as well.

"It's nice." Hermione murmured, breaking the relaxed silence. "I like it."

"Yeah," He agreed, just as quietly. "I like it too. Lonely though."

She remained silent for a few seconds, as if considering what he said. "Yeah. ... Yeah..."

Silence.

Draco Malfoy had been a spiteful, irritating prick for the better part of four years. In his fifth year he was just as spiteful, but he had seemed exhausted and drained, his insults holding much less passion than they had previously. His task had been taxing on him. And then there was that night. Snape fulfilled his oath. Dumbledore was dead. Snape, Malfoy, and the other Death Eaters retreated to their Lord.

Not a day later, Snape appeared on the Order's doorstep, a mauled young Malfoy in his arms.

It took hours, a bottle of veritaserum, a pensieve, and much coaxing for Snape to explain what was going on. He explained that he was a spy for the Order and that he had killed Dumbledore on Dumbledore's orders. He explained that Draco Malfoy had been punished severely for his failure. Upon seeing their son hurt so badly and so close to death... They switched sides. The family that had been the face of pureblood extremism switched sides. Whether or not they still believed in pureblood superiority was up in the air, but both Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy agreed to become spies for the Order of the Phoenix.

As Snape explained the situation to the skeptical Order, Molly Weasely had patched up the young Malfoy. When she was done, there was barely an inch of skin that wasn't bandaged or bruised. The Malfoys, Snape had explained, didn't want Draco turning spy with them. He was already on Voldemort's bad side due to his inability to kill Dumbledore, and Draco was more likely to be killed than to gather any useful information on the Dark Lord.

So the youngest Malfoy became a well known traitor, becoming as wanted as the rest of the Order.

Relations were strained. Draco Malfoy remained the same arrogant bastard he always had been, only becoming more subdued. He fought against the Dark Lord openly with them, attacking the people that others had once considered his 'friends.' Even still, he was treated as scum. Most people in the Order made it clear that they didn't trust him, loathed him, and wished him dead. They bullied him, called him spiteful names, fought with him, cheated against him in training matches and hitting low...

Hermione never really saw the point though. Sure, he might have only joined their side to avoid being crusio'd into insanity and then avada kedavra'd, but they needed every willing fighter they could get. So she put her differences aside and treated him like an equal, like he hadn't tormented her for the past five years, like he didn't have the dark mark slithering on his pale forearm. She could never tell if he appreciated her treatment of him, but they swiftly entered a mutually tentative truce. That truce rapidly developed into a strong friendship. He was brilliant, she discovered, and his intelligence rivaled her own. He listened to her rants and raves, her schemes, her worries, and her hopes, rarely divulging information about himself. He could keep up with her mentally and his fighting was top notch. The training he endured as a Death Eater was intensive, to say the least, and his knowledge of curses, hexes, and jinxes made him all the more dangerous.

Yes, the young Malfoy had grown up over the past few years and the war, she reluctantly admitted, had done him some good. He was no longer the scrawny, rat-faced shrimp she remembered from her first day at Hogwarts. No, he had shot up like a weed, reaching a respectable height of six foot four. He was still lean, but he was well toned, his muscles faintly defined under his pale skin. His milky skin that contrasted so strongly against his black dark mark.

It disappeared once Voldemort was dead. The mark and the searing pain and eternal discomfort it created vanished from every Death Eater's forearm. Even so, when Hermione met his gaze from across the battlefield at the end of the Final Battle, she could detect the familiar emotion of bitterness in his eyes.

His mother and father were both dead. Narcissa's betrayal had been discovered and she was promptly tortured and executed by her own sister, Bellatrix. Lucius could do nothing to help her; his role as Voldemort's lackey had sent him clear across the country at the time of her murder. Upon discovering her pale corpse drenched in blood lying in their bed at Malfoy Manor, he became enraged and vowed to help take down the Dark Lord if it was the last thing he did.

It was.

In the Final Battle, Lucius Malfoy took the killing curse for his son. The Malfoy family had been a lot closer than anyone had previously thought. And now Draco Malfoy was on his own. He had no friends. His old 'friends' were either dead or shipped off to Azkaban for their role as Death Eaters in the Dark Lord's army.

The Malfoy name itself became controversial. At first it was despised, as hated as Voldemort's or Bellatrix's. Most believed that Narcissa and Lucius had died as passionate Death Eaters. Once it was revealed, however, that they had been spies for the Order, some considered them heroes. Their names received awards for their services in the war. Even though they had assisted in the defeat of the Dark Lord, old wounds ran deep and many people refused to pardon them or speak their name. Like most of the Order, Draco Malfoy recieved honours, awards, and gold. Now that she considered it, it was almost funny how similar they were.

"It's nice. Different."

He knew what she was thinking about. The contrast between the disorientingly chaotic screams of the Final Battle that had taken place on the soil beneath them and the current serenity was mind numbing.

"Yeah." He agreed before pausing. "What are you doing out here, Granger?"

She couldn't tell what he was thinking, what his motive was. She was always jealous of his ability to mask his emotions.

"To escape," She answered honestly. "Just to escape."

He was silent and she began to elaborate, feeling as if she needed to explain what she meant.

"I'm tired," She admitted, "I'm so tired. I just needed a break from the acting and the pretending and the lying. I'm getting tired of pretending that everything is fine, that everything is back to normal. It's exhausting."

There was a lengthy pause.

"Yeah."

"You?"

Another pause. She turned her head to look at him and was somewhat surprised to find him staring at her. Hermione saw something flicker across his features, but before she could register what it was, it was gone. He merely shrugged in response. "Same."

She nodded at him, more to herself than anything else. He nodded back before directing his full attention back across the calm surface of the lake. Hermione continued to look at him for a moment before following his lead and staring at the scenery before her, thinking of the lie she lived inside the castle. Everyone thought she was untouchable, that she hadn't lost anything in the war, that it hadn't affected her. Well they were wrong. They didn't know.

The Jesus of suburbia was a lie.

Harry Potter is to J.K. Rowling

Are We the Waiting is to Green Day