Out of Chaos
Disclaimer: I own absolutely NOTHING in the Harry Potter world. It all belongs to the lucky and imaginative JK Rowling: Kudos to her. Please don't sue me.
A/N: So, this is my third fic, and I really just wanted to do something that interested me. My previous fics have been things that initially seemed like good ideas, but quickly ran out of steam… so I plan to write a lot over the summer, and hopefully get a good response… and if not, well then this will be a good developmental experience for me…at any rate, this fic is set in Harry, Ron and Hermione's Seventh year at Hogwarts. Voldemort is undefeated, and the war wages on. Dumbledore is dead, Draco Malfoy hasn't been imprisoned or anything for his role in Dumbledore's death, and Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Draco and the rest of the Hogwarts crew will soon set out for school… where I plan to make some interesting things happen…
I'm kind of experimenting with POVs and voices and things like that… please tell me what you think, and I'll find my rhythm, so to speak…
This WILL be a long fic, so please bear with me—things should get interesting, and I have some major plot twists up my sleeve…
Chapter I: Summer Doldrums
Voldemort was undefeated, lurking somewhere, and so the battles continued. Harry knew he should be going after the horcruxes. It was the only way to stop Voldemort. But since Dumbledore's death, he'd been surprisingly unmotivated. Perhaps it was just the summer doldrums, bringing out the lazy teenager in him…
***
Draco Malfoy despised summers.
Firstly (and worstly), they were terrible boring. Narcissa Malfoy buffeted him with a brace of High Teas and other Social Events from the very moment her stepped off the Hogwarts Express in June. He couldn't stand the cloying, artificial sweetness of the pureblood mother hens who sat with Narcissa and clucked over their children, trying their best to sell their daughters off, in hopes of becoming the mother-in-law to Draco Malfoy.
One thing was very clear in Draco's head from the very first of these High Teas; none of these girls would ever be his bride. Firstly, they were positively atrocious to talk to; who cared about the latest robe styles, or what So-and-So had done last week? Often, while nodding sullenly in response to guests' meaningless chatter, he deduced that the loss of even just a few brain cells would reduce these giggling girls to puddles of second-rate, lumpy fondue… And then there was the issue of The Mothers. The girls were clearly devoted to their mothers, but not because they loved them dearly of their own free will… no, they were devoted to their mothers because they had been brainwashed to fill the template their mothers presented to them—in short, they made no decisions on their own; their words were their mothers words; their thoughts were their mothers thoughts. Draco found it disgusting.
Lying on his bed, Draco looked out onto his balcony through crystal-clear glass, his stormy countenance contrasting sharply with the blue, untroubled sky. His mother was so talented at making him feel young again. Once he took his place beside her at the dinner table, he felt as if he once again was a child, and his mother was sitting beside him, discreetly flicking her want to chop his sausages into appropriately sized pieces. Stretching his arms above his head, Draco yawned. These days there really wasn't such a thing as enough sleep. Between the extensive magical theory research his summer tutor and Godfather Severus had assigned him, the intense Quidditch regimen he had laid out for himself, and dodging his father's attempts to lure him to Death Eater meetings, Draco had a full plate for the summer.
***
Hermione Granger knew she should love the summer.
She was at the Burrow, surrounding by laughing, happy, people, who were somehow able to forget the war that was raging around them. But for Hermione, things weren't quite so simple. Firstly, a war WAS going on around them. No use forgetting that. It was a fact. Secondly, she didn't play Quidditch. Yes, she knew it was petty, but honestly, what was a girl supposed to do when her best friends spent most of their waking hours on broomsticks? It's not that she minded being alone all that much; she'd been researching magical theory as simply a subject of personal interest, and, form her point of view, one could never read enough books… But she had to admit, going days without more than mealtime contact with another human being grew to be bothersome, and quite frankly quite depressing.
She had never felt quite so alone before; Crookshanks, her darling cat, spent all his time hunting gnomes in the garden; her friends played Quidditch. And worstly, her parents, who had always been there as her anchor, her solid foundation, were, for all practical purposes, nonexistent. They were in Australia of course, their memories temporarily wiped, living a life that was blissfully ignorant, with no memories of their daughter. Hermione had done if for their protection; she knew they would become Death Eater targets, and she knew that they wouldn't be safe if she had any contact with them whatsoever. But nonetheless, the knowledge that they weren't there to lend her advice left a hole in her arsenal of inner strength.
Sitting at the kitchen table, Hermione watched as a knife expertly sliced potatoes, seemingly of its own volition, on the drainboard. Mrs. Weasley was nowhere in sight, but Hermione knew it was her magic that kept the knife a-chopping. She couldn't focus on her book. Faintly, coming from the field at the top of the hill, she could hear Harry and Ron's voices, mingling together as they shouted. She could picture them, high in the air, throwing their cares to the wind that whistled through their hair, as they played Quidditch with Ginny, Fred, George, Bill and Charlie. Tracing a deep crevice in the wood of the table with her fingernail, Hermione sighed. Let it be. She told herself. You love them, and you love being around them, but you don't need them every waking moment of every day.
***
Draco:
I must've dozed off. Because there is no way that it's already Four o'clock. Absolutely no way in hell. Well, maybe a teentsie possibility, because the clock does say four. And it's a magical clock. So fine. It's four o'clock. But why does it matter at all whether it's one o'clock, four o'clock or nine o'clock. Oh yeah. The grand High Tea of the week. Yipee…
By the time I get downstairs, the guests of honour are already in attendance. It's Daphne the Doofus Greengrass, and her mother Emmaline the Evil… she has to be the pushiest woman I've ever met… and I will have the delight of sitting next to her at today's tea, according the the namecards set out at the table… Steel yourself, Draco, old boy, for an evening of artificial compliments, delicious appetizers, and no intellectually stimulating conversation whatsoever…
"Finally, Draco, darling!" my mother intones, her voice perfectly civil, but her eyes flashing in a stern reprimand. "I'm so sorry you weren't here to appreciate Ms. Greengrass's Ermine coat—it was positively divine, and it complimented her complexion so nicely!" Mother always points out my perspective brides' assets. And after they leave, she tears them apart like a butcher in a meatmarket, picking apart the littlest details, demonstrating that none are good enough for me, and yet encouraging me to pick from the 'crème of the crop'… I mean, really…. If none of them are good enough, why bother? Clearly I'm destined to remain a bachelor for life—since I haven't met a girl yet that both meets my parents' standards, and is capable of using her brain…
In short, the High Tea is a catastrophe from my point of view, and a success for my Mother. Her darling baby is one High Tea closer to selecting a wife! How wonderful (please note the sarcasm)… There's no fucking way I'm marrying any of these brainless bints. I mean, come on! But she doesn't know that. I don't know how to tell her. How do I dash my only mother's hopes? Things aren't easy for her. I should know that. When you've got Lucius Malfoy for a husband, you have no choice but to divert yourself from your terrible reality by matchmaking for your son. And honestly, I don't want to be the one who breaks it to her; no mommy, I wont marry her. Damn. That's one conversation I'll avoid at all costs. And I'm a Slytherin. I'm slippery. So far, I've been able to talk my way out of making any promises.
***
Hermione:
Really. Honestly. Boys.
Dinner is a delicious affair, even if the conversation is somewhat limited. Truly, the Weasleys could make an effort to talk about SOMETHING besides Quidditch. But who am I to complain? I'm a guest in their cozy home, and it's certainly not my place to dictate the topic of conversation.
But really, I could have a more intellectually stimulating conversation with a doorknob or a teacup than with Ron at this rate. Probably because we're not speaking with one another right now. But it's his fault. He'll have to apologize first. He KNOWS I'm not ready to talk about our future yet. Every time I think about the future, I wonder if we'll even be alive. So I'm not even slightly ready to start planning a family. But I guess, to be completely honest, it goes deeper than that. It's not that I don't want a family, it's that I want other things more than a family.
I'm not going to lie. I know I've got a bright future ahead of me. And hypothetically, if we survive this nightmarish war, I don't see myself settling down and popping out babies like Ron seems to think is a good idea… I mean, professionally, it would be a huge setback. Yes, I want a fulfilling relationship, but ye gods! I'm seventeen—I'm certainly not ready to be a mother yet, and Ron is sure as hell not ready to be a father. And honestly, I'm not entirely sure that Ron is my soulmate. And I won't settle for anything less than a soulmate. Logically, what kind of soulmate engages you in an average of under four meaningful conversations a day? (and yes, I've been counting)… What kind of soulmate doesn't even ask you about your plans for the future, but transplants his own dreams to you, forcing them down your throat? What kind of soulmate eats like a pig after you've politely corrected his table hygiene millions of times? Oh well… what will be will be…
" 'ermione…Path twa pwatatwath," Ron slurs, his mouth full of juicy stew. It's only thanks to years as his best friend that I can understand his mid-meal demands, but I cock my head as if I don't understand him. Gulping down a mouthfully of pumpkin juice, he swallows thickly, trying desperately to clear his mouth. He really wants those potatoes.
" 'Mione, the potatoes, please!" Says Ginny, coming to his rescue. She's alternately one of my favorite and least favorite people; a great 'sleepover buddy' to offer romantic insight, she's unfortunately completely blind to her brothers faults, so any frustrations I have with him just drive a wedge between us…
Dinner finishes uneventfully, and I end up directing the cleanup, since I've nothing better to do. Flicking my wand expertly, I revel in the efficiency of the kitchen under my magical direction. Shouts break my concentration.
"HOGWARTS LETTERS, HOGWARTS LETTERS!" Shouts Ron, like an excited six year-old. Jerking nervously, I accidentally let one dish slip, and it topples to the ground in a sudsy mess. I'm too excited to care. Now I'll finally find out, after months of waiting…
A/N: Go on and review. Nothing bugs me more than to be getting favorited and subscribed to, but not reviews… just a little note, negative or positive, is all it takes to keep me going