Fighting Against Hope
'I have known war as few men now living know it. It's very destructiveness on both friend and foe has rendered it useless as a means of settling international disputes.'
-Douglas MacArthur
Draco is the first to return.
He whispers the password, the door clicks open and he quietly enters, basking in the silence of the house. The lights are off but he changes that with a flick of his wand – he doesn't like the dark nowadays, not since he was ambushed at night. Grimy lamps illuminate and the ghastly wall paper greets him, like usual, on his journey to the kitchen.
He hates the way dust spreads when he opens the kitchen door. He remembers when his mother would send a House Elf to clean when she find even a meagre spattering of dust but his mother is long since dead and he's pretty sure the House Elf is dead too…
The kitchen is lit too. It's a bit dim in here but he's used to it and he knows that his mug is in the second cupboard to the right, third shelf from the bottom. Whilst he retrieves it, he flicks his wand once more and the kettle begins to steam somewhere by the table. He'll find it in a minute, like he always does, and he'll curse the person he knows put it there.
And then he'll finish making his coffee – never tea; it reminds him too much of smiles, laughter and naïve innocence – and he'll sit at the scratched table, alone until the others come home. With each warm sip, he remembers the past and he thinks why and how and this is so unfair! There were times, so long ago, where he was on top of the world and he was superior and muggles were nothing and he could defeat them with a swish of his wand and two words, six syllables. But those times have passed and he knows now that muggles don't even have to speak to kill someone, they only have to press a trigger and BANG! You're dead.
How is that fair?
But life isn't fair, they tell him. And it's true because if life was fair his mother would still be alive, Blaise wouldn't have died instead of him and the Dark Lord would've defeated the muggles.
His life is a maelstrom of 'what if's and it's painful. He wonders if he's dying, slowly, but he's seen enough people die to know that he's got a long way to go until he dies. So he watches the others, perhaps as broken as him, but still willing to fight because there's nothing else they can do, save be killed like the rest. Fighting, dying, breaking is all they've been doing for so long.
They don't really have anything else.
And that's sad.
It shouldn't be like this. He should be working for the Ministry – the same Ministry that burned down in a fire started by muggles – and he should be married to someone like Pansy – dead, dead, dead… he saw her bleed to death, her intestines cut out and shoved down her throat – or Astoria Greengrass – now some rich muggle's sex slave; she'd be better off dead – and he'd have an heir and he'd live in his ancestral manor and life would be good.
If only…
The muggles weren't supposed to find out about magic. They weren't supposed to declare war. They weren't supposed to know! But Merlin, they did and the resulting war was so much worse than anything the Death Eater's could've cooked up.
He's got tears in his eyes. He doesn't wipe them away; he is shocked he can still cry. His mug of coffee is half empty, half full, and it's still steaming. He should drink it but he knows if he drinks anymore, he's going to be sick. Memories of battles flash through his mind, sounds of guns being fired, spells being cast and then he remembers the smell… blood, coppery and gory and smoke, acidic and chocking. It's like he's back at the sights again, seeing the carnage left behind after one side retreats.
Somehow, it's always the wizards who leave first.
In the early days, before he graduated from Hogwarts, when the war with the muggles was just starting, he remembers thinking that the problem would be over soon. Then, the muggles attacked Hogsmeade. They set it alight in the middle of the night and no one was left alive in the morning. All that was left were the screams of the dying. It is something Draco will never forget.
To wizards, muggles have always been the weaker beings but truth is, they've always been the most ruthless and powerful. It only took seven massacres, hundreds of deaths and enough blood spilt to fill a river for Draco to see this. And it was a message burned into his mind, yelled out mentally as he charges into battle that they all know they won't win. They still fight, against hope, against the muggles, and they'll keep on fighting until there's no one left.
Pushing the mug away, he tries to remember the first death he saw in battle but his life is sickeningly full of death and all he can picture is scarlet blood on his hands and the hope that next time, he'll be one of the bodies on the flood, lying dead.
Maybe, by now, he's become too good at killing, too skilled at evading death. He wonders if that's how Harry Potter feels. He shrugs. He doesn't care, not really, anyway.
It's nine o'clock, the door opens and Luna Lovegood strides in. Her straggly blonde hair is cut short, there's a new burn underneath her left eye and she's still limping from an injury a few months ago but she's alive and Draco smiles slightly. It's not a smirk. What does he have to be proud of? They're all on the same side here, all with the same chance of never seeing the next day, all with memories of blood spilt in vain and all fighting to survive in a world that wants to see them eradicated.
"Draco," He inclines his head. "Got any coffee left?"
He nods again. He always does. Mentally, he smiles because they've been able to have their routine for over three years now.
He treasures every moment because Merlin knows which one is going to be his last.