The Silent Force
Warnings: This story will contain slight insanity, thoughts of suicide, and violence. There will be darker themes spread throughout and some language issues. Also, this is slash so you can expect mature scenes.
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own anything related to the Harry Potter world. Only in my dreams.
Author's Notes: The title of the story is from an album by Within Temptation, so I take no credit. Also, the chapter titles will be names of songs, in case you're interested. The links are in my profile.
The story begins a few weeks after Deathly Hallows, excluding the epilogue. Funerals have been held and bodies have been buried, but that's about all that's been done.
Hope you enjoy!
Chapter 1 – Stand My Ground
It was raining in the cemetery where Harry stood. He embraced the mind-numbing cold and the blurriness of the land around him. He did not shiver, for he barely felt anything at all.
Ever since the death of Voldemort some unforeseen force had been changing him, slowly. Harry knew he should have felt scared, but he could not find it in himself to feel, anything.
Harry knelt down on the graves of his parents and began tracing the words imbedded in the stones. Rain dripped from his hair, traveling down his face like tears, but beneath the damp his face was dry. He had shed no tears for the dead. He had not grieved. And he felt no guilt. But he did feel alone, so very alone.
Despite the fact that he was currently isolating every tie he had to the wizarding world, no one seemed to care. No one had said, "Harry, stop torturing yourself. Come back to us, you're our best mate, you're part of our family."
No, after the war everyone had moved on with their lives. Families were closer than ever before. Apparently they had realized that they didn't get a second chance. That, within a moment, or a blink of time, family members could be lost to them forever and never return.
Harry laid down on the graves of his parents and stared up into the falling rain. He thought of Sirius, of Remus, of those who had once loved him like a son, of those who had died so that he could live.
Those who had given their life for him would never understand. How could he live on with all those holes in his heart? In the past he had felt too deeply. He had given himself emotional ties to those now gone, and with each death he had felt a part of himself dying as well.
The world changed everyday. New families were created and old families were broken. He knew this, but he also knew that his family was dead. He was the only one left in a world full of shadows and light. The light, shining so brightly for many now, never shined on him. He knew he was drowning in despair.
Curling on his side, Harry buried his face in the wilting grass. He knew he should have died that night in the forest, when Voldemort's killing curse hit its mark. If he had died he wouldn't have been an orphan anymore. He would have been with those who loved him.
But he had a duty, he had his fame. Harry knew he could not turn his back on those who needed his help. He was not selfish, but wished with his entire being that he was. Too many depended on him. Too many saw him as a hero, a god.
But beneath the calm exterior Harry knew he was still a child. He had never been given the chance to truly mature, and yet he was expected to act like a martyr. He didn't want to do it anymore. He wanted a life of his own.
Slowly, as time crept by in that graveyard, the earth began to hum with a new spirit. Flowers began to bloom. The deadly chill that had been present since the final battle lifted as the sunlight's warmth filtered through the murky air.
Its light landed on a sleeping figure lying silently on the ground. In this moment of time, the wizarding world began to lose the boy-who-lived. Even Harry Potter began losing himself.
And the living weren't there to pull him back, to attach the strings that had frayed during the war in order to make him whole once more.
The only onlookers were the ghosts of his family. They watched him with grief in their eyes, yet if one looked closely enough they could say they also saw hope.
A young man with blond hair and silver eyes sat nobly under a tree near his manor. He did not slouch, for that was what purebloods were taught at a very young age. His face was calm, a mask he prided himself on. He was still proud to call himself a Malfoy, even though he knew his surname was scarred beyond repair during the war.
The Malfoy's were shunned by society and called traitors by all. They were openly taunted and hated. The Dark now called them Gray, while the Light declared them to be Dark.
It was an endless cycle of cruel remarks, a hurricane of chaos, and Draco wanted it to end! Did no one think his family suffered enough as it was? He knew his father felt tremendous guilt at what he had done, at what he had to do in the presence of the Dark Lord. And his mother, his poor mother, felt grief for not expressing her thoughts. Draco knew she was ashamed that she could not protect her only son.
He looked down at the knife in his hand and watched as its blade caught the light. It looked alive as the silver turned to fire and the dull became life. It was beautiful to him. There were two snakes entwined within one another, both forming the hilt. One snake had silver eyes while the other had emerald. It was the perfect Slytherin weapon.
Bitterly, Draco's thoughts turned to Potter. His family's situation was entirely his fault! In fact, Draco's feelings of self-consciousness and doubt had stemmed from the very moment Potter had refused his hand in friendship back in first year. He was a bloody bad omen! Saint Potter and his heroic ways! He could do no wrong in the eyes of the wizarding world.
Draco hated the thought that Potter had saved his life, several times in fact. With the way his life was turning out to be, he would have been better off dead. Death would have meant no more struggles against an unfair world. Death would give him his freedom to do as he pleased with no judgment.
Draco briefly wondered what life would have been like if the Dark Lord had won the war. Probably worse, he finally concluded. The world would have been covered in darkness and death. Countless numbers of witches and wizards would have felt the pain he was suffering through now. And no matter how cold-hearted Draco was, he could not find it within himself to wish this fate on anyone else, not even Potter.
Before he knew it, Draco found tears streaked across his face. And Malfoy's did not cry! Merlin, what was wrong with him. He was falling apart, rapidly.
He closed his eyes and leaned back against the tree, slouching for the first time in his life. And he thought about everything.
His peers called him a coward while his father seemed ashamed. Even his mother would burst into tears every time she saw him because of her own failure. Of course, outside of their manor they still acted the part with their heads held high, but Draco saw into their hearts. And his own heart ached to give them the peace they deserved, a peace he could not offer.
He sat up straight again, his normally stoic eyes blazing. Maybe they would be better off without him. After all, he seemed to fail at everything he tried to do. No matter how hard he tried he had never made his family proud. It seemed as if he was always destined to fail.
So why stick around so he could make things worse? He should have died so many times before. It was finally time for him to leave, for good.
His mask had faded completely. If another had been there they could have claimed that madness took a hold of the blond. There was no ounce of sanity left in his eyes as he slashed his arm with the knife.
Draco laughed until his world became black.
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