"Does this darkness have a name? This cruelty, this hatred, how did it find us? Did it steal into our lives or did we seek it out and embrace it? What happened to us that we now send our children into the world like we send young men to war, hoping for their safe return, but knowing that some would be lost along the way. When did we lose our way? Consumed by the shadows. Swallowed whole by the darkness. Does this darkness have a name? Is it your name?"

- One Tree Hill

Blood fell instead of rain that night.

She was sure of it; the crimson smear that had become her waking hours had slowly flittered into her stream of consciousness, turning everything a dull shade of scarlet. She could still smell it, taste the metallic copper in her mouth; see the air quiver with the electricity of it. No longer able to distinguish between the crimson gush of waking and the shadowy realm of sleep, she had slowly become more and more convinced that the cacophonous storm assaulting the high arched windows, had too turned into an endless cascade of metallic blood. She lay on her back breathing hard, little flecks of blood dried under her finger nails, still taunting her even in the darkness. Godric help me she almost sobbed aloud there was so much blood.

Hermione muffled her rising hysteria into her pillow, careful to not wake the peaceful inhabitants of her dormitory. The less they knew about the night's events the better. The deafening sound of the rain and the paralysing misery that had enfolded her in its amorous embrace has become her entire world; unable to think, to feel beyond these hangings, beyond her pain. Their faces swam before her in the darkness. One after the other they came back to her, broken, fragile beings all laid to rest under the linen sheets of the Hospital Wing. Their eyes hollow and empty, unseeing, ignorant to the hopeless place they had left behind.

Harrietta Fairchild, 25, her delicate features broken and distorted, her snow hair turned scarlet, subjected to physical and emotional trauma, before finally relishing herself to the inevitable darkness.

Kay Thornton, 42, his silver wedding ring clutched in his dying hands as he slowly bled to death, no one able to subside the bleeding. He called out her name in his final hours, over and over, a throat tearing, primal scream. Annie. Whether alive or dead they couldn't know. Hermione couldn't decide which she would prefer for the poor girl.

Layla Peterson, 13, screaming for her mother who lay two beds over, a linen sheet covering her soft brown features, not hearing her daughter's desperate pleas.

And so many more; injured, in various stages of death or decomposition they had arrived in drones. The staff and selected pupils doing all they could to help them. It had not been enough. Of the one hundred, only thirty five still lived. By the morning, who knew how many more would be lying stiff and unmoving under the sheets. Hermione's shiver of rage consumed her. The worst part was it could have been her. All muggleborns, one hundred of them, rounded up, most slaughtered, the lucky ones, if you could call them that, only brutally tortured before the Order had shown up. And it could have been her; maybe it should have been her. It could have been anyone unfortunate by birth or circumstance. She let her sobs soothe her to the fringes of sleep again. She wanted to scream, she wanted to lash out and find the monsters that did this and make them pay. Rip them limb from limb until she found some remorse within them. Their faces were haunting her, the ones they couldn't reach in time. Children, their mangled little bodies lying curled up on the floor, so small they could be scooped up three in an arm. Their faces unrecognizable, so utterly broken no one could even close their eyes and pretend they were sleeping. She knew she wouldn't, couldn't forget the feeling, the cold dread slipping into her stomach, the chill that rose through her body steeling her breath and making her head pound, the blind terror that engulfed her when she had walked into that room.

She would hear their screams until her dying day. She wasn't stupid, this was war and she knew it. The innocent were always the first to go, but that didn't mean she could accept it. Letting the merciful blackness take over she fell reluctantly to the fringes of sleep, dreading the inevitable nightmares lurking in the darkness.

Draco punched the vanishing cabinet mercilessly. Watching dark blood bloom in his finger tips and biting back the pain as he sunk his white knuckles into the dark, splintered mass and pulling them back without examining the damage blindly resumed the attack. He knew this probably wasn't helping his current predicament but he could honestly say he didn't give a fuck.

If only the fucking thing would work!

He knew it wasn't the cabinets fault, but it felt better to take it out on this decrepit old cupboard than dwell on his own incompetence. Venomously fighting away the infuriating tears threatening to spill from his rain cloud eyes he slowly sank to the floor. He wouldn't cry, he told himself over and over again. You will not cry, you will not back down, you are not weak. You have been chosen for this. His newly acquired Dark Mark gave a particularly painful throb sending spasms of pain up his greying flesh. "Fuck off" he hissed at it darkly, glaring sourly at the ugly black mark. Collecting himself, he fought off the last persistent sobs gathering in his throat and leant his aching head gently against the broken black cabinet, taking a few calming, collective breaths.

Don't panic he told himself you still have a whole year, it will work. It has to work, just keep trying. Glancing carefully around the crumbling labyrinth of broken, lost, useless objects Draco let out the breath he didn't know he was holding. Dark, dangerous thoughts clouded his mind. He tried to push them away, soothing himself with notions of pride and family honour, but they came anyway, like a never ceasing battle in his head.

I shouldn't have to deal with this anyway.

But he chose you!

Stupid choice really, unless there was some alternate motive behind it...

For God sake get a grip, you never doubted yourself before!

But can I really do this...

No. Do not even go there. We will burn that bridge when we get to it. You can do this, and for fucks sake with the life you're going to have you better get used to it.

Oh Salazar I can't do this.

GET A FUCKING GRIP.

I want to go home...

The last thought came so quickly he couldn't even try to push it away, bringing with it bittersweet memories of being safe and sound in his mother's arms. His gut gave a painful pang. He was just a kid, barley awake listening to the rain and the soothing sounds of the night. Her soft fingers would trace intricate patterns on his forehead, the gentlest, softest touches he couldn't remember feeling since. What he'd give to be back there now... But home was where the monster was hiding. Home was where his mother's loving, blue eyes had turned hard and unseeing, and his father's pride and elegance had turned to violent rants and alcohol stenched breath. Everything safe and familiar about the place, his mothers tender affection and his father's pride, the elegant demeanour, the blissful fragrance of superiority, all that was gone now. Voldemort had taken his home and all that came with it.

Yes, as much as it scared him to admit it, he couldn't deny he thought of his master as nothing less than a monster. He just couldn't bring himself to look at him the way he father did. He'd tried, Salazar knows he'd tried but he couldn't. He repulsed him. He stood for his family, for his blood and for his status in the world but he simply couldn't bring himself to pretend to regard Voldemort in the highest love and devotion like his father. Maybe over time he would- like the gaunt, drawn men he knew so well- slowly loose his soul in servitude to the monster. Maybe after he'd topped the old man his eyes would take on the cold, dead, hollow look that glinted below the surface of his father's, but just now, the only thing he felt towards the snakelike man was repulsion and anger.

Cold fury for the man who had broken his family.

a/n: This is my first Dramione fic, so reviews would really be appreciated as I'm a little- shall we say wobbly about it. Oh well, tell me if you liked it, tell me if you didn't, constructive criticism is always appreciated! Ok so I think I should warn you, this fic is rated M for very good reasons. You've been warned.

Ok a few more things, a) this story will take place HBP/DH era, it starts at the begging (about October) of the sixth year and finishes (hopefully) at the end of the second. b) I'm sorry for any grammatical and/ or spelling errors, It's about 5am and I was desperate to finish this so yeah, I'm sowwy, please don't hesitate to point them out and I will fix them. c) The next chapter is kind of, partially, maybe already done, so expect that soon and finally d) I know this chapter wasn't very exacting but I needed to, set the scene and such, just bear with me ok, it gets better(I think).

Ok that's about it, next chapter soon, all my love and hugs.

THBH x