A/N: This is my first stab at a FanFic, so tell me what I'm doing wrong! Constructive Criticism greatly appreciated, and wanted. Read and rate, thanks! I'm also looking for a beta, if possible.
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Reconstruction: Chapter One
It was a silent feud between the two. The raven haired young man kept his lips shut in a thin line. The angelically light haired young man's eyes were completely blank. The silence between them was deafening. And they both felt it. They both knew what had happened during The Last Battle. The light haired boy would not speak about it, he had lost his father. It was the dark haired boy's task to get the other to talk. He knew the words would never come.
A soft click was heard. The door of the musty library that both men were sitting in was opened. In stepped a certain Auror that went by the name of Hermione Granger. "Harry," she whispered softly. "You go, I'll try." Harry turned to Hermione, wearily. He nodded wordlessly and squeezed her hand gently before exiting the room. There were hollows under his eyes, his hair was tousled and shaggy, his eyes looked incredibly deep green and aged. The door closed with the same soft click. Hermione set herself on the seat across from the alleged Death Eater who went by the name of Draco Malfoy. Her thin, slightly calloused hand gripped the wand was in the pocket of her robe. She held it tight as she watched him, intently. Her cinnamon colored eyes were brimmed with nonexistent tears. They were completely blank.
Draco Malfoy would not say a single word. No matter how many people attempted to get him to talk about what had happened that day, he would not speak. He would not reveal what connection he had with the Death Eaters. Only one person knew -- and that person was gone. Albus Dumbledore had died a hero's death, during The Last Battle. It cost the most powerful wizard in the word of magic to finally rid the world of the Dark Lord. And gone he was. The only other person who knew was Draco Malfoy's sworn enemy -- the Boy Who Lived.
The Dark Lord had been defeated. Everything was supposed to be okay now. But it was just worse. The streets were crumbled and broken, littered with bodies that were either dead or dying. And there was no way to help. It would take years to fix everything that was broken. More than half of the Harry Potter Generation survived. They had been prepared. Albus Dumbledore had made sure of that.
The girl fixed her thin, stretched face in the direction of Malfoy's face. It was evident that they were both touched by the grasp of war - their faces were gaunt and parched, hollows lived under their eyes, and the same haunted look lived in both of their eyes. Her hair, still in those luxuriously slightly bushy curls was pulled into a ponytail. She had not bothered to push away the curls that had slipped away from the pony tail to frame her face. "Ron," she whispered softly to him. She continued to stare fixedly at the window. She stared down at her fingers, clasped in her lap. Two drops of salty water fell onto them.
He certainly had not seen that coming. He stared at the young woman who silently cried. It didn't sit right with him. He cleared his throat but otherwise remained quiet. His hair hung white blonde and shaggy, long bangs that fell often to his forehead. His eyes yes that could shoot cold frigid glances or blaze up like leaves burning when he was angry. His eyes were a changeable gray, like ice and sleet and frost and all cold and mutable things. They could be as bright as the glancing blow of sunlight striking against an icicle, as dark as clouds weighted with snow. Perhaps his eyes were the most significant part of him. Eyes that were wide open but looked shut, the blank eyes of someone who had just died. He closed his eyes, his long lashes touching his cheekbones. He opened his eyes and stared at the girl before abruptly getting up and walking to the window. The chair created a loud scraping sound against the floor. A light autumn wind had kicked up, the dead brown leaves stirred. Wands, cups, robes, plates, mugs of butterbeer were strewn on the street. Nobody failed to celebrate the death of Voldermort.
He heard another chair scrape against the floor. "Ron," she whispered. Her voice was hoarse and strangled. Malfoy opened his mouth to say something, but he felt her nails digging into her skin. They pierced themselves where his Dark Mark lived. He could feel her digging deeper and deeper. It would leave a nasty bruise. He swallowed before making a move to push her away.
Before he could, her voice startled the static filled silence. "Did you kill him?"
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A/N: So.. that was it. Please.. tell me, should I even continue? Or is it that bad?
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Reconstruction: Chapter One
It was a silent feud between the two. The raven haired young man kept his lips shut in a thin line. The angelically light haired young man's eyes were completely blank. The silence between them was deafening. And they both felt it. They both knew what had happened during The Last Battle. The light haired boy would not speak about it, he had lost his father. It was the dark haired boy's task to get the other to talk. He knew the words would never come.
A soft click was heard. The door of the musty library that both men were sitting in was opened. In stepped a certain Auror that went by the name of Hermione Granger. "Harry," she whispered softly. "You go, I'll try." Harry turned to Hermione, wearily. He nodded wordlessly and squeezed her hand gently before exiting the room. There were hollows under his eyes, his hair was tousled and shaggy, his eyes looked incredibly deep green and aged. The door closed with the same soft click. Hermione set herself on the seat across from the alleged Death Eater who went by the name of Draco Malfoy. Her thin, slightly calloused hand gripped the wand was in the pocket of her robe. She held it tight as she watched him, intently. Her cinnamon colored eyes were brimmed with nonexistent tears. They were completely blank.
Draco Malfoy would not say a single word. No matter how many people attempted to get him to talk about what had happened that day, he would not speak. He would not reveal what connection he had with the Death Eaters. Only one person knew -- and that person was gone. Albus Dumbledore had died a hero's death, during The Last Battle. It cost the most powerful wizard in the word of magic to finally rid the world of the Dark Lord. And gone he was. The only other person who knew was Draco Malfoy's sworn enemy -- the Boy Who Lived.
The Dark Lord had been defeated. Everything was supposed to be okay now. But it was just worse. The streets were crumbled and broken, littered with bodies that were either dead or dying. And there was no way to help. It would take years to fix everything that was broken. More than half of the Harry Potter Generation survived. They had been prepared. Albus Dumbledore had made sure of that.
The girl fixed her thin, stretched face in the direction of Malfoy's face. It was evident that they were both touched by the grasp of war - their faces were gaunt and parched, hollows lived under their eyes, and the same haunted look lived in both of their eyes. Her hair, still in those luxuriously slightly bushy curls was pulled into a ponytail. She had not bothered to push away the curls that had slipped away from the pony tail to frame her face. "Ron," she whispered softly to him. She continued to stare fixedly at the window. She stared down at her fingers, clasped in her lap. Two drops of salty water fell onto them.
He certainly had not seen that coming. He stared at the young woman who silently cried. It didn't sit right with him. He cleared his throat but otherwise remained quiet. His hair hung white blonde and shaggy, long bangs that fell often to his forehead. His eyes yes that could shoot cold frigid glances or blaze up like leaves burning when he was angry. His eyes were a changeable gray, like ice and sleet and frost and all cold and mutable things. They could be as bright as the glancing blow of sunlight striking against an icicle, as dark as clouds weighted with snow. Perhaps his eyes were the most significant part of him. Eyes that were wide open but looked shut, the blank eyes of someone who had just died. He closed his eyes, his long lashes touching his cheekbones. He opened his eyes and stared at the girl before abruptly getting up and walking to the window. The chair created a loud scraping sound against the floor. A light autumn wind had kicked up, the dead brown leaves stirred. Wands, cups, robes, plates, mugs of butterbeer were strewn on the street. Nobody failed to celebrate the death of Voldermort.
He heard another chair scrape against the floor. "Ron," she whispered. Her voice was hoarse and strangled. Malfoy opened his mouth to say something, but he felt her nails digging into her skin. They pierced themselves where his Dark Mark lived. He could feel her digging deeper and deeper. It would leave a nasty bruise. He swallowed before making a move to push her away.
Before he could, her voice startled the static filled silence. "Did you kill him?"
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A/N: So.. that was it. Please.. tell me, should I even continue? Or is it that bad?