Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series. No copyright infringement is intended.
I do not ever write fan-fiction. Alas, due to the recent urge to do something, I decided to go against my nature— to write. As for updates, I will probably update once a week. Hopefully. Maybe. It took a great deal just to brainstorm a prologue for the story. I don't even want to think about a whole chapter.
Prologue: Her Beloved
War.
.
That very notion—that very word created legacies; it created nations that were built on top of the shambles of hopelessness and listlessness.
.
It's a word that's so profound, filled with hatred and loathing, that left bitterness and bile behind, along with such overwhelming grime that would never wash away no matter how many tears were shed; no matter how much blood was spilled, it will always linger.
No matter how much you wished and willed it to.
.
"War is inevitable," his mother said, "just as change is inevitable."
.
And, as she gently caressed his face, almost serenely, he couldn't help but to feel a sense of trepidation—a sense of wrongness in her words as it held a sort of conclusiveness that made his heart slowly sink with the acceptance of an imminent fate—an impending doom that so very much made his throat ache with each swallowed emotion of immense resentment and apprehension.
"I hate war," he croaked, voice raw from his pleas and screams from the frequent, agonizing torture that the rebels were subjected to. "I don't understand. Why do we need change? Why do we need to die?" And, as he turned to gaze at his melancholic mother, her skin littered with contusion, he immediately regretted his question, yet a part of him still wanted to know the reason for his concurrent suffering.
His mother, who've already acknowledged her fate, held her son's gaze, her beloved son, she thought. Her beloved, innocent son, a boy of only five, subjected to a reign of terror due to her mistakes. Her mistakes, her choices that had her husband brutally murdered after several days of utmost torture. She was not permitted to see him, or to speak to him, even once. He died for her. For nothing.
Her calm demeanor shook, and she swiftly turned from the cell's door to embrace her son. She quietly sobbed, realization sinking in—denial no longer apparent in her facade of dignity and acceptance. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I did not want this." Not for her baby. "I did not want this." Not for Harry.
Her embrace, wracked with heart-wrenching sobs, did little to comfort him as he trembled, tightening his hold on her war-torn blouse. As the damp cell bit at his extremities with chilling coldness, he could only stare indescribably at the barred opening of the cell. Lightning flashed from the rainstorm, illuminating his ravaged, emerald eyes, as the night passed by with repeated, broken whispers and promises.