Cows don't own it, and neither do I.
This was actually the first chapter of a story I was writing called Hope. I took that story down, but recently remembered I loved that first chapter. I've gone through it, and made it fit for a one-shot. It's a little weird, and pretty long for a one-shot. It's also kind of confusing, with lots of 'fancy writing' as I've decided to call it. So, ya, read, review, enjoy!
The wind was strong, and the trees seemed to dance in it,
their branches waving elegantly, but so it looked like it would hurt if it were
a persons arms. Stray braches, leaves and other things hurried across the
ground, some, in the dark, looking almost like streaking animals.
The rain fell heavily, soaking the ground, the wind making it worse. There was no lightning, or thunder, though, just the wind and the rain, along with the pitch black of the night. If it had been day, it would have probably still been dark. It was just that kind of weather.
It was like the weather was fighting the earth, pelting it with it's own types of insults and tearing up the things that lived on it. The earth was helpless against it, as weather always seemed to have more power than earth.
And any normal person would be snug inside their homes, maybe curled up by the fire, a good book in their lap. Or, even if they weren't so normal they would be inside, possibly planning some evil plan or fighting off the shadows that came along with the storm.
But, the person who wasn't doing that was normal, you could say was crazy. But, she wasn't crazy, or insane, or even just slightly different. No, she blended in perfectly with the rest of her people, almost too perfectly. Barely anyone noticed her, sometimes not even her own family. She hid her real self from the world.
She was 17 years old, and wet to the bone, as the expression goes. The worn, black cloak that she was wearing hung wet and limp from her shoulders, and the clothes she wore underneath provided no protection either. Her long, red hair was stringy, and held many knots from the strong wind and rain.
Her name was Virginia Weasley, and she stood in the middle of nowhere, far from home, instead of inside her home, close to other people. The area she stood in was flat, and had few trees scattered here and there. The trees, though, held no protection against the rain or wind.
Virginia, or Ginny, as most people called her, also wasn't trying anything to get out of the rain or cold. She just stood there, almost perfectly still, with her eyes closed. She didn't even shiver, as any other person would most likely do.
At first she had sheltered herself against the rain as best as she could, but discovered that it was hopeless, and that she would get soaked anyways. Another thing weather had power over: anything living.
It wasn't that she hated rain. In fact, she liked it quite a bit. That is when it wasn't falling on her head in sheets, causing her to feel like her very organs were half frozen.
You might be wondering by now why she was standing outside, trying to do nothing about it. The fact was, she didn't care anymore. Whatever happened would happen. Her feet would lead her when they felt the need to leave, and she would follow them. If they never did leave, then that was just the way it would be, and she would die in the rain and wind, maybe to never be found.
Because, that could have been true. Where she was, no one might ever find her. There was no one around unless you wanted to walk for hours upon hours, and even then you might not find someone. Where Ginny was, exactly, she didn't know. She didn't care, either. She had slipped into her own kind of depression the past year. But she hadn't noticed, and only now did it seem to catch up with her.
She knew that behind her, the forest stretched for miles. It looked like it also did every other way. But right now she was in a very large clearing, that didn't seem natural. Why it was there, she didn't know. Perhaps it served some purpose in the grand scheme of things. Or maybe it was just a worthless patch of land, worn down by years of wind and rain.
She was tired, and wanted to curl up somewhere and sleep. And when she thought that, without her meaning to, her feet led her. They led her to a tree. It was a willow, with long branches that touched the ground, leaves covering all of them. Tiredly, she crawled between the branches, to find the soft ground dry. It was slightly moist, from the moisture that the air held, but that was all. The wind was cut off almost completely by the thick sheet of branches, giving the air a warm feeling.
Trusting that it was warm enough, and knowing the fact that it was summer, she took off her wet cloak, and draped it over one of the main branches. Then, her clothes wet still, she curled up in a spot that seemed the warmest, right near the trunk, and almost instantly her tired body fell asleep.
She had been walking for who knows how long, after all. She had barely rested, and hadn't had a proper meal for a long time. Water was all she had… but water was good. It was the universal solvent, and something the Earth needed to survive.
The wind howled through the cracks in the mansion, as the rain pounded against the walls, roofs and windows of Malfoy Manor. But unlike Virginia Weasley, this person was inside, in the warmth, if you could call it that, of the house.
It was warm, yes. Comfortably so, also. But it wasn't so much physical warmth that made the place cold, than just a feeling of coldness. It felt like the air should be cold, even though it wasn't. You couldn't walk in the front entrance of the mansion and not shiver if you weren't used to it. It was just the way it was.
And, again, unlike Virginia Weasley, this person, who is named Draco Malfoy, knew where he was, why he was there, and also why it was storming like it was.
It was all simple, really, when you were the son of a Deatheater. He was in Malfoy Manor, where he currently lived. He was there because it was his home. And it was storming because of Deatheater plans that they wanted to keep secret, and also attacks they wanted to be made easy. Nothing was complex in this world. Except for love; but Draco wanted to forget that.
But he wasn't troubled by the fact that outside people were dying, or that his father was out there killing the people who were dying. He was troubled yes, but most people were lately.
No, Draco Malfoy was not yet a Deatheater, like most might expect. He was now two years out of school, and almost 19 years old. But before he became a Deatheater his father wanted him to be trained, so he looked good for the Dark Lord or whatever else his plan was. Whatever the reasoning, it was because of something to do with the Dark Lord, or Lord Voldemort, whichever you prefer to call him.
Everything usually was for Lucius Malfoy in this boys life.
Draco wasn't just raised by his father, though. He did have a mother. A lady who was beautiful, but many said looked like she had something under her nose. That was because that is whom they saw.
Like Virginia Weasley did, Narcissa Malfoy hid herself from the real world. But unlike Ginny, one person knew who she really was, and that was her son, Draco. At one time in her life, Lucius might have known the real her, but that was before he fell deeply into the Dark Arts, and gave up practically his whole life to the man who many feared to call by name.
Narcissa was kind to her son, but often hid herself away in her rooms. Draco knew she loved him, though, and thanked her secretly for that. She was probably the only one who did, besides the one he had left a little over a year back.
Draco, like Ginny and Narcissa, hid himself away from the world. Except he didn't notice it, because it became so much of himself that the real him was pushed far back, forgotten by even him. Only Narcissa remembered the real him. And only Ginny had discovered it.
So you see, all three of these people had more in common with the next more than they knew.
Draco, at the time, was sitting in the high roofed living room, staring expressionlessly into the fire. He was lost in thought, about many different things. Deatheaters, Voldemort, Good, Bad, Light, Dark and all those things that played a part in his daily life… along with her, and what she might be doing at that moment. Whether she suffered daily, or if she wondered what life could be like.
Those things played a part in almost everybody's life anymore. Voldemort, and his followers, who were called Deatheaters, held great pleasure, it seemed, in striking terror in others hearts and collecting more followers. The opposite side tried their hardest to stop him, to no prevail. Mainly because only one boy could defeat him, and that one boy was reluctant to do so, for reasons nobody seemed to understand.
That boy, who wasn't actually so much of a boy anymore, was Harry Potter. Yes, Draco knew the whole thing about the prophecy. He didn't know the prophecy, exactly, as no one did except for a select few, none of whom were on Voldemort's side, to the Lord's great frustration.
This Harry Potter, who Draco didn't like in the slightest, really, had caused Voldemort trouble since the day Harry had been born. At the young age of one he had literally sent the Dark Lord out of his body. At the age of 11, he lost him yet another body. At 12, he defeated Voldemort's younger self, Tom Riddle. At 14, he actually helped the Dark Lord by returning him to his own body. At 15, he ruined the possibility of Voldemort getting the prophecy. And on it went all the way up to Harry Potter's age of 19 that he was currently almost at.
Draco found it funny, in a way, though he would never actually say it out loud. The fact that a 1-year-old could practically defeat the supposed strongest person the wizarding world (at least that is what Voldemort liked to think himself as) was humorous to Draco.
But he didn't like either Harry or Voldemort. And he wished to follow neither. He actually wished to follow no one, but instead was being dragged to follow Voldemort.
Yes, Lucius Malfoy was a demanding man, and expected no less than perfect from both his son and wife. They were to live up to the Malfoy name and their pureblood roots, and not falter one step along the way. And by not faltering, Lucius meant follow his every word without argument or defense, or else punishment would follow.
Draco had grown used to the ways that his life was to be, and did what his father expected him to do. He found that it wasn't worth it to disobey the older Malfoy, for his father struck low.
Draco had learned many things in his life. First, never get close to someone, because they would just be torn away. Second, hide your emotions, or else you are viewed as weak. Third, all those who do not have pureblood, or are not from a good name, should be treated below you. And the list went on. All of them were learned from, or because of, his father.
Really, the man did not deserve to be called father, because he didn't act like one. Maybe in his mind, that was what a father was like, Draco wouldn't know. He had never met his grandfather; he had died before Draco was born. There was a picture of him, of course, like there was of every other Malfoy male before Draco who had not been disowned. And the youngest Malfoy was not missing the fact that he had never met his grandfather. He did not look like a particularly nice man.
Staring into the fire was starting to make his eyes hurt, and he was already tired. His father would be home late, most likely, if at all that night, so Draco headed up to his room. After changing into night clothes, he slid into the rich looking four poster bed, before falling asleep, almost exactly when Virginia Weasley did many miles away, both dreaming of the same past.
Narcissa Malfoy lay still in bed waiting for her husband to return home, but without much hope. She didn't wish for him to bring his present self home, but for him to bring his past self home. She knew that this was near impossible, but still hoped every night for it to happen.
True love was hard to find, she knew. Lucius seemed to ruin it… for her, and for her son.