Hello! For those of you who don't know me, I have been writing Gorillaz fanfiction for about a year. However, the idea for this story came to me, and it had to be written. As always, in my best work, my coauthor is my lovely sounding board and organizational goddess, Mandi'sMuse. She deserves every bit as much recognition as (if not more than) I do. Give her a wave, will ya?
This is a Draco and Hermione story, but don't worry, no one will be bashed unless they thoroughly deserve it -glares at Lucius Malfoy-
For those readers who have been following our Gorillaz story, The Last Girl, don't worry. A new update will be coming soon.
The title of this story is adapted from the title of a movie that I have not seen, Things We Lost in the Fire. I must assert that, as far as I know, the story bears no semblance to that movie. It is also important for me to note that I believe that there is something out there in the world with the title What We Lost in the War, but, try as I might to find it, I cannot. If there is some book, song, or movie with the same title, I give every bit of credit to the writer.
What We Lost in the War is rated "T" for mild violence and language.
All characters related to Harry Potter are the sole property of J.K. Rowling, thank God. Only this story belongs to me.
I will not be suggesting many songs for this story unless one seems to fit perfectly with a chapter or a scene, but the song Thistles and Weeds by Mumford and Sons speaks beautifully to the entire story. Here are the lyrics:
Spare me your judgements and spare me your dreams,
Cause recently mine have been tearing my seams,
I sit alone in this winter clarity which clouds my mind,
Alone in the wind and the rain you left me,
It's getting dark darling, too dark to see,
And I'm on my knees, and your faith in shreds, it seems.
Corrupted by the simple sniff of riches blown,
I know you have felt much more love than you've shown,
And I'm on my knees and the water creeps to my chest.
But plant your hope with good seeds,
Don't cover yourself with thistle and weeds,
Rain down, rain down on me,
Look over your hills and be still,
The sky above us shoots to kill,
Rain down, rain down on me.
But I will hold on
I will hold on hope
I begged you to hear me, there's more than flesh and bones,
Let the dead bury their dead, they will come out in droves,
But take the spade from my hands and fill in the holes, you've made.
But plant your hope with good seeds,
Don't cover yourself with thistle and weeds,
Rain down, rain down on me.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
-Robert Frost-
There had been a time when he was innocent. There must have been. It couldn't have always been this way. The world couldn't have always been so full of pain, of torture, of death. He had felt safe in these walls once. As a child, he had been loved, nurtured. His parents had given him every privilege their position could afford him: an endless stream of lavish gifts, expensive clothes, equally privileged friends; and he had embraced it all, had taken it all in greedily. His parents had carefully planned, carefully selected every aspect of his life to ensure that he was everything a pureblood wizard boy should be, strong, influential, proud. He never felt stifled, though. He knew from a very young age, that his life would be planned for him, and he never questioned it, never wanted to. It was his world, and in this world, he, Draco Malfoy, was king. But that notion, that ideology, was faulty. In actuality, it was his father, Lucius Malfoy who ruled.
Even from a young age, Draco had paid little attention to anything but what his father did. In the presence of Lucius Malfoy, all else seemed insignificant, small. And Draco, like all young boys worshiped his father, emulated him. This was especially easy as this was expected of him, any other behavior was discouraged. In fact, Draco had always gotten the impression that he was being groomed to be the next Lucius Malfoy, not that he minded. His father commanded respect wherever he went. The man exuded power, presence, and even the most influential wizards kowtowed to Lucius Malfoy. And Draco loved it.
But as imposing of a figure that his father cut in the presence of lesser wizards, at Malfoy Manor, he was first and most Draco's father. As a child, Draco knew his father loved him. He loved the way his father beamed with pride when his son followed in his own footsteps. But the man who had been the doting father of his youth had undergone...changes. Draco thought back to pictures and stories that had been told of his father's youth. His mother had described Lucius as handsome, dashing, powerful, and she had felt "quite swept away" by him. By all accounts, he had been extremely interested and talented in business, politics, finance, and, it was no secret, the Dark Arts. Draco knew his father had been raised as he had, with an understanding and a fascination in darker magic and found great pride in the fact that his father had been a key member of the inner circle of the dreaded Death Eaters. But with the rise of the Dark Lord, Lucius Malfoy's grim fascination had become an all-consuming embrace. Where before, he had shown interest in the Dark Arts, now, he drowned in them, as though the blackest magic had become as important to him as air. He needed it the way Muggles needed their drugs. He had long since gone past a passing interest in Dark Arts to an addiction. It had turned the powerful presence of Lucius Malfoy into a threatening one. He was not the man he had been before.
Narcissa Malfoy, on the other hand, had been a stable presence in Draco life. For as long as he could remember, she had been there, always calm and collected, rarely letting inner turmoil and external circumstances affect her. It would have been unseemly for the wife of Lucius Malfoy to be given to frivolous emotion. Because of this, she often gave off the impression of coldness and condescension. But Draco knew better. She was his mother, fiercely protective and loving, devoted to her family and to her station. His fondest memories often involved fumbling along the grounds of Malfoy Manor, ducking in and out of the vast hedge mazes and digging his toes in the cool soil as he watched his mother tend to the delicate white and yellow crocuses in her small private garden. Not that he was an angelic child by any stretch of the word. His mother would often scold him for chasing the peacocks around the vast yard, throwing mud in the fountains, or pulling the whip-like branches off of a willow tree to make wands.
But childhood cannot remain forever, just as he was expected to stop throwing mud, Draco was now expected to be a Malfoy, strong, proud, powerful. That prospect changed dramatically when Lord Voldemort entered the picture. In his younger days, Draco had relished in the influence and power that associating with the name "Voldemort" had brought. At school, he basked in the fear by which many of his fellow students regarded him, boasted of his family's position within the ranks of the Death Eaters, threatened and cursed any who got in the way of his goals. When he was at Hogwarts, he envisioned the return of the Dark Lord as a time when the pure of blood would rule, and the lesser ones would serve and suffer. But now, The Dark Lord was no longer just a name, he was presence and he was violence, the embodiment of the darkness his father and he had cherished. While through Draco's childhood, the Dark Arts had been a theory, a hypothetical, a grim fascination, now they were all too real. And the dark deeds his father had not seemed willing to do when the Dark Lord had fallen were all around Draco, and, God help him, they scared him.
But Lucius Malfoy had failed Dark Lord, and his failure had fallen on Draco's head. And Draco had been given a task that he could not accomplish. He could not decide what he was more afraid of, failure or Lord Voldemort. Because with the Dark Lord came fear, a fear that settled into Malfoy Manor and taken up residence. Its presence as dark and wraith-like as a dementor, hovering over Draco's shoulder, devouring the innocence of his youth and leaving it's imposing weight on his chest, crushing him.
And the calm, comforting memory of his childhood had been banished from his home. The whiteness of innocence had been stained red with the blood of the dead, an endless stream of Muggles, Mudbloods, and Blood-traitors ran through the doors, nameless faces of the damned, doomed to perish at the hands of the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters. There were so many of them, indistinct, blurred, running together like watercolors. He knew only one of their names, and the dizzying swirl of victims resolved themselves into the face of Charity Burbage. Though he had never lowered himself to take her class, Muggle Studies, he knew her face, had known of her since he first came to Hogwarts. Before her, he had managed to ignore the line of the dead that wended through his house, but the almost-familiarity of the Hogwarts teacher had startled him, drawn his attention. And his mistake had been that he had looked into those vaguely familiar eyes before the Dark Lord had snuffed them out.
It was the death of this woman, who had walked the same halls he had walked, who had eaten the same food he had eaten, who had breathed the same air he had breathed, that had begun to break through his ability to ignore what was going on around him. The horror of the atrocities being committed in his home began to seep into his bones and erode the cold shell of indifference he had built around himself. His disconcertion escalated when another girl was brought through the door: Luna Lovegood, that daft Ravenclaw girl with the long dirty blond hair and the globe like blue eyes, and suddenly, the victims weren't adults, they were kids like him, kids who he had known for years.
The swirling hurricane of fear and doubt pressed on him, tore at skin and soul, and he didn't know how much longer he could last before he completely crumbled under the weight of it all. He had considered running, putting as much distance between himself and this bloody war, but he knew that there was no way out. He had become too close to the Dark Lord to bow out now. If he did, he knew his parents would pay the price for his defection. Death would be his only release, but he was too much of a coward for that.
And now, as he stood in his room, gazing out over the grounds of Malfoy Manor, he found himself waiting. Waiting for death, waiting for release, waiting for something, anything that would bring an end to the uncertainty and fear. Death. Life. Loss. Victory. He didn't know which he wanted anymore. All he knew was that he wanted it to end. He was tired. God, he was tired.
But there was no rest for him. The river of souls still flowed through his house and it was to this purpose that the door to his room opened and his mother's voice floated over to him. "Draco, come downstairs. Your father would like to have a word with you."
So there is the first chapter. I hope you enjoyed it and will enjoy what's to come. Give love if you have it!
