Chapter 1 / THE WAR NEVER ENDED

Disclaimer: None of J.K. Rowling's characters, plot, or ideas belong to me. It's just me using her characters (and giving her full credit for them!) and them having their own story after the original Harry Potter canon. Everything except my plot and story line belongs to J.K. Rowling.

The war never ended. Not really. The masses of battles and bloodshed dwindled but I still live in the shadow of my sickening memories, encased in the terrors I try to suppress. The past haunts me. A reminder of the butchery, the carnage, and The Killings. And I've tried to wash it all away but the memories just won't leave.

The Killings began soon after the Battle of Hogwarts. After Harry's death and Fred's. And Colin's and Lupin's and Tonks's deaths… The Killings lasted for almost a year after The Final Battle. It was gruesome and a dark time— for everyone. Families were separated. Rebels were incarcerated. They were dragged out from their homes by Death Eaters and executed publicly, their bodies hung for all to see as example of what would await anyone who dared to defy The Dark Lord. Muggleborns were executed. Every last one of them. The rebels and Order of the Phoenix members were hunted down and killed if they continued to resist the Dark Lord's rule.

Purebloods were forced to live under the New Ministry's law. Many Order of the Phoenix members and their loved ones were imprisoned, tortured, and often never heard from again, presumably killed.

They took George away first. Then the Death Eaters came for Bill and Charlie, as if my family hadn't suffered enough. Ron left before they could get to him. But he's gone anyways now. He never wrote to let us know if he was alright or even alive, never owled or flooed, never visited. But I suppose, he was just trying to survive. We all were.

But that was a long time ago… at least, it feels that way. It's been a year and a half since Ron left. He packed up everything one night and was gone the next morning. He left nothing but a small note inscribed with his messy handwriting: I'm leaving and I don't expect to see any of you for a while. I love you all. Stay safe. ~Ron

That's all there was. Just that meager scrawl of words that in no way sufficed as an explanation and the sinking feeling in our stomachs that we had lost yet another bit of our family.

Last I heard, Percy was working at the New Ministry. I hated it that he worked there for The Dark Lord and his Death Eater minions, but he must have been just as scared as the rest of us.

A while ago, word came about The Rebels. I only ever heard whispers but it was enough to give me at least a small string of hope. I knew that the Rebel leaders were Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minerva McGonagall, Aberforth Dumbledore, Andromeda Tonks, and Hestia Jones. But there were whispers of the disappearance of Hestia Jones. I always remembered her as a kind and pretty young lady. The Death Eaters were careful not to let slip any information about the subject in front of me, so all I ever heard of it were little tidbits of overheard conversation. She had been taken hostage by the Death Eaters. From what I could tell, she was still alive. But that hope could be dead for all I know. And so could Hestia Jones.

It's been a year since I've seen Mum and Dad. More precisely, it's been 11 months and 23 days. It's been 11 months and 23 days since my life somehow morphed into this befouled reality, since I got trapped in this hellhole, since they took me away. Away from my family… away from my home.

The Burrow is gone. They burned it to the ground the night they came to take me away. All that's left of my childhood home is grey depths of ash, cinder, and burned wreckage. It seems so long ago that I took refuge in the comforting walls of the cosy haven I called home. It's a lost hiraeth, only existing in my mind and my memories. I miss it. I miss home.

My only home for the past 11 months has been this cold and empty cell with its low ceiling and cracked stone walls. Small beads of water sometimes drips through the cracks in the rugged and flawed stone tiles. The sounds from upstairs are heard loudly from down here. There is often screaming. I used to try to ignore the wretched and tortured cries for help but I can't. I used to listen to the horror-filled yells and shrieks, until, all too fast, they became my own.

They tortured me— the Death Eaters. They still do sometimes, but I suppose they've figured out by now that one of the worst punishments is isolation. That's why they keep me down here, in this dank and musty cell. On rare occasion, I'll be dragged out of here, up the narrow staircase and into a cold drawing room where the Death Eaters torture me for knowledge of the Order or the Rebels that I don't have. I've suddenly become glad that the Order of the Phoenix and the Rebel leaders never thought to fill me in on their plans. Sometimes the Death Eaters simply talk to me. But even when they talk to me, they mock me and jeer at me, deriding and heckling, cruelly reminding me of everything I've lost because of this war. They're careful as to what they let slip, making sure not to inform me of any news from the outside world. I've heard nothing of the Rebels or the Order of the Phoenix for the whole of the time I've been here and I can only hope that they are still resisting against Voldemort's rule, fighting for what's right.

Hope. That's all I have left. It's all anyone has left anymore. And I know I can't give up. I have to keep fighting. Because every day I wake up and I tell myself that today is the day that I'll be rescued. Because no matter what they do to me, giving up and giving in would be worse. But quite honestly, there's not much hope to go around anymore. At least, not for me. And I'm tired of fighting.

It's been 11 months and 23 days. I've been counting every day since I've been here. It keeps me sane. At least, somewhat.

I don't want to die here. I'm not exactly sure where here is. I imagine it's Voldemort's and his Death Eaters' base. But I don't want to die alone. There are no other prisoners that have been imprisoned with me. Unless the rats count. There are plenty of rats in this cell with me… and just like me, they're prisoners too. Under the Dark Lord's rule, we're all prisoners.

Because the war never ended. Not really.

First chapter! Tell me what you think. Review please! All feedback welcome! Thanks!